by Kerri Ann
“Doll, make room for your brother, please,” Ben asks as I curl further into the end. Their war ends abruptly as the medication takes hold of them. Mother’s loose body falls gently into Dad’s arms, as Wyatt’s movements becomes sluggish and lacking fight. Ben is able to direct him to the empty end of the couch.
“Night, Wyatt,” I say as Ben pulls a cover over him. I feel horrible that this has to happen, and I empathize that his control is removed, but I know it’s a necessity.
Within minutes, he’s out. Mom is curled into Dad’s chest, snoring lightly, and as the rest of the inhabitants relax now that the entertainment has ceased, I decide to sleep too.
Closing my eyes after the flight hits cruising, sleep takes me. But, before I’m able to completely get there, I hear Dad and Ben talk about the upcoming races for this month.
Each of us will be going our separate ways with our teams as soon as the tires hit the tarmac. Dad has a race at Indy. I have one in Laguna, and Wyatt is running a special in the mountains of India, or some shit.
At least he’ll have peace without Mother in his space.
CIRCE
I’m working a race today, and I mean the race. The Indianapolis 500.
Stands are filled to the brim. There are crazed race groupies (worse than what I met before at the TT race), and old pot-bellied men, double fisting their beers as they walk between the paddocks, waiting for a glance at the famed racers. There’s the various aged ladies, looking to get a moment of time with their race idols and children in awe. This is the American pastime of the masses. They love to adore their favorite racers. Sometimes, I think they’re more important than the President elect, the baseball team of the century, or the tabloid superstars and their interesting sex lives.
This is special.
After the TT interview fiasco, I thought for sure I was going to lose my job. Assuming that Markus was going to petition Kingston by sucking tons of cock, I had my bags packed, readying myself to return home to Wales. Instead, I was put on the flight to our next race. He was very ‘moved’ by my line of questioning, and was excited to see me in the field again.
I swear I saw a vein pop in Markus’ forehead when he realized he had to come due on the bet he made. Another surprise was when he actually came through. The second day in Indianapolis, I found the bottle sitting in my room, along with the fifty-pound note.
We’ve been in the States, showcasing a few other smaller races leading up to this, and it’s been pretty uneventful. Once the whole team arrived here a week ago, we started the setup, watching and recording the practice runs. There’s been a great deal of oohing and ahhing at the early crashes, and we’ve had a few interviews that were top-notch. The one massive crash by Chan Wan gave us tons to chuff about. He slammed into the wall after spinning out on turn three, leaving a trail of wreckage behind him.
Today is the big day. We’re ready to take in the pomp and circumstance of the famed Memorial Day race. Planes are soaring overhead with banners. The marching bands are practicing in their spangly outfits, while the high school kids prepare to unfurl the football field-sized American flag on the infield. And, of course, the racers have been completing their check overs before lining up. The race starts in less than an hour, and I’ve been scrambling to finish off all the odds and ends that the day requires.
“Did you setup the camera at the finish line, Albert?” I ask into the walkie. The first one wasn’t working, and I sent him out to fix it. He’s a portly, jolly-faced man that looks more like Santa than a technical production manager, but he’s done this job for longer than most of us on the team have been alive as a combined group.
“Yes, kiddo,” he says sweetly. “I’m done. Your show is now ready to go.” Good. I feel better knowing there won’t be issues, at least on the finish.
The rest of the day could still go ass up, and I have a bad feeling something will go completely wrong, but this is good news that I’ll accept without qualms. Now onto the announcers. I’m almost a hundred percent sure that Jack is high, and Jim is wasted. But, because I’m a professional, this shit will go off without a hitch.
Traversing the stairs to the top roost where they’re announcing, I walk out to the desk to check that they’re awake. Hearing them talking, taking bets on the winner and crashes in order, I almost want in. Almost.
“I’m telling you, Johnson’s Chevy won’t make the lead. He’s been at least three seconds off on turn two, behind Carior’s Honda. If Chan Wan hadn’t lost his chance in the practice runs, we’d be seeing him in this leader pack too.” Jim is a Chevy man through and through, so to say no to a Chevy winning, it has to be burning his lips.
