CIRCE
“Making his way around the final stretch of the Isle of Mann TT, is Wyatt Crown. For those of you that haven’t had the pleasure of watching Wyatt, more aptly known as Casper, he’s been a delight to take in this season.” Everyone’s heads are turned to watch Jim Jackson, our head newscaster, on the big screen as he narrates the events from his perch at the finish line.
God damn, he’s beautiful.
Not Jim. Fuck, definitely not Jim. His paunch gut and balding, old-man hair that’s combed over like the Donald is not my style, or era.
No, I’m watching Casper.
I have the hardest time concentrating on my job as I watch him bank, swerve, and careen around corners at breakneck speeds; speeds that would make most people pee themselves. He does it with a certain amount of beauty, and a lot of style.
Casper’s an aphrodisiac. To me, and many other women, I’m sure, he’s dangerous. For me, though, he’s a reminder of the dangers of my past—money, family, confidence, strength, and self-worth.
“While we wait for the inevitable end, let’s show a clip from a short interview we had with Casper Crown.” Jim and Jack wait for their cue that they are indeed off-air as I flick switches and start the feed.
As the show controller, my job is to cue, switch feeds, and add in the adverts at the right spots. I feel like I’m Kermit the Frog, looking after the Old Men in the balcony like a fucking babysitter.
As it starts, I sit back in my chair and enjoy the view. The taped feed shows Casper, relaxed, sitting in a Victorian era armchair, looking coolly at the interviewer. I’ve seen this before, and I find it hard to turn away. As I always am when it comes to him, I’m drawn in by his uncharacteristic beauty.
Casper is wearing a Fox racing T-shirt, frayed at the sleeves, with faded lettering showing the years of love it’s endured. He’s paired it with dark wash jeans that plump in just the right spot. His 49ers cap keeps his surfer, floppy cut, platinum hair out of his runway model face so you can see his sexy grey-blue eyes shine. They suck you in and you drown in their depths.
Casper has this casual aloofness that makes me want to reach for my handheld toy. He’s a known player, even though he doesn’t announce it to the world, like his brother does. Jamieson’s exploits are in the papers, daily. Casper’s classy. He doesn’t show off the arm candy of the week, but is quietly reserved about women from what I’ve found in researching him. For work, I remind myself. I’ve been researching him for work.
Sitting back, I pull out a magazine and open a granola bar to busy my hands as I await the final turns. It’s expected that Casper will take this with seconds to spare. Every camera crew is already waiting out at the Crown paddocks to get his immediate reaction as he crosses the finish line, because today is business as usual for the cool racer. For us, it’s news. I listen to the recording, but I know every word of it by heart. His gravelly, rich, manly tone makes me want to bend over and scream ‘Yes!’ over and over again. That is, until Patrick, our ground crewman’s voice cuts through my musings.
“Circe. Security has a problem on the last turn.” His voice is so loud, I drop the magazine onto the control panel and almost jump clear across the trailer.
Composing myself, I click the button on the mic. “Yeah, Patrick, I’m here. Hang on a sec.” Looking ahead on the screen, it shows the various parts of the course and there, standing in the middle of the racetrack is a blundering, naked as a baby spectator, and Casper is headed right for him. At the speed he’s going, there’ll be no time to change course or stop, not without serious injuries. Possibly death.
This isn’t Nascar, where they call out a caution flag and slow the track. This is a timed race where racers have to complete the course regardless of track condition to win. This is dangerous.
Pressing the button on the dashboard that hooks me directly into the announcers, I interrupt their droning chatter. “Spectator on the track!”
Looking bewildered and confused, they stop talking. “What did you say?”
“There’s a fucking spectator on the track, and Markus can’t make it out in time!” I shout into the headset as the two of them scramble into position.
Flicking the recorded program off and turning the announcer mics back on, the two men chirp loudly about the impending disaster that’s about to happen. Zoning out, watching the screens, we wait for the inevitable. Hearing nothing they say—simply because their dialogue is unnecessary—everyone holds their breath as they watch, preparing for the coming disaster.
Just as Casper rounds the Gob-ny-Geay curve, towards Bedstead Corner and the Human Roadblock, I wait for the impending wreck. Gripping the control panel, I concentrate on the digital view in front of me. Casper rounds the bend. Swinging gracefully to the right with amazing precision, he narrowly misses the pudgy dolt.
He warped right around the luckiest fucker on the planet.
A collective sigh comes over the crowd as he speedily passes the Nook and Governor’s Bridge, crossing over the finish line to win. It’s surreal that a hairsbreadth is all that saved the asshole, and almost took Casper’s life.
As I pull myself away from the screen, sucking in a sigh of relief, Casper passes the crowd with screams and cheers. They’re ecstatic, but it’s a hollow victory if you ask me.
“Circe, I need you to get out to their trailer. Markus isn’t answering his page.”
As Jack and Jim smile gleefully, narrating the events to the fans at home, I bundle up the mobile needs for a broadcast and head out of the trailer as fast as I can.
Closing the door, I step out into the moist, salty air to engage humanity. I laugh to myself because I’m going to interview Wyatt Crown. Holy Fuck!
