Once I leave the field, I head back to the track, unable to shake the thoughts of Aly and what a piece of shit Austin is. Who promises their kids they’re going to show up and then doesn’t?
What a tool.
It takes a lot of self-control on my part not to one, kiss the hell out of Aly, and two, hunt Austin down and drag his ass to that fucking field and force him to sit and watch his kids play football.
My anger has subsided when I pull into the fairgrounds and weave through the pits until I’m at my trailer I’ve tucked away from the entrance for some privacy.
I thought the race would have been called given the rain this morning. I make those decisions, right?
Nope. Glen does. He’s in charge of the track preparation and with his and Cliff’s, head of our track safety crew, assessment of the track at two in the afternoon, they’ve decided to go on with the weekly races.
Glen’s standing by my trailer with Cliff, who’s on a tractor getting ready to head out for track prep, something we’ve essentially been doing for the last three days, but with the rain this morning, we have to start over.
“How’d the meeting go with Madalyn?” Glen asks.
I sigh, wanting to forget this morning with her, but sadly, I can’t. Running my hand through my hair, I sit down in the chair outside my trailer. “She asked me to sell her the land.”
Glen hooks his hands on the straps of his overalls, raising his bushy eyebrows. “And you said?”
I raise an eyebrow, twisting my neck to eye him carefully. “What do you think?”
He smiles, nodding and pats my back. I set my helmet down on the table outside my trailer. “There’s a reason why he left this place to you, Ridge,” he tells me. “You’ll understand when the time is right.”
Will I? I’m not sure I ever will.
As the day progresses, it’s race night at Calistoga Speedway and the odor of exhaust and rubber mix with the smell of beer, tri-tip, and kettle-corn and grilling hamburgers. It makes me think of Aly and Saturday nights under the grandstand, my racing heart, her shaking hands. It brings back memories of sitting on tailgates, stealing kisses under the grandstands when her brother looked the other way, and the way she held on tight to my hoodie.
My eyes find the track that captured our childhood and held it captive. It’s buried deep under those red clay ruts. I’m clinging to the catch fence like the tear-offs after the race.
In this moment, I miss Calistoga and the feeling it gave me. I miss my dad and him chasing me through the infield, barely able to walk. I miss the adrenaline of this place. The fan, crowded tightly in the metal bleachers, cheering on their favorite drivers, roaring with anticipation of what the race gave to them.
Nothing lasts forever.
Now what am I left with? Memories of what it used to be?
A man bumps me from behind, his shoulder brushing mine. Our eyes catch, but I look away, shaking the memories with it.
Walking toward the office building, I notice the stands are filling up and it’s looking like it’s going to be a good night for business.
The track has been here for a long time. There are grandparents in the stands who first came as children.
Over the last few years, my dad had done a total transformation on the half mile. It’s one of the most famous dirt ovals on the west with a new catch fence all the way around the track. A massive amount of work had been done to the racing surface. It’s wider and now features a better degree of banking allowing for a smoother transition in the corners.
Owning a dirt track isn’t going to be easy, and as I stand in the infield pits, it’s apparent to me.
With an inexperienced owner, fluctuating land values, high liability insurance, the sagging economy, complaints from neighbors (and my mother), competition from other venues, problems with the Environmental Protection Agency, I know this place isn’t going to be easy to operate. The EPA can be harsh and they’ve always given us a hard time here. I understand why, too. Up until just a few years ago, some dirt-track owners poured used motor oil on the dirt to keep down the dust. Hell, at a closed-down track in Florida, developers had to abandon plans to build on the site after the EPA declared that all the oil had soaked into the dirt making it toxic.
I’m not saying we did that here, but still, you get why the EPA might be up your ass on any given night because of that.
Then there’s rain. Despite living in California, it can still be a problem and one rain-out is catastrophic for revenue. You work six days a week getting the track ready. Our tracks on the west coast are usually open just one night a week, about thirty-five Fridays or Saturdays in all, from March to November—and one shower ruins it all. The fans don’t come, but the bills continue to accumulate.
Then you have the idiots who sue you. Back when I was a kid, a race fan, who admitted he’d been drinking, fell through the bleachers in turn one. He sued and won a million dollars from our insurance company.
My point? Keeping it running isn’t going to be easy.
By the time the races do start, I’m kept fairly busy with complaints about ticket prices that haven’t changed in ten goddamn years, a drunk bastard who fell in the stands and then finally, I spot Aly and the boys in the concession stands.
Over the years, Aly has worked the concession stands since she was old enough to see over the counter. Her kids do the same.