“Fine. But I’m telling you, there’s no way that Carior’s going to take it. Magnota will beat them all.” Magnota has been doing well in practice all week, but I still wouldn’t hedge my bets with his car. As I wandered through the paddocks earlier in the day, I heard his team shuffling parts around from the spare car because of a turbo lag. I’m not dumb enough to take on a bet I can’t win.
“Are you both ready to go? The show starts in ten.” The makeup team is patting down the shine on their foreheads, fixing up their hair as best they can, and giving a final check to their attire.
“We’re good, Circe. Thanks for checking in,” Jack says, though I don’t believe a fucking word of it. He’s still pissed I had that interview with Wyatt.
I’ve kept it secreted away that Wyatt and I had any contact after that, but of course, the gossip travelled faster than I could slow it. Now everyone knows I had an intimate moment with the motorcycle god.
Carli didn’t quell any of the chatter either, making it quite known I had a moment of clarity, and that I used my libido instead of my head.
Jim’s been nicer, though. He probably thinks I’ll help him get another candid interview, and that if he’s sweet to me, I’ll get him in with Wyatt. Good luck with that. I know what we had was fun, but something more than once? Nope. Definitely not. Wyatt jumped from those bimbettes to me in under ten minutes. We’ve spoken quite a few times over the phone, texting back and forth—dirtily, I might add—but nothing more will ever come of it I’m sure. He’s just too much of a player to settle for any one person. I have no misconceptions about that. Once the newness of me wears off he'll move on.
“See you both in a few. I’ll get Cameron to count you down.” They nod, interrupting their makeup artists’ work as I head away, quickly.
Checking the rest of their equipment, I scurry off to my command center to adjust, tweak, and fix up all the nuances of our show to make it a performance that will be enjoyed by everyone.
Settling in, I check all the feeds, and recheck them twice more. Setting up my desk, I’m ready to go, just as the National Anthem starts. It’s hard to stand and change the screens around, but it’s manageable. As the final notes are sung, the cheering shakes the stands, and I have Cameron count us down. Two, three, four, five seconds pass…and we’re on.
“Welcome to the Indianapolis 500 on this sunny afternoon. I’m Jim, and as always, my partner Jackie O is here to lead you through the race play-by-play. I’m glad you’re here with us. As the racers take their posts at the starting line, let’s go through a few of the teams and their positions.”
Interjecting, as always, Jack pipes up, cutting Jim off.
Prick.
“Castan is in pole position one, then Jaer, Magnota, Crown, Johnson, and Carior. We’re expecting big things from this starting line, and I doubt we’ll be disappointed in the two major teams, Flying Phoenix Racing and Crown Industries. They’ve both been training hard.”
“That’s right, Jackie. I know the FPR team has been tuning some of those cars all day, even right up to the final moments before inspections. They are hoping to push the most out of those turbocharged engines to boost their point standings for the season. This is a crucial—” Finally bored with their droning, I watch the cameras on the track and shut the guys off. I need to keep us showing the race, not just
the pompous a-holes that prattle along throughout it.
The cars are lined up neatly. Poised and ready, the tightly packed-in racers are anticipating the movement. It’s been a gruelling day with the heat, and I doubt that many of them want to stay still much longer. The Pacemaster has now given the signal to start with a ‘Gentlemen, start your engines.’ With a swing of his arms, the racers engage, rumbling the stands and the surrounding areas with their powerful engines. They will all be off around the track at crazy speeds, and I’ll be the one watching for two hundred laps. Checking over the feeds once again, I make sure my announcers haven’t died or killed each other, bickering about who will win, and I absently let my mind wander as I relive my night with Wyatt. I enjoyed it, and I think he did too.
Wyatt and I exchanged numbers the night we fucked around. He said to text him or call if I was ever bored. Carli thought that was epic. Not quite. He’s just looking for someone to play with in-between dalliances. He wants me to call him if I’m bored. How’s that epic? I think it just means he’s playing the field and leaving all viable options open.
