by Davida Lynn
Josie said, “I think maybe I can. I just haven’t been feeling it, lately, you know?”
Heather knew the feeling. Undergrad had burned her out, and the job hadn’t exactly started off with a bang. On top of that, there were still two solid weeks until the race. Two more weeks of looking over her shoulder for Rob, fearing the walk back to the car at the end of shift.
A thought struck Heather. “Hey, why don’t you come to the track tomorrow?”
“I’ve never been. I don’t know the first thing about car racing.”
“That’s not an excuse.” Heather smiled. “You need a change of scenery to get you out of this funk, and we both know it.”
She wasn’t going to let Josie off the hook. Josie wouldn’t get off Heather’s back about Rob. That’s why they were best friends. Josie and Heather held each other accountable. Heather would make Josie finish her novel if it was the last thing the two of them ever did.
After a few seconds of hemming and hawing, Josie gave in. “Fine. I’ll hang out with the shirtless rednecks for a day.”
“You’re thinking of NASCAR. I’ve heard some stories about them…”
“The car feels great, I mean incredible. Don’t change a thing.” Chance was beaming. He couldn’t help the euphoria. He had passed his rookie orientation with flying colors, and if he had been on a qualifying attempt, his time would have most likely stuck him in the middle of the field. Not bad for a replacement driver and a team on a shoe-string budget with a car that had been rebuilt in a day and a half.
Kiwi gave Chance a playful shove. “Right? You think I did all of this for nothin’? You better make me proud, boy.”
“No worries, brother.”
Derek was standing on the pit wall, waiting for Chance to pull his helmet off. He had an even wider smile on his face. Derek wasn’t liberal with his emotions, so a wide smile might as well have been tears of joy. Even on the best of days, Derek rarely let his happiness show. He was a man of many superstitions. Good news could easily be beaten down by bad news in his view.
Chance saw that look in Derek’s eye in the hospital. Maybe Derek didn’t blame himself, but he did feel the guilt for Billy’s crash. He looked at Chance differently, too. Derek felt responsible. Derek was like the strict father of the All-American team. DJ was that lovable, slightly racist grandfather that everyone couldn’t imagine living without.
It was a team of rag-tags, outcasts, and Desperados, and Chance wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
His mood could only be ruined by one thing, and that thing was just a few feet away, leaning against the gate. Isla had large, Jackie O shades on, and a grin on her face that made Chance’s skin crawl.
After sliding his gloves and helmet into his gear bag, Chance headed back to see what she wanted. Even if she was there as Jack’s little lap dog, Chance couldn’t turn down the opportunity to try and get under the champ’s skin.
“Afternoon, Isla. And how are we this fine day? What message have you to pass along from ol’ Jackie boy?”
She didn’t lose the smile. “Why do you assume I’m here with a message?”
Before Chance could respond, a few young fans stuck their hands through the fence, pieces of paper and markers at the ready.
“Hey, guys. Enjoying the show?”
“Sure are, Mr. Pierce. Thanks!” After he signed his autograph, the two boys ran back up into the grandstands.
“I assume you’re here with a message because Jack’s pit is way,” Chance drew the word out, looking down to the south end of the pits. “Way down there with the big budget boys. I just don’t see you moseying all the way down to the bad side of the tracks in those three hundred dollar heels.”
Chance looked down to Isla’s perfectly manicured feet in sandal heels adorned in gold plates. His eyes traveled back up, lingering longer than he had intended on her toned, tanned legs.
“They’re five hundred dollar heels.”
“And I bet they hurt just as much as a cheap pair. Jesus, Isla, what do you want? You’re haunting me like a bad case of the crabs. You dumped me the second my star started falling, and now you’re back to hanging around an awful lot.”
Her eyebrows rose just over the top rim of her glasses. He had hit a nerve with her. Chance didn’t want to get into a fight with Isla. They were soulmates when it came to all-out brawls, and nothing more. He was hoping to sting her enough to get her to leave him be. It was a big track, but she was making it a point to keep running into him.
