Sharyn McCrumb - Once Around the Track

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Kathy Erwin, patting Taran on the arm. “The crew chief’s word is law. You had no choice. Neither did Badger.”

Tears shimmered in Taran’s eyes. “What will they do? Yell at us?”

“No, they prefer sarcasm. And, of course, money.”

“Money?”

“Oh, sure. That stunt will cost you a couple of thou, easy. Most expensive taxi ride you’ll ever take.”

Slug a fellow driver in a fit of temper after the race.

Wreck another car on purpose.

Flaunt the rules of the sport.

Red truck.

It used to be a red truck, so everyone still called it that, although now the vehicle in question was, in fact, yellow. NASCAR track headquarters. The dragon’s lair. The principal’s office. If you broke the rules during or shortly after the race, NASCAR officials would summon you to the truck for disciplinary action. They could fine you, suspend you, put you on probation. They could do anything they wanted. NASCAR is the only privately owned sport in the world. It’s their way or no way.

They all went in together: Tuggle, Taran, and Badger. Somewhere the winner was celebrating his victory. Probably by now he had been escorted up to the glass-walled skybox high above the Bristol Motor Speedway, where two dozen journalists waited to interview the winning driver. But in the formerly red truck, nobody was smiling.

Taran felt like an eighth grader sent to the office to be punished. The big bear of a man in the rimless glasses looked at her sternly, and she felt the tears well up again. She pictured him calling her parents. Badger stood beside her, looking solemn and brave, but maybe also annoyed at being scolded when he could be out signing autographs for people who thought he walked on water. Only Tuggle remained unperturbed. She had greeted the man by his first name and made herself comfortable in the one available chair.

“What were you thinking?” the director asked her.

Tuggle smiled. “I suppose there’s not much point in pleading not guilty.”

“Not with two inspectors standing beside the car, no. Plus, I bet a few rows of spectators got some great pictures of the 86 car’s extra passenger.”

“We had to beat the pace car,” said Tuggle.

“Why didn’t you just shoot out its tires?”

Nobody laughed. In the red truck, sarcasm was not to be mistaken for friendliness-or for forgiveness. The director was not smiling, either. “This is a serious safety issue, people,” he said. “An unprotected crew member in a race car is one monkey away from getting killed. I hope you all understand that.”

Solemnly, they nodded.

“And a female crew person at that. If she had got hurt, we would be in for a public relations nightmare of Biblical proportions. And, you, Driver, would look like the biggest heel in the world of sports. Putting your ego over her well-being. For shame!”

“Sir! It wasn’t his fault, sir.” Taran’s voice was barely a squeak.

“This isn’t the army, crewman. And it was certainly partly his fault. I’m sure he noticed you were on board. He could have refused to exit pit road. A little something we refer to as a judgment call.”

“He doesn’t disobey my orders,” said Tuggle.

“Well, then try to give him more sensible ones in future, Tuggle. If he didn’t show more sense than he did today, I wouldn’t let him drive a UPS truck, much less a Cup car.” He sighed wearily. It had been a long weekend. At least Badger hadn’t shoved anybody. Short tracks meant short-tempered drivers. There were a few other drivers waiting for their turn on the hot seat. “All right, you daredevils,” he said. “There’s enough blame to go around here, but I’m not of a mind to suspend any of you over this. Driver, you will be on probation, though, for the rest of the year.”

Badger nodded mournfully, the golden retriever swatted with a newspaper. Tuggle’s expression grew more stern, but she said nothing. Taran held her breath so that she would not sob.

They were ushered out of the truck so that the director could move on to the next matter demanding his attention.

“I’m sorry,” said Taran, when they were once again outside.

“Nothing to do with you,” said Badger quietly. “We took a gamble, that’s all. I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

“It’s part of the deal,” said Tuggle. “Just let it go. It all starts up again next week, you know.”

“Well, at least they didn’t fine us,” said Taran.

“They will,” said Badger. “They’ll think about it some first, though.”

“Fines are announced on the Tuesday following the race,” Tuggle told her. “And they have to be paid before we can race again.”

Then she and Badger walked away, talking shop, putting the incident out of their minds, while Taran stood there wondering how many minutes there were between then and Tuesday, because she knew she would agonize through every one of them.

On Tuesday, Taran was waiting at the shop when Tuggle arrived, carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a bag of Krispy Kreme donuts. She offered the bag to Taran, who shook her head. “Go on,” said Tuggle. “What will that be for you? Last night’s dinner?”

Taran shrugged. Discussing dinners might lead to disclosures about throwing up. She wondered if Maalox counted as a meal.

“Have you heard anything yet about NASCAR’s decision?”

“Yep, just now. Ten-thousand-dollar fines for me and Badger. Each. For you, twenty-five hundred.”

Taran took a deep, moist breath, and nodded, digging in her purse for her checkbook. Twenty-five hundred dollars. That wasn’t so bad. In her 3 A.M. nightmare, the penalty had been a firing squad. Besides, anything was better than not knowing.

“I don’t suppose the team owners pay the fines for us?” she said.

“Nope,” said Tuggle, dumping another sugar packet into her coffee and stirring it with a screwdriver. “They don’t.”

“Well, who should I make out my check to? The team, or NASCAR, or what?”

“The fines are paid,” said Tuggle.

“But I thought you said-”

“Badger is paying your fine as well as his. Guess he figured he could afford it more than you could. Oh, jeez, you’re not gonna cry again, are you?”

Taran took a deep breath and shook her head. “How can I ever thank him?” she whispered.

The next week’s race was in Martinsville, Virginia, NASCAR’s shortest track-without the steep banking of Bristol, but still a difficult track for passing. Heavy March rains canceled qualifying, which meant that Badger started in the back. He was lucky to start at all, since without a qualifying competition, slots in the race are assigned on the basis of owners’ points from the previous year, and then past champions’ provisionals, and finally the current year’s drivers’ ranking for the seven or so remaining places in the race. Badger started forty-second out of forty-three slots, and though he struggled all day to work his way forward, the half-mile track with its sharp turns kept him bottled up, as more and more cars fell off the lead lap. Finally, one of the young punks from out West, eager to get past him on the narrow track, tapped the bumper of the 86, and Badger fishtailed into the wall, ending the day with sore muscles and a car too damaged to make it back into the race.

“Is there a race in which you think you might do well?” asked Melodie Albigre. She had opened a small leather notebook and she sat with pen poised, watching Badger on the treadmill with clinical disinterest.

Badger wiped his face with a towel. He looked at her sharply to see if that remark had been intended as sarcasm, but Melodie’s face bore its usual expression of businesslike boredom, as if he were an underperforming stock that she regretted having invested in.