by Davida Lynn
“We’re fucked.” The fueler, a tank of a man with a deep olive tan threw his gloves down. “We ain’t gonna have enough spare parts to glue that piece of shit back together.”
Chance shot the large man a look that deflated him. “Shut the hell up, Frank. Billy took a hell of a hit. He’s shaken up bad, and you’re worried about your job?”
Dropping the headphones, Chance hopped into a golf cart and tore off towards the garage area. As he rounded the corner, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed DJ.
“Watch where you’re headed!” A female voice shouted at him as he passed close to her, but Chance barely registered what the yellow shirt had said. He had far bigger problems than a close call with the security team. Darting through the crowds of people, Chance heard the sharp whistle of more guards, but he ignored it. Billy was concussed and most likely hurt. His plan was to pick up DJ and head straight for the infield medical center.
“Where are you?” The boss sounded anything but pleasant.
Chance honked the horn. “On my way to the trailer. He did communicate over the radio, but something’s scrambled.”
“Was it him or the car?”
“I don’t know. Something was lighting up, but Billy refused to wind it down.”
“God damnit.” DJ hung up the phone.
As Chance rounded the corner, he saw his rotund boss huffing away from the hauler and hospitality tent.
Before the cart even came to a stop, DJ was in the passenger seat. The two didn’t speak. Only once on the way DJ muttered, “Fuck.”
“Watch where you’re heading!” Heather called out, but the driver on the cart didn’t even acknowledge her. The front tires had come dangerously close to clipping her toes, and she was in no mood to be run over.
She was only two days in her new position, which meant a heavy shift in her sleep schedule. Her mind hadn’t quite caught on, though. She woke up bright and fucking early at three that night, and she couldn’t wrestle herself back to bed. Heather turned her alarm off at seven without catching another wink.
Finally remembering her whistle, she gave it a futile blow. Heather had thought the crowds would be her main problem, but the teams had little regard for anyone.
Still, it wasn’t all bad. Rob hadn’t said a word to her since switching jobs, and that alone was worth it. Things with him could have been much worse, but Heather managed to come out of it better off. She was on a day shift, and she was away from Rob. As long as she watched her toes, Heather would survive working at the track.
Even with earplugs, she was amazed at just how loud the cars were. They were so tiny, but their engines rattled her chest when they fired up. She watched as teams wheeled the vehicles onto pit lane, and Heather could barely comprehend that a driver could fit into one of those. Most of the drivers that she did see were even with her height, which she found adorable. They were almost like jockeys.
Heather didn’t recognize anyone, but fans would scream out a driver’s name, and she would try to memorize them. Some drivers would come over and sign autographs or take pictures with the fans. Others would pretend they couldn’t hear a thing. Heather empathized. They probably weren’t being assholes. They were at work, just like she was, and driving a tiny little four-wheeled rocket was way more stressful than checking credentials. If the drivers wanted to be left alone, Heather could understand that.
A little old man moseyed over. He wore yellow-tinted aviators that matched the over-sized official shirt. Heather didn’t know his name yet, and his ID was buried beneath a series of lanyards and pins.
He shook his head. “Bad deal.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Red flag, accident in turn three.”
Heather spun in that direction, as if she could see through the buildings and grandstands to the turn over half a mile away. All she saw was the endless line of people streaming by, unaware.
He leaned against the garage wall, a slight bit of pain on his face when he did. “One of the rookies went in too hot. Rescue crews are on their way.” There was no emotion in his voice, like he was just shooting the breeze.
Heather’s eyes went wide, her pulse shooting up. “What? Oh my god. That’s terrible.”
“That’s par for the course. Damn kids think they’re invincible. This place doesn’t forgive, and it don’t cut nobody favors.” The old man shrugged his shoulders.
Heather looked through the entryway that led to pit lane. Beyond it, she could see a small sliver of the front straight. A red truck sped past in the opposite direction that the cars raced, its lights blazing. The same panic that overcame her when she saw emergency lights in her rear-view mirror hit. The fear of the unknown, the danger of the racetrack, and confusion swirled around Heather.