Sure, we’ve been talking off and on since that night at the TT, and he’s now at this remote village in India where he’s recording at an insane local race…Moon something or other.
As my mind ventures off, I blank out on my job. I’m here for the race, the race that has begun. Shit! Concentrating on the task at hand, I see they’re out past turn two, careening into each corner like a flock of swallows, banking and swerving in unison.
Flipping between the feeds, I swap back and forth through the thirty or so cameras.
In no time, they’ve circumvented the track, coursing around a total of ten laps. Jax Crown, Carlos Magnota, Jasper Jaer and Marlon Carior lead the pack of close to a hundred cars. There were more, but wrecks happen when they’re all tightly packed in. Humming by our stand fast, running dangerously close, I can almost see a crash coming.
Checking in on the announcing team, I almost miss the crash when it does happen. Jax Crown runs too close to the inside lane, touching the edge where Chan Wan did earlier in the day. As he spins out, we watch in slow motion as his car is sent airborne, directly into the oncoming path of his teammate, Carlos Magnota. Jax’s car skims the ground upside down, spinning directly for Carlos. Making sure the feed is recording the correct cameras and watching for the eminent contact, it only takes a split second for Jax to get hit head-on.
Before the caution flag flies out, or the remainder of the cars pass, his car is set alight. We all watch in horror as the cabin is engulfed, leaving no one able to do a thing fast enough to assist. His car is almost unrecognizable in the flames as the remainder of the cars move to avoid the wreckage. Watching for movement inside the car, waiting for the King to step out and wave to the crowd, acknowledging his safe exit, doesn’t come, and the crowd stills.
Even as the crews are out there almost immediately, dousing the flames, it takes very little to get it under control. As we wait with bated breath to see the safe return of the driver, the fire crews, EMTs and race team members all work to check him out.
“This is scary, folks.” I hear the two announcers speaking as they converse about the second Crown near disaster that they’ve had the opportunity to witness firsthand.
As the crews work diligently, the cars have all slowed. The stands full of patrons have quieted to a dull hum, and the announcers seem to know this is more than a normal crash. Something dangerous has happened.
And we wait.
With the looks of the wreckage, there’s a somber feel as they step away. Instead of trying to free the King, they’re speaking on walkies, scrambling back and forth between race officials and teammates, but they’re not getting him out.
Engaging our crew closest to the wreck, I ask, “Cameron, have you heard what’s going on?”
“Hang on one sec, Circe.” I wait for what feels like an eon before he returns. “The race is being held up. The racers are returning to their paddocks. Jax Crown is dead.”
WYATT
It’s been a fucked-up month of guys on shit bikes, trying to best me on some of the craziest goat trails I’ve ever seen.
With rocks that are strewn between scrub plants, dead trees, the odd patch of evil angled gravel stones, and palm fronds that cut your skin as you pass, it’s a living hell. And that’s in the good sections of the area we’re riding.
Kids more than half my age dot the landscape, popping up out of nowhere in ragged clothing that hangs off their malnourished bodies. I’m glad this whole ride is sponsored by The History Channel and Crown Industries. Otherwise, I’d be opening my wallet every second to feed these sad looking fuckers.
How the hell do they survive?
We’re in this remote region of Lahore, India, where most of these people haven’t seen a cell phone, never mind a bike like mine. It’s custom made specifically for me and this terrain. Normally, the company only builds street machines, but my friend, who owns the place, created a dirt devil of epic proportions. There’s hand guards, knee covers—it helps sometimes, until I broke one off—and a protected gearbox area. The cover was ingenious until I caught it on a boulder on the last turn yesterday, cracking the chain case. Now I’m here, stuck with the rest of the film crew and my buddy, Trellis, as we wait for a replacement to be shipped in.
“Casper, want something to eat, man?” Holding up a bowl of something steaming, he motions for me to join him.
