“Well, where’s Dorothy? And for that matter, where’s her city slicker friends?” Gladys wanted to know. “It could be any one of them, maybe even that young fellow I saw parading around the square in that fancy Lexus.”
“I’m sure he’s too young to drive in a demolition derby,” Maggie said.
“No, Maggie, you are incorrect. It says right here in the program”—and Gladys jutted her program right up into Maggie’s face—“that you only need to be sixteen years old and have a parent’s consent. Although I must say that I find it highly unlikely they’d stoop to something like this, considering all their uppity airs.” Gladys turned up her nose as she cast her eyes around from the crowd to the muddy mess of a derby arena. In fact, she kind of wondered what she, a mayor, was doing at such a questionable event herself.
“For goodness sakes, Gladys! Don’t even think about DOROTHY being a driver!” Nellie Ruth admonished. “I’m sitting here praying as hard as I can that it’s not her. And if you all have an ounce of sense in your heads, you’ll do the same.”
“I’m going to say a quick prayer myself for whoever it is,” Pastor said, “because it seems pretty sure they’ll be a rookie.” Pastor scanned some of the fans from surrounding towns, many suddenly appearing oddly bloodthirsty and burly beyond belief. He decided he needed to stop watching so much professional wrestling on TV.
The derby arena was a rectangular shape about one hundred by two hundred feet. It was surrounded by telephone poles lying end to end, staked into the ground and shored up by dirt. The poles served as a boundary, but they were also an impediment drivers liked to use to try to ram other cars over—at least one tire’s worth—thereby hanging them up and causing them to be out of the race. As soon as a car could not move for more than sixty seconds—whether it was hung up, overheated or smashed into stillness—they were black-flagged by one of the officials, and that was that. Also, if you were running but didn’t intentionally hit another car still in the derby for sixty seconds, you were also out, for acting like a chicken.
The only other thing that could disqualify a driver was to ram a driver’s-side door deliberately, which was an obvious safety violation. You’d get a warning the first time it happened, but the second time, you were not only disqualified but also booed, since most fans didn’t take kindly to meanies.
In order to prepare The Tank to abide by the rules and regulations, Arthur had had to remove all the glass from the windows aside from the windshield, which was optional. If you took the windshield out, your helmet had to have a full-face shield. If you left the windshield in, you wore a regular helmet without a face shield. But if the windshield came out during the race, you were also black-flagged. Since the dirt ring was turned into a mud bath before the races began, keeping speeds from getting too out of hand—not to mention the fact that fans just love mud—a windshield served its purpose but posed its own risk. Arthur figured The Tank was goin’ down one way or the other, so he decided to risk keeping the glass to protect the driver from the blinding mud. When they said all other glass had to be removed, however, that’s what they meant; he even had to hammer out the taillights, headlights, reflectors and outside mirrors, during which time he apologized to The Tank on more than one occasion.
The driver’s-side door had to be bolted or welded shut, and Arthur went with the bolting since he had all the tools for that. The Tank’s radiator needed to be drained and refilled with clear water: no antifreeze or additives allowed. The gas tank had to be inside the car in the rear seating compartment and secured with a protective fire wall. It also couldn’t hold more than five gallons of gasoline. He had to drive to Hethrow to get a marine-type tank, which was most recommended. After he talked around to every “gear head” he knew, they all agreed it was worth the price, which wasn’t that much to begin with. Besides, he figured he owed it to The Tank to get her a farewell gift anyway.
One of the most consuming of requirements, however, was the necessity for two eight-inch holes in the hood, one on each side of the carburetor. Fire was always a threat, which explained the gas tank situation, and extinguishers needed to be able to get right in.
The final “gussy up,” as Arthur called it, was to paint both her front doors with the large black numbers of Dorothy’s choice. She’d opted for 23, since that was the day her Caroline Ann had gone to heaven. “Wear them numbers proud,” he said when he finished painting, even though he’d used an old can of spray paint he’d found in the shed and the paint had run in several spots.
All drivers had to wear an approved seat belt, no ifs, ands or buts about it, and an approved helmet, which Arthur had borrowed from Melvin Jack, Edward Showalter’s friend who owned a Harley. Cars had yardsticks taped up the frame of the driver’s window, and when they were out, they had to break the stick off. This way cars still in the derby were signified by their sticks, and cars that were out were out of bounds as targets.
Between programs, printed rules and announcements, all the important stuff was finally covered. The water truck was giving the ring one last dose of spray. No doubt about it, the ring was now one solid mud bath, since a summer storm had come through the day before. It had been quite entertaining to watch the truck slipping and sliding a bit itself. So entertaining, in fact, that by the time it pulled out of the ring and the announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker asking everyone if they were ready to rumble, the Partonville gang was stunned and aggravated at itself for watching a dumb water tank truck rather than striving to sight who had gotten behind the wheel of The Tank!