“Just wanted to say congrats on getting through your rookie laps.”
He shook his head. “No, you didn’t”
“Fine.” Isla pulled off her sunglasses, fire in her exotic eyes. “You are such an asshole, Chance. Fine. Jack would have come down here himself, but he’s too busy with the press. See, they actually care about him, because he has a chance to win, unlike you. They aren’t going to bother with your shitty team. Did you hear anything about Billy on the news? No, and my guess is you won’t. You’re going to be just another underdog lost to the sands of time.”
“Nice talking to you, as always, Isla. I have to get going, but I really hope we meet again soon. How about winner’s circle in two weeks?”
With that, Chance stepped past her, heading to the garages. Every time things were going well, there she was, ready to piss rain on his sunshine.
As Chance passed beneath the grandstands towards the garage area, he saw the spot where yet another interesting interaction had taken place just an hour earlier. A large, older man was stationed there instead of the young woman who had no problem telling Chance off. She must have finished her shift for the day.
What was her name? Erica? No. What was it? She mentioned it to the supervisor. Rob was the asshole’s name. The asshole who was getting way too personal with the chick. The asshole who decided to take a swing at Chance for no reason. He could remember the asshole, but not the pretty girl with some genuine fire to her.
Poor girl. She had to work at the same place as him. She was probably haunted by him. Isla annoyed Chance, but she didn’t haunt him. It must be different for a woman, that fear and uncertainty.
Chance’s mind wasn’t on the fans. With his driver’s suit tucked at the waist, he blended in well enough to slip past most of them. Being a driver in the highest open-wheel series in America meant that 99% of the time, he had to be “on.” He had to have a permanent smile, and always be ready to talk to or sign something for a fan. Most of the time, he enjoyed fan interaction, but his mind was elsewhere.
Rubbing his already sore neck, Chance was aching for a nap. The trailer was empty, as the crew would spend the afternoon breaking down Annabelle for any issues that might have crept up since the rebuild.
Chance fell back onto the hard cushions of the couch, already half asleep. The last thought before he fell into a deep sleep was to look for that yellow-shirt the next day. Heather. That’s right, Heather.
Despite some good moments, Heather was getting anxious. Not seeing Rob was actually worse, because she knew that he was out there. Having Josie at the track didn’t make her feel much better, either. She was at work, and Josie couldn’t just hang around the entrance to pit lane all day.
Heather found herself getting nervous as the crowds of people grew into the late morning. The closer to race day, the more fans filled the stands. With eyes constantly scanning the crowd for Rob, Heather’s heart couldn’t calm down.
“You are not having a panic attack.” She faced the concrete wall beneath the stands, whispering the phrase on repeat.
The hand on her shoulder threatened to give her a mild heart attack. She spun around to see the driver backing up, hands raised in fear, eyes wide.
“Woah, I scared you. Shit. I’m sorry.” Chance’s eyes looked to the ground as he backed away.
Heather covered her mouth, maybe to stifle a scream that might escape. “Jesus. What is your problem?”
Shaking his head, Chance said, “I don’t know. I thought you heard me behind you.
Sorry, really.”
Heather let out a curt laugh. “There’s cars out there screaming like pissed off banshees. I can’t hear a damn thing,” she said, pointing to the earplugs. Heather leaned back against the retaining wall and shook her head.
Chance stood for a few seconds. “Just wanted to see if you were alright after yesterday.”
Heather came to her senses. No, she was not alright, but like hell she’d admit that. “Yeah. He’s just some baggage I have to carry around.”
“Yeah, I can understand that.” Chance sat beside Heather. He left enough room between them for The Holy Spirit, and Heather had to smile at the small gesture toward making her feel more secure.
Heather remembered Josie’s idea. The negative side of the plan hit her. If Rob saw her spending time with Chance, he might fly off the handle. Heather didn’t know what Rob was capable of, and that scared her.