“I don’t trust that shit. I have no idea what the locals injected, imbued, embalmed, or crafted into it.” I raise my protein shake to Tre. “I’m set. Thanks, though. You enjoy the gut rot.”
Laughing, he gulps a massive mouthful of it, and I watch to see what I think will happen next. He spits it clear across the fire in front of us. I watch as the flames dance, and he looks like he’s just downed liquid fire. Scrambling around in the dirt for his water jug, he guzzles it back while the locals laugh at his stupidity. I hear them telling our interpreter that it’s meant to be sipped slowly, or sopped up in heavy breads. Of course, he never asked.
Drinking back my trusted food source, I watch my friend act like he’s near death as he coughs and sputters. “That shit potent?” I ask.
Tre’s face is beet red as he tries to catch his breath. “Potent is a—ah, fuck!” he yells, grabbing up another of the bottles to douse the flames in his throat.
We’d been stuck here for a few weeks now, getting this setup, understanding the terrain, and learning how to cope at these heights. The air is a bit thinner, which affects not only us, but the bikes as well. They don’t fucking appreciate it.
Breaking that part gave the TV station something to record, but it left us stuck. My dad would be kicking my ass if he knew. “Always have spare parts for everything, Wyatt.” Yep. I didn’t listen. I didn’t check the stock, and I left in a hurry, so this is all on me.
When we arrived back in the US after the TT, I only cared about getting away from my family, fast. No, not family—my mother. I was very happy after my night of sexual release with Circe, then Mother had to go there. She had to remind me of how I was supposed to be the ‘good boy.’ I’d be her lawyer, artist, musician, not another daredevil. Why did I have to touch Jamieson’s bike? Why couldn’t I just leave it alone and stay away from this dangerous lifestyle? I’m to blame. How? I don’t know, but I take it on the chin all the time from her.
So, we got into it, again, and we both got drugged, again. At some point, doctors will stop writing scripts for Dad and just let us go at it. I didn’t really care, though. I couldn’t handle another second in her presence, so once the wheels touched down, and once I was coherent enough, I was packing, ready to come here.
Trellis texted me while I was in a drug-induced sleep, saying something about being in Australia for a regatta that went to shit, and as soon as I woke, I’d told him how I was off to Asia the next morning, and that if he could break away for a bit, I sure could use some laughs.
So now were here, waiting for
a gear, stuck on a mountain.
Yesterday’s break halted our chances of winning this adventure anyway. I really don’t care at this point. I’m just worried about getting out of this mountain range without tangling with anything that can kill me. Sure, I love exciting, but this is crazy. One of the guides, Menur, was collecting wood for the fire and accidentally ran into a Krait. It’s a scary snake, because its venom can kill fast. Now I’m so freaked out, I check my boots, pants, and even my fucking socks before dressing. I won’t even go into the bush to piss; I stick close to camp.
“Fuck, that shit was evil.” Tossing the rest on the fire, Tre sets his bowl on a nearby rock. “Give me one of those drinks, fucker.”
“Go get your own, asshole. I only have a few more before I have to eat that shit you just tried.”
“Stop being a drama queen, Crown. Give me one of those, or I’ll look for one of those fucking snakes and toss it in your tent tonight.”
Trellis is one of those guys that loves to exploit your weaknesses and bust your balls. He has a blast with life, enjoys fucking anything that moves, takes the Mickey out of his friends. And, like me, he has enough money to buy a small country. But he’s a good guy, and that’s why he’s out here with me in the first place. When I mentioned I’d be out here, and that I’d had another run-in with Marca Crown, he stepped right up and slid into the role of joker, comrade, and prankster to keep me light; to keep the dark at bay.
“How’s Doll?” I take in the silence of a place like this. It’s left us with a ton of time to chat about stupid shit, like chicks and family. And, of course, because he has a bit of a thing for Doll, we seem to talk about her a lot.
“She was good when I left.” When I hopped out of that plane, I left her standing there, dumbstruck. She’d asked to come with me, to tag along and ride. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a chance to say no. Mother squashed that fast.