“How do you know what happened?”
The old man turned his head and tapped his ear. He had a thin wire hanging down that disappeared into his shirt. “Scanner. They don’t tell us shit, so you gotta make due. I can listen to race control, team radios, you name it.”
Heather opened her mouth to ask another question, but he snapped to attention, covering the ear with the bud in it. She watched him as he listened. The look on his face worried her. How in the hell could people get into these cars? How could they risk their lives each weekend? Heather didn’t even like getting onto the Interstate.
The old man seemed to age as he listened. His face sagged, and his shoulders slumped down. Heather hated being in the dark. She might have to pick up a scanner.
“What?” She tried to keep her voice calm. “What are they saying?”
He held up a gnarled finger to silence her. It drove her crazy, but she didn’t know why. Maybe it was human nature to rubberneck at a crash or need to know what happened. Heather felt a sickening feeling rising up.
With a click of his tongue, the old man said, “Ain’t good. Sounds like they’re calling for the tool truck. Heavy impact, driver not responsive.”
“Oh my god.”
“This track,” the old man spoke like he was telling a campfire story, “has claimed her fair share of drivers. Most dangerous track in the world.”
Heather’s eyebrows raised. “That can’t be true.” This was the twenty-first century, how was racing still dangerous?
“Can and is. Racin’ is dangerous. Always will be. Why do you think they come?” He looked around at the crowds.
“To see crashes? Come on.”
“Some of ‘em. Some of ‘em won’t admit it, but they want to be able to say ‘I was there when…’”
The sickening feeling grew. “Everything is safer nowadays, though, right? Drivers don’t really die anymore.” Her voice wasn’t nearly as confident as her words.
“Y’ain’t been around here long, have you?”
She shook her head. “This is my first time working here. I don’t really follow racing.”
The old man nodded, almost forgetting about the crash. “Summer gig, huh? That’s how it started for me. Got laid off and knew someone here who got me in. That was in ’71. This place is special. It pulls you in and gets under your skin.” He broke into a wide, toothy grin that Heather would have found endearing if she hadn’t been so preoccupied with the crash.
“He was unconscious for a few moments, and there’s been heavy blood loss.” The doctor spoke quickly. “We’re transporting him to Memorial now, giving him transfusions along the way.”
“Christ almighty.” DJ hung his head.
Chance leaned against the door, knowing they’d be soon heading to the hauler, then the hospital.
“The safety team got him out as quickly as they could, but they had difficulty, because a suspension link traveled through the cockpit and impaled Billy’s right leg. The operating department is prepping for surgery now. That’s the most up-to-date information I’ve got at the moment. I’d head to the hospital if I were you.”
Only Chance, DJ, and Derek left the track. The engineers and mechanics had the heartbreaking j
ob of repairing the car. There was no backup, and parts were at a premium. They’d work knowing their driver might not make it. Chance didn’t envy them, but he was no fan of hospitals.
His career had afforded him a few visits to the ER, but nothing so serious. He’d broken some fingers in a MotoGP3 race, suffered numerous broken ribs, and dislocated a shoulder in a Formula Ford race. Chance raced in anything he could, and over the years he’d lost track of how many events he’d participated in. The thing he never forgot were the injuries. They stuck with him, both in his mind, and in the aches and pains no ordinary twenty-six year-old should feel.
The pain radiating from his chest was worse than any of his accidents. Billy was a bright kid with a real future in racing. He was eager, and that wasn’t a crime. If Chance had been in the car, he probably would have stayed out to finish his laps, too.
His phone was vibrating, but since he didn’t recognize the number, Chance ignored it. Might have been reporters, might have been worse.
Never on the other side of things, Chance didn’t know what to tell Derek. He was antsy, looking for any excuse to talk. “Don’t blame Billy, DJ.”