There were to be eleven cars in The Tank’s heat, which was the first of three qualifying heats for the night. The final three cars in each heat to remain moving would advance to the championship round later in the evening. One by one the cars revved up and made their way from the pits to the ring entrance. When it was The Tank’s turn to fall in line, the driver was still trying to crank her over. Arthur motioned for the next car to go around them, then the next. He popped the hood, yelped around the side of the car, instructing the driver to do something—although no one could hear over the roar of the engines and the crowd—and then he tinkered a moment.
“It looks like number twenty-three, a real oldie, is having some trouble, folks.” Just then, a big backfire racked the night air and The Tank rumbled to life. “Wait…there she goes!” If the announcer hadn’t said so, Partonvillers would have known anyway by the grin on Arthur’s face. As The Tank made her way past Arthur toward the ring, he lifted a thumbs up to the driver and patted The Tank’s rear end as she went by.
“Lord, hear our prayer!” Nellie Ruth said as she bowed her head yet again, her heart nearly beating out of her chest. “HAS ANYONE SEEN DOROTHY?” she screamed, trying to be heard over all the noise. Eyes searched this way and that, but all those who had been missing before were still nowhere to be seen.
The Tank pulled up in the last space inside the ring, nose to the poles. Five cars were on one side and six on The Tank’s side, rear ends toward the center of the ring. The announcer beckoned the crowd to help in the countdown.
“TEN! NINE! EIGHT! SEVEN! SIX! FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE!” Down came the green flags in the flagmen’s hands, and into reverse they all went. The Tank’s nose was the last away from the poles, but it was clear she was floored from the sounds of her engine.
The Tank’s first hit was sloppy, since she’d not been directly lined up with anyone to her rear and she’d backed up at an angle. Nevertheless, it was a hit. The right rear of The Tank crashed into the right backseat door of the Ford that had just been smashed into by station wagon number 00. When 00 had made contact with the Ford, a huge group of fans cheered, yelling a long “OOOOOOOOOO” sound and holding up their thumbs and forefingers in circles, thumb knuckles joined together creating 00s.
The Tank moved forward away from the pileup, but before she’d gotten back into reverse and readied to pick up speed, 00 had cut his wheel and rammed into the front passenger-side door. Again, the 00 fans w
ent crazy. Partonvillers actually moaned out loud, as though they’d personally felt the impact.
“Whoever is driving better get with it!” Gladys barked.
Rather than pull forward to realign this time, The Tank just kept going backward as fast as she could go, striking full bore into the front end of a Chevy whose engine was already smoking. Suddenly the Partonvillers were on their feet cheering. But before they knew it, 00 had blasted into The Tank’s front end, sandwiching her between the Chevy and his own backside.
“Number twenty-three just took a good whack!” the announcer yelled. “Looks like zero zero has decided who his competition is! You certainly can’t blame him for going after a car made like that!”
The Tank just sat there after 00 pulled away. Action was going on all around her, and three of the cars were already out of the race, including the one that came into the ring looking more like an accordion than a competitor. BLAMMO! The Tank took another shot, right into the rear door behind the driver. BLAMMO again! This time a blast to the passenger rear hit so hard that between the two hits The Tank’s backside swayed from the impacts as if it were doing the hula.
“Leave it to those brothers to tag-team,” the announcer said. “Just like last month!”
“Lord have mercy,” Nellie Ruth prayed over and over.
“The Tank’s gotta be getting close to the sixty-second mark!” Harold hollered.
“Come on, honey. MOVE!” Arthur yelled from the pits. As though she responded to his command, The Tank bucked forward and the Partonvillers rose out of their seats, cheering at the top of their lungs. Immediately, The Tank was thrown into reverse and whizzed through the sloshy mud, making a 180-degree loop around the outside of the ring, just missing opportunity after opportunity but picking up speed all the while, her engine beginning to smoke. By this time four more cars were out, and it looked like The Tank was threading a needle through what was quickly becoming a graveyard of gnarled metal.
The impact was tremendous, the sound of crushing metal piercing the damp night air like a sonic boom. The Tank, 00 and his brother came together in a major collision, 00 careening right into the driver’s-side door of The Tank, caving in the door. A warning flag was pointed at 00; the crowd was now on its feet.
“OH, NO!” Jessica screamed. No matter who was behind the wheel, it couldn’t have felt good. But if it was Dorothy…Jessie was holding her breath. She’d known Dorothy long enough to understand she was fearless. It would be just like her to try and…
“Only four cars left, folks!” The Chevy had hurled himself up on the poles, missing his target and accidentally catapulting his own left rear wheel over the hump. “Number twenty-three just took a HUGE shot! What a battle!”
Smoke and steam were now billowing out of The Tank’s engine, all but encasing her in a cloud. “Keep moving! Keep moving!” Arthur implored The Tank and the driver. But eke backward about five inches was about all she could seem to do. The sad fact was, if The Tank couldn’t pick up speed, her long front end was surely nothing more than a sitting duck for the brothers, who were positioning themselves, one to each side, for the kill. It had looked sure to them that if they knocked out The Tank and left the sputtering Mercury alone, they’d get rid of their strongest adversary and advance to the finals, taking a weak link with them.