As I move along, I listen in on the broadcast as the two announcers chat things up. The whole ordeal has been scary, but exciting.
“He’s done it, folks! Casper Crown has become the first to win the Isle of Mann TT three times! Casper Crown has become a legend in the sport of motor racing at the age of twenty-three. Never before has this happened! This is amazing!” I can almost see it; Jack jumping up and down in his chair, rocking the temporary post they call the roost, while Jim watches on stoically.
Running down the steps, I move as fast as I can. Inside, I don’t hear the constant activity that mills around our trailer, and being locked inside with air conditioning, I don’t usually notice the stagnant air outside. Within a few minutes, I’ll look like a drowned Cairn Terrier; all curls and frizz.
Damned red hair.
Being locked away for the past six hours, sequestered away from the buzz of humanity in the quiet of my own head, it’s just how I like it. Quiet.
Our mobile command center is shared with two other affiliates, and technically, it’s just a glorified electronics cabinet, stuffed into a tightly packed field with sixteen or so other doublewides. They’re full of anchors, assistants, and others that are needed to run a show.
The whole situation could have gone so wrong. Casper could have hit the guy, crashed, killing them both. Or we could have watched him lose because of avoidance. As I race out to their site, I periodically get stuck in-between the milling spectators, from fan crazies, mother’s toting strollers, teenagers, and other wandering souls.
The TT is the largest race for the most psychotic assholes on two wheels. The racers have to run around tightly-packed European sized roads that are misshapen and uneven, where houses dot the landscape as massive obstacles. People die here. Becoming paralyzed is a real possibility, and it’s not for the faint of heart. It’s a revered and hallowed rite of passage for motorcycle racers, so of course it’s an attraction. Like any festival, it’s jammed with vendors and hawkers.
On this side of the track, the only thing that identifies your location is the team flags. It’s a sea of brilliant blues, yellows, and reds that match the rider’s bike manufacturers, or their race team crests. Walking through the aisles, the Crown’s flag and trailer area is unmistakable. Glowing like a beacon in this sea of bikes, babes, reporters, and fans is Crown Industries. Their five trailers create their own small city with a separate entrance, gates, and a media section. Their purple flag with a gold crown flaps slowly like a queen’s wave, standing out like royalty in a field of paupers.
There are hundreds of people standing around it, waiting for a look. Stepping on toes, or shoulder bumping someone inadvertently, I make my way through the crowd. I see Markus, our anchor, and Jason, the cameraman, lost in the sea of reporters to the right. Everyone’s conversing amongst themselves, checking their phones, or trying to get the attention of one of the Crown’s crew for a quick sound bite.
“Why are you not answering your pages?” I ask Markus.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I wasn’t available.” I can smell the beer on his breath, but I don’t say anything. I’m a low man on the totem pole, so it’s best to keep my mouth shut.
As I shoulder the camera, readying to do as I was told, Markus pushes it back down. “Not necessary, love. You can go back to your bonbons and sexy books.” He shoos me away like a child.
“I was asked to do this, so how about you just sit back and let me do my job,” I tell him sweetly as I readjust the camera.
“Suit yourself, but they’ll never use your footage. You’ll never even get a word from him.”
Really?
“Want to place a wager?” I ask boldly.
He smirks. “Sure, I’m up to take your money. Fifty quid and a bottle of whatever you drink, but I guarantee you, he won’t even acknowledge you.”
Hardening my gaze, I smile. “You’re on.”
I hear the throaty growl of Casper’s ride making its way down to the paddock. He pulls up, parks his bike and removes his helmet. Fuck me. Gazing at him like an idiot, I almost forget to turn on the camera, watching it through the lens in slow motion. He grabs a bottle of water and begins gulping the liquid down. Concentrating on how his Adam’s apple bobs up and down, I watch as the water dribbles down his chin and down his neck. I’m entranced.
Turning, he whispers something to Kyle, his crew chief. Once he’s finished, Kyle nods and steps away as Casper bypasses the crowd, shunning them all without a word.
“To be a bug on the wall,” Markus says. I couldn’t agree more.
Watching as Casper heads to his caravan, he opens the door and walks inside, closing the door behind him. It’s quite sad, actually, for a guy who just won his race and avoided killing someone, including himself. You’d think he’d look relieved or happy, say hi or wave to his fans, but there was nothing.
“Well, nothing to see here.” Jason lowers his equipment and taps Markus on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go get entertained elsewhere.”
“Totally with you,” Markus agrees.
“Aren’t you going to stay and wait? What if he comes out?” I inquire.
“Then I guess you win the bet. But, I think he’ll be busy for a while.”
Jason tilts his head to the side. I look in that direction and see Kyle sauntering over to the groupies with a mischievous grin on his face. Speaking to one of the girls—I think her name is Kimmy, as I’ve seen her around a lot—she smiles wide. Pushing up the barrier rope, Kyle allows Kimmy and her friend to pass under, towards the awaiting rider.
As graceful as possible, while wearing Kleenex’s for dresses, the trio wanders to the door. Kyle opens it up for them to enter, and with a wave to the crowd, the girls giggle before shutting the door behind them.