“I’ll blame whoever I damn well please.”
Typical. “He knew what was at stake for the team. I think we all know this race is do or die.”
“My ass. I’ll run a car at every 500 until the day I die. I’m as important to this track as an Unser or a Penske. You know what else? Billy’s gonna pull through this shit so I can chew his ass out. That’s a damn fact.”
DJ did his best to stay strong, but Chance could see through it. No one had such a steel exterior that they could truly be so callous while their driver was in emergency surgery.
Derek’s head hung down, his hands clasped over the back of his neck. “What the hell happened?”
“The gremlins.”
DJ looked at Chance. “You don’t really believe that shit, do you?”
Despite his name, Chance wasn’t one to believe in luck, karma, or the ethereal. “Not as such. I believe that when a component has more than one thousand moving parts, and those parts move at fifteen thousand revolutions per minute, there are things that are going to fail. Things that we can’t see. Not gremlins, just statistics. We ask so much from that drivetrain.”
“Yeah.” DJ blustered. “And now we’re asking a hell of a lot more from God.”
Half an hour later, a doctor came through the double doors. A man in his mid-forties, the doc wore horn-rim glasses and sported a thinning head of hair. He looked tired, as if the surgery had drained him. “I’m Dr. Cliff, the head surgeon. It was touch and go, but he’s stabilized.”
“What’s the extent of the damage?” DJ got to his feet in a hurry, defying his age and weight.
Pulling a chair up to Chance, Derek, and DJ, the doctor dropped into the seat. “There was extensive tissue damage. From what the rescue team reported, part of the suspension penetrated the tub and impaled Mr. Moore. Blood loss was extensive, and we transfused nearly sixteen pints into the patient before he was stabilized in surgery.”
“God damn…” Derek shook his head. He was barely hanging onto the doc’s words. “Oh my god damn…”
“Mr. Moore was very lucky, if the suspension piece had entered half an inch to the left, he would have bled out. Half an inch to the right, and he would have been paralyzed. Mr. Moore will be alright, but he is in for one tough recovery. He won’t be conscious for some time, but you are more than welcome to stay and wait. He’ll be in intensive care for a week. I’ll check back in with you later.”
“Thanks, Doc.” DJ shook the man’s hand, shaking the doctor up and down with the force.
Chance waited until the doctor left them, then he said, “He’s going to be devastated. Absolutely devastated.”
“He’ll survive. That’s the most important thing.” DJ finally sounded relieved. As if taking on the doctor’s exhaustion, he slumped back down into his chair.
“Doesn’t matter. The kid has been dreaming about this race his entire life.” So had Chance, but he wouldn’t say a word. This wasn’t about him.
Three hours of interminable time sitting in the waiting room came and went. Derek had been on the phone with the mechanics, and they couldn’t find a component on the car that wasn’t trashed. Another healthy dose of bad news.
When they were finally allowed to check in on Billy, Chance felt a lump grow in his throat. Seeing someone in the hospital was never easy, but his teammate and friend would be next to impossible.
DJ pushed through the wide door to Billy’s recovery room. Chance was right behind him, mentally preparing himself for the sight of his friend connected to a myriad of wires and machines. Derek followed last, still visibly upset by the whole episode.
The steady beep of the heart monitor tore Chance apart. It was so cliche, and Billy didn’t deserve that. He had a bandage over his right eye, and wires and relays connected to as many machines as could crowd around his bed. Monitors displayed a constant stream of numbers and values.
One arm was in a cast, and Chance didn’t want to imagine what Billy looked like beneath the bed sheet. He dragged a chair to Billy’s left side, to the kid’s good, but drowsy eye.
Billy managed a weak smile, turning his head slightly to acknowledge everyone in the room. DJ lowered down onto his haunches on Billy’s right side, and Derek stood at the foot of the bed.
The team owner, never one to sugarcoat his words, said, “Kid, you look like you picked a fight with a warthog and a twister.”