The smile fell from her face, and Chance noticed. “What’s up?”
After shaking her head, Heather looked to the ground. “Rob.”
“Rob.” He nodded, looking off toward the grandstands
She looked up, meeting his powerful eyes. “Have you ever made a big mistake?”
Chance’s smile shook Heather. She didn’t know how to take it. “Yeah, I’ve made my share of mistakes. I’d be a lot better off today if I had made a few different decisions”
“Like what? You’re a racing driver at the Indy 500. I bet you do just fine.” Heather was struggling pay check to pay check, swimming in student debt and only getting deeper with grad school on the horizon. Most of her two years of organizational psychology would be paid for through loans, and she found it hard to imagine Chance struggling with money with all of his racing.
Chance’s smile fell away. Maybe her voice was a bit too harsh, but his struggle wasn’t like hers. “Come with me.”
“I can’t leave my post.”
He rolled his eyes. “Walk twenty feet with me.” Chance started to head toward pit lane.
After looking around and seeing no race fans heading in through her point of entry, Heather turned to follow Chance. He walked all the way out to the concrete ledge that separated the pit crews from where the cars came to a stop for service.
“There’s sixteen cars down that way.” He turned and pointed up toward turn four. “And another seventeen on that side.”
“Yeah?”
“Half of the drivers, myself included, don’t drive in any other race. Half of those drivers probably don’t get paid. Not enough for a month’s worth of work, that is. And half of that half are even worse off.”
Heather didn’t follow. “Worse than not getting paid?”
“Yeah. There’s probably five or six drivers that actually pay the team for the privilege of driving,” he said, his eyes far away.
“Wait, the drivers pay the team? That’s not fair.”
With a chuckle, Chance responded. “Sure isn’t, but it’s the way the world works. They pay for a shot at stardom. This is one of the most unpredictable races there is. Someone can start from the back row and make it up into the top ten. That means some serious prize money for the team, and maybe even a steady drive for whoever bought the seat.”
Chance stared for a while, and Heather understood the tone in his voice. She spoke low, like they were in church. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
He just nodded.
“That must be so stressful.”
“For some it is. I had a ride at the end of last season, but those stupid mistakes I mentioned ruined that.”
Heather didn’t remember anything from his Wikipedia page about why he stopped racing. The subject felt a bit raw, so she didn’t pry.
“You’re only driving because of your friend’s accident, aren’t you?”
“Yup.”
Heather sighed. “How terrible. I mean, I can’t imagine how you can process that. You’re lucky because he’s unlucky. My blood pressure is soaring just talking about this. I couldn’t handle it.”
Chance started walking along the pit wall, and Heather joined him as he spoke. “The stress is there, for sure. They call us drivers, but we spend so little time in the car. That’s the most stressful part for me. When I’m in the car, everything else fades away, and I feel at peace.”
“Are you telling me that you feel at peace when you’re screaming around this place at two hundred miles an hour?” Heather raised her eyebrows.
Chance nodded. “You’d be surprised. Everything streaks by you on either side, blending into one blur that you forget about. The fans, crews, and all the problems outside.”
The two walked in silence past a few pit crews readying their cars. Heather had never looked at one up close. They passed a florescent green car with part of the engine covering off. Inside, she could see too many wires to count, gold-plated covers, and many other parts she couldn’t identify.
“It’s a little more complex than just turning left four times a lap, isn’t it?”
He laughed. “It gets a little more complex from time to time, but for the most part, we’re glorified taxi drivers.”
Heather jammed an elbow into Chance’s side, causing him to stumble. He played it up, pulling laughter from her, too.
Turning back, she saw that they had walked halfway down the pit straight. “Let’s turn around. I’m trying to earn a living here.”
Chance checked his watch. “Yeah, the final practice before qualifying starts in about ten minutes. I guess I oughtta make a few left-hand turns. I’ve got a pay check to earn, too, right?”