There’s something off about her tonight though. Sadness seeps through her worried eyes when they land on mine.
I wink, wanting to offer her something, but her smile fades even more.
What the hell? What changed from us outside her van earlier today?
I approach, and she shakes her head as if she doesn’t want me to. I respect that and nod, walking way.
Nothing’s changed in this town in the last ten years, yet it has. Everything has.
It makes me sick to my stomach because I never wanted this life, this town. I didn’t want it. But here it is, a vision of what life would be like had I stayed, but I didn’t. I left and more importantly, left her. She has no obligation to let me in, and I certainly don’t deserve her, do I?
Do you notice the way my breathing goes harsh and the way my heart pounds in my ears?
What’s changed? She’s still his. Those boys. . . his.
I never thought I deserved it, or her, and maybe I was right. Or maybe it was her that didn’t deserve the life I forced her into choosing by leaving?
When the stands have cleared out and the track’s empty, I wander up to the stands, taking a seat not far from the flag stand. If there’s ever a place I feel closer to my dad, it’s here.
“Why did you leave this place to me?” I whisper into the night, knowing I won’t get a response, but hopeful it might shed some light on what the hell I’m doing here.
I’m not ready for this shit. It’s been a long couple days, and I swear I haven’t slept since I pulled into town. I’m physically and mentally exhausted.
With a beer in hand, I’m sitting in the bleachers looking over the track and the cushion built up over the night when Glen sits down behind me a few rows up.
Do you notice the tense shoulders? Mine, not his. I’m afraid of what he’s going to say to me. I usually am around Glen because he’s a man of few words, and the ones he does offer hold meaning.
“It was a good night” are the first words out of his mouth. “Wasn’t sure if Carson was going to pull that one off or not.”
I nod but say nothing. He shakes his head at my silence. It frustrates him about as much as it frustrates me that he let her marry Austin. Yep. I keep going back to that. Probably because I’m pissed at myself for letting it happen.
After a while, I do say something. “What the hell made him think I had any business running this shit?” I lift my beer, pointing to the track.
Glen reaches forward, into the six-pack he brought up here with him. “Because he knew you could handle it.”
I don’t believe him. I want to, but something tells me not to. “Do you?” I turn and raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t bullshit me either. Tell me the fucking truth.”
He sighs. “Honestly. . . yes. I do. But you have to want to do it.”
I consider it; he told the truth at least.
Raising an eyebrow, he looks over at me. “Do you?”
My frustration gets to me. “I don’t know. I feel. . . I don’t know what I feel. I don’t think I belong here. I think I’m complicating it more by not being able to stay away from Aly.”
He nods and finishes off his first beer, opening another. “Let me tell you something, Trouble.” He pauses, taking a drink. “Aly is a strong woman. Those boys mean the world to her and the last thing she’s going to do now is put them at risk of getting hurt. If you remember that, remember that she’s the girl you fell in love with, remember those boys don’t need bullshit, then it’ll all work out.”
“So you’re telling me to leave her alone?”
Glen chuckles and then crushes the tin can against the bleachers. I think that’s supposed to be my head if I hurt them. “Are you doing this just to get in my daughter’s pants?”
Yes. No. I don’t know. But then again, I do know. It’s never been about getting in her pants. Sure, it kind of has been, but it’s not anymore. At least I don’t think it is.
Fuck, are you as confused as I am?
Glen stands, stares down at me. “Do you have regrets?”
Heavy question.
I’m not sure how to answer it.
“I have mistakes.”
Glen considers this, thinks about that for a half a second and then stares at me. “Why do you hold on to the past with Aly?”
Hmm. Heavier.
His choice of words makes me grimace because of her.
Why do I hold onto her? I haven’t had a relationship. Ever. Haven’t wanted to. And I think it always comes back to her being the reason.
“I have no idea,” I say to him. “I guess I do because I want to.” I look out to the track. “I guess I’m holding out for my second chance with her. Hell, I still want to finish my first chance.”
He stands from his place and nods to the track. He’s not going to say anything. He doesn’t need to. I follow his stare, a thick blanket of fog moving into the infield. When you look at this place, it’s like time has left it alone. It’s what makes this place feel like home.
When I’m back in my trailer, I stand at the sink with the water running. When it’s cold enough, I splash the water over my face and then stare at my reflection in the window wondering what the fuck my problem is.
When I was in college, I read this quote by Plato in my philosophy class. “We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”
Everyone’s afraid of the dark at some point in their life, but seeing yourself in the light is the real test.