Billy looked from DJ to Chance, then said with a lazy gait, “Did I win?”
“No.” Chance let out a sad laugh. “You most certainly did not.”
“I’m sorry. You told me to cut the engine, but I didn’t listen.” Chance was glad that Billy hadn’t lost his short term memory. Brain injuries didn’t heal the same as a broken bone.
DJ laid a careful hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Kid, I don’t give a god damn about any of that. Believe it or not, we’re more worried about you. I’ve taken some hard licks in my time, same with Chance, but you’ve got us beat.”
“How bad is it?”
Chance could see genuine emotion on DJ’s face. The old man cared for Billy, maybe seeing himself in the young driver. “You’ll recover. You owe some doctors and nurses a few steak dinners, I tell you what. A suspension rod came through the tub and pierced you like a kebab. You lost a hell of a lot of blood.” DJ’s voice softened. “You had a close call, to say the least.”
Billy’s eye widened. No one spoke as the full weight of the situation hit Billy. Chance heard the repetitive beep of the heart monitor speed up. He lifted the sheet with his good arm, and Chance turned away. He didn’t want to see the damage done. Drivers were superstitious and hated the idea that they weren’t invincible, and Chance was no exception.
“I’m out for the race, I know that much.” The anesthetic was wearing off as Billy’s voice sharpened. “How long will it take to get back inside the car?”
DJ didn’t say anything, so Chance stepped in. “An attitude like that will make it way sooner than most. You’re in killer shape, so the doctors think you’ll recover quickly. You might be out for the season, but it’s fair to say that you can be back in the cockpit next year.”
“The car?”
DJ shrugged. “The car ain’t great. With every spare part, we might get ‘er back together, but we’re running’ by the skin of our teeth, son.”
Billy turned to Chance, pointing a finger. “You gotta drive for me.”
DJ’s arms rose. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.”
“No.” Billy turned, steely determination in his eyes. “You stick Chance in the car. Don’t bring in some outsider. He came to Indy to drive, and he knows Annabelle inside and out. I’m telling you, DJ. Glue her back together and stick Chance in my seat.”
DJ pined on Billy’s demand for a time as everyone in the room remained still. After a slight nod, he said, “Chance, how’d you
feel about driving for Lancaster?”
Chance was grateful that he wasn’t hooked to the heart monitor. It would have spiked, probably sending in the nurses fearful that he was having a heart attack. Under the circumstances, he gave a reserved answer. “I’d be honored.”
Derek looked to all three men in front of him, the team owner, injured driver, and the man that had given him every single grey hair on his head. “Here we go again.”
Heather broke one of her work rules. She was starving, and her salad from home just wouldn’t cut it.
“I’ll try the Indy Dog…I guess.” She stared at the picture above the roll up window at the large food stand near the pagoda. She couldn’t resist the myriad of smells coming from the long line of grills inside. Chicken, turkey legs, and a full menu of other unhealthy foods were being prepared by an army for the fans.
She was starting to feel something. After finding a seat at a picnic table, Heather looked around at all the people surrounding her. Every single one of them had a smile on their faces. Young and old, people pushed in wheelchairs, every walk of life.
Every single person there was having the time of their life. Heather couldn’t see a single racing fan that wasn’t loving life. She may not have started out loving the job, but it was growing on her.
Rob was a constant fear, but he was slipping into the back of her mind. He hadn’t come by once since she started as a gate guard. Maybe her words had done the trick. But Heather knew better than that. Even as she was yelling at him, she could register that he was dead in the eyes. Her words went in one ear and out the other.
Ignoring her issues, she focused on the overloaded hot dog in front of her. Pickles, onions, mustard, and even bacon crumbles topped the dog, pouring off the sides of the large bun.
Heather could hear her heart seizing, but her stomach was singing out. She took a bite, and any hesitation vanished. Heather vacuumed the dog down, ready to throw her rules about paying for food out the window. It may have been expensive, but the Indy Dog was worth every penny.