But suddenly, everyone but them realized the Mercury had died and couldn’t get restarted, leaving The Tank one of the final three to advance. Partonville fans were going crazy!
Then The Tank backfired, and a lick of flame shot out of one of the holes in the hood. “FIRE!” the crowd called, as they always did—even though the firefighters standing nearby with the extinguishers certainly couldn’t hear them over the roar. But the firefighters had seen the flame themselves. Immediately, the flagmen, one to each side of the ring, began waving their flags in the air: the checkered one to show the heat was over and the red one to signal all drivers to stop immediately. Just before ramrodding The Tank, the brothers slid through the mud to a halt. The Tank received several blasts from the extinguishers, and in a moment she was no longer on fire.
The Partonvillers were now stone silent, holding their breath. After a few seconds, the cloud around The Tank settled and an arm reached out the window, breaking the yardstick in half, the driver obviously unaware that the race was over and that The Tank had advanced to the finals. In utter relief, the Partonvillers, who were still on their feet, began to hoot and holler and cheer themselves silly!
The sad fact of the matter was that The Tank could not advance; she was done in. The Tank was out of the derby. But the clear fact was that she had not been defeated; she had gone down a winner. Standing brave and alone in the middle of the ring, in a Whoosh! of sound, flames and courage, she had taken herself out, and no one would ever convince Arthur otherwise.
Now all Partonvillers needed to know was who was going to emerge from The Tank. They all stood, watching the lengthy process as the tow trucks hauled the mounds of wreckage out, one at a time. Finally, The Tank was the last auto to be deposited in the pits, the driver still behind the wheel.
After a few breath-holding moments, the driver’s left arm slowly reached out the window and hooked itself over the roof. Arthur held up his hand, signaling the driver to stay put. Suddenly Josh was at Arthur’s side. The two men had to pull the driver out of The Tank through the twisted window—the same way the driver had gone in—since the driver’s door had been bolted closed and was now completely concave. Little by little, the limp form, still wearing a helmet, was extracted from the vehicle. Too woozy, fatigued and in shock to stand, the figure sat on the ground.
Just then, Dorothy appeared, having been escorted over from where she’d watched the race from inside the judge’s stand, two of her long-time-past flute students insisting she shouldn’t be climbing around up in the bleachers, from what they’d heard. It was then, after they were all assembled, that Katie Mabel Carol Durbin, a city slicker now definitely worth her salt—and who had, with this act (at least in her opinion), officially paid penance for any traces of being a snob—removed her helmet and shook her head.
“Great drivin’ there, woman!” Arthur said to Katie in earnest as he stroked The Tank’s roof. “Yeah, Mom!” Josh added. “Alex will never believe this one!”
“There was nothing to it!” Katie said. “I just closed my eyes and figured every hit I took knocked a bit more country girl into me. That, and I kept the pedal to the floor the whole while.”
“Well now, Katie,” Dorothy said, “welcome to my world. I guess you’ve finally figured out the best way to go through life! Look out now, everybody! A brand new Outtamyway is taking to the streets of Pardon Me Ville!”
A Note from the Author
I am happy to have this chance to share, since I, too, am always curious about authors. Here’s what I’ve learned from this side of the pen: Writers are no more fascinating than any reader I’ve ever met. The only difference is, writers never seem to run out of words!
I didn’t begin writing until I was in my forties (talk about a backlog of words), and I haven’t stopped since. Our two sons are grown and gone; my husband, George, faithfully cheers me on, and leaves me alone when necessary. I once left him a note on the kitchen table that said, “I’m not here, not even when you see me.” Yes, he’s used to me by now.
I love what I do, which is to write (and speak) about life. One thing that never changes is the power of story. I believe God speaks to us through stories—ours, others’, fiction; good, bad, dubious—and that each moment of each day delivers the potential for us to listen, learn and grow through them. As with my fictional characters, in real life we don’t always get it right, but God is always there to shine a light on a better path while loving us all the while.
’Tis that sovereign presence and graciousness of God, Dear Readers, that keeps me writing.
—Charlene Ann Baumbich
www.welcometopartonville.com
More from Charlene Ann Baumbi
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Dearest Dorothy, Are We There Yet?
Welcome to Partonville: Book One
“In a sea of CBA heroines who are unfailingly young and beautiful, readers identify with Dorothy, the plucky 80-something grandma who’s a demon at the wheel. Baby, you can drive our car.” —Publishers Weekly
In celebration of life's simple pleasures, Charlene Ann Baumbich introduces readers to the pastoral Illinois town of Partonville, as well as the farm on its outskirts where eighty-seven-year-old Dorothy Wetstra resides, driving around in her '76 Lincoln Continental—affectionately dubbed "The Tank"—playing bunco with her pals, and grabbing a stool at Harry's counter, where she can stay on top of the town's latest shenanigans, most of which she is responsible for.
But when a visitor comes to town with a proposition, Dorothy finds herself faced with a decision that could change her beloved town, and her life. Before long, her gift for shaking things up may come in handy.
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Dearest Dorothy, Slow Down, You're Wearing Us Out! Page 23