Heather gave him a sad smile as they began to head back to her post. “If you don’t mind me asking, how much did it cost you to buy your ride?”
She was about to retract the question, knowing it was none of her business, but Chance spoke over her. “It cost me everything I had.”
"Chance, what is so different here?" The reporter had his phone recording, pointed towards Chance as the driver adjusted his racing suit. A few pits down, a crowd was surrounding Sebastian Cevert, a star of IndyCar and former champion.
He gave a slight shrug before saying, "Qualifying is beyond nerve-wracking for the 500. At most races, you get one lap, and you can go out multiple times to set your fastest time. Not the case here. Around Indy, each driver has to clock in four solid laps, and they average the speed."
"That's different, too."
Chance nodded. "All other tracks go by times. It's the same, but different, really. Seeing over two hundred and thirty miles an hour on the timing sheets is just another small part of what makes this place magic.”
“Thanks Chance, and good luck out there.”
The reporter didn’t wait for another word before scrambling over to the hoard of reporters around the former French champ.
Chance was used to the rush job. He wasn’t news; he was just another one-off driver for a team that could go belly-up at the turn of a card. Every time that heavy feeling hit him, Chance put his head down and charged ahead full-steam.
He turned to look at Annabelle. The car was a beauty, and she drove like a dream. Chance couldn’t wait to put in his laps. He was shooting for fifteenth. It was a lofty goal, but his car had been running well in practice, and Chance was feeling in the zone.
“Let’s do this.” Derek leaned against the war wagon, his sunglasses dangling from his polo. “You ready to do this?”
Chance looked around, down the endless grandstands that curled around the turns. “I was born for this, Pops.”
“Dear God, please do not call me that.”
Kiwi popped up from the back of the car. “No, I like it. It’s got a real down home feel to it. Pops.” His accent made the nickname sound even more ludicrous.
Chance chuckled as he stepped around Derek in the crowded space. “It suits you.” He grabbed his gear bag and pulled out his helmet.
The moment that the clock struck eleven in the morning, the first car went out on track. Chance and the All-American Pro team were thir
d from the end. It would be a long wait until he’d get his opportunity to put in the laps.
In years past, there would be fifty or more cars trying to qualify for the thirty-three spots. The high cost of running a team knocked that number down to only thirty-three. If you had a car, and you could get it around for four laps, you were in the race. It definitely took some of the spectacle out of qualifying, so to liven things up, the top nine fastest cars had to prequalify for the number one spot; the pole.
Once every driver had made their initial qualifying attempt, any driver could go out for another shot to be in the fastest nine. All-American didn’t have any illusions. They would be overjoyed with a spot somewhere near the middle of the field.
“Alright. You'll have one out lap, one warm-up lap, and then you're on. Shake the car down one last time. Listen, smell, feel. Whatever you have to do. As long as you set a time, you're in. This is no different than practice."
Pops was using his calm voice, which did little to ease Chance. What stood before him was different than practice. It was different than the rookie orientation. This was different than any other race of his life.
Chance cued up the radio. “If I have to abort, let me know right away. I'll kill the engine and coast in. I know we can't afford any issues.”
As Chance waited in line for his turn to qualify, the radio was silent. The only distinct sound was the car at the front of the line taking off from the pit lane. A minute later, the roaring engine would scream past the front straight. Chance pushed everything else away until his mind was blank.
It was blank right up until Heather popped into his head. That mean little smile of hers. Her messy, sandy blonde hair. How she made the yellow-shirt uniform look good somehow. Every detail was all there so clear in his mind.
Tilting his head slightly, Chance looked in the small rearview mirror to his left. The reflection didn't offer him much, but he knew Heather was back there somewhere, guarding the pit lane from the masses.
The pit crew began pushing Annabelle toward the end of the pit lane.This time DJ’s voice crackled over the radio. “One more car, then you're up, kid. How are you feeling?"