“Hey Marjorie, I was wondering if I could speak to Bob,” I say in a fake cheery tone.
The fact that it’s Marjorie, Bob’s fancy trophy wife answering his cellphone, does not bode well for this conversation.
“I don’t know,” she says uneasily, “Bob’s in a meeting right now.”
I swallow back the reasonable “have him call me back later” in my throat. Bob is forgetful in the best of times. If I don’t get through to him now, I never will.
“This is urgent,” I say, trying to make my voice sound nervous and not pissed. “I’ll hold.”
I lean back against the wall and prepare to wait. I’m standing in the hallway outside the men’s restroom at the driver’s regular after-race burger joint.
I feel the need to yell at someone and Bob is the best person I know to do it to. It’s his job to keep the drivers and the sponsors happy. Right now, one of us is extremely pissed.
I stormed away from that bitch cat lady too fast. Sure, she’s hot as hell, but man did she have a nasty attitude on her.
I’m the famous Johnny “Boy” Jones and she is… a nobody.
If I don’t want to wear something, I won’t wear it.
And that’s final.
A few seconds later, Bob comes on the line, clearly not having just been in a meeting. He was probably sitting two feet from his wife when I called, still sweating and trying to avoid me.
“Yes Johnny, what is it?” he says with a sigh.
“You have to get me out of this deal,” I say. “I’m not wearing a goddamn pink cat logo.”
“Johnny,” he says with a long sigh, “you know how this business works. You have to take the good with the bad.”
“What exactly is the good of this?” I snap.
He doesn’t answer. All I can hear is a long earful of Bob’s loud breathing.
“The cat food company is expanding a lot. It’s not like you’re being sponsored by a losing brand. They’re an up and coming company. Well-known and respected in their field.”
“I would rather be sponsored by a bankrupt brand!” I yell. “The only thing worse than this would be to be sponsored by feminine products.”
Bob sighs again.
“I really am sorry, Johnny. This will work out. You’ll see. Just give it time. Concentrate on racing and winning. You’re making this into a bigger problem than it needs to be.”
“Bob…” I say in a warning tone.
“I really do have to go,” he says briskly.
“Bob, listen to me…” I’m saying when he hangs up.
Dead silence.
For a second, I stare at my cellphone screen in disbelief. I can’t remember the last time I was hung up on.
My finger hovers over the “call” button. Maybe I should give good old Bob another ring. Then I decide against it. He probably wouldn’t answer anyway.
I’m deeply disappointed in him.
After all we’ve been through together, this is how he treats me?
Swearing to myself, I slip my phone in my pocket. I need something to make me feel better. A big juicy hamburger and a gallon of sweet tea should do the trick.
I step into the main dining room of the restaurant and see several long tables of chowing-down racers still in full racing gear. They’re already mid-meal. I see they didn’t wait for the winner before eating.
Not that I would’ve expected them to.
These after-race meals started out with only a few of us. When I suggested inviting the other race teams too, Steele had jumped on the idea. Ever since, it’s been growing steadily into what is now a racing tradition. Winners and losers all sitting together at the tables like one big happy family.
Occasionally a fistfight or two has broken out over bad behavior on the track. Without our bosses around to stop us, we fight it out of our systems then go back to being buddies again.
It’s a good system and it works.
“Hey,” Steele calls out, gesturing to an almost empty basket of French fries, “we saved you a fry.”
The table breaks into laughter as I slump down into my seat, glaring dolefully at the single fry left in the grease-coated basket.
“What’s up with you, champ?” Tommy, a new rookie driver asks. “You look like you just lost your best friend.”
I don’t answer him and instead throw the last remaining French fry in my mouth. I’m not in the mood to talk about what happened today.
Not the bad part anyway.
I’ll talk about every little detail of the race as long as anyone will listen to me.
Only a few minutes later, after I’ve gotten some delicious chicken tenders in me and ordered a fry basket and hamburger of my own, Steele brings it up.
“So, get this,” he says, taking a glass of beer and swishing it around. “We got bought out by a fucking cat food company this week.”
The men at our table all start snickering.
“And that’s not all,” he continues. “Their logo is a fat white cat.”
Now the entire table breaks into roaring laughter. So loud that the primly-dressed family a few tables down turns around to glare at us.
I resist the urge to point out that the cat is poofy, not fat, according to my new boss lady.
“Hey, wasn’t their gal at the race today? I heard she’s pretty hot with red hair,” says Tommy. “I thought I saw you talking to her while I was leaving.”
All eyes turn to me. I savagely rip off another piece of chicken tender with my teeth.
“She might be hot,” I admit. “But she’s a complete bitch. She thinks she can force us to wear their company’s stupid logo shirts.”
Silence, although I know what everyone’s thinking.
Can’t they basically force us to? Isn’t that what being a racing team sponsor is all about?
“I don’t care about these bullshit business deals, and sponsors buying out other sponsors. I’m the driver,” I say, “I decide what I wear. I’m not a billboard slave to a company just because they hold the purse strings.”
Steele is the one who voices what everyone is thinking.
“I’m with you there, Johnny. But what are we supposed to do? Quit? We can’t quit. We have contracts. They have contracts. We’re all tied in together whether we like it or not.”
I stare at the bubbles in the glass of beer in front of me.
“I don’t know yet. But mark my words, I’m going to figure out something. I’m not wearing a white cat on my racing suit.”
Steele clears his throat. “What about our cars?” he asks quietly.
“What about them?” I snap back.
“The logos? On our cars? Like on the hood where the X-Treme Oil logo is now? Won’t they be replacing that with…the cat?”
I slam my beer mug down so hard on the table that half of it sloshes out.
“Jesus Christ!” I say. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about our cars. Fuck me!”
I pick up my mug again and drain the remaining contents then pour another from the pitcher. Drain it in three gulps and pour another. The other drivers watch me and don’t say one damn word.
They know better.
It’s going to be a long, miserable night.