Truth or Beard

His eyes were on the road, but how he’d slightly inclined his head toward me and stroked his thumb over my kneecap told me he was thinking about my response. His thoughtful expression transitioned into a frown.

“You don’t need a big trip to have an adventure. There’s plenty of adventures to be had right here.”

I tsked. “You know what I mean.”

“I guess I do…and I guess I don’t. I’m just saying, if you can’t have an adventure where you are, what makes you think you’ll have an adventure anywhere else?”

I felt the answer was obvious; nevertheless I said, “Because it’ll be someplace new. I’ve already done and seen everything there is to do and see here.”

“Well, enlighten me then. What adventures are there to be had in Green Valley, Tennessee?”

I assumed his question was meant to be ironic, so I laughed and responded, “None.”

“Wrong.”

I scoffed. “No. Not wrong. We have three restaurants, three bars, Cooper’s Field, and the jam session on Friday nights. Therein lies the sum total of what Green Valley has to offer.”

“Wrong,” he repeated, but this time the corner of his mouth tugged upward like he was fighting a smile.

“Oh really? What am I missing then?”

“Hiking, fishing, canoeing, camping.”

“Come on, Duane. We hiked and explored all through these mountains when we were kids. You said kid stuff doesn’t count.”

He hesitated for a minute, then said, “Bungee jumping.”

I nearly choked. “Bungee jumping? You’ve been bungee jumping?”

“Yes. And sky diving.”

“Holy crap! When, where?”

“I’ll take you.”

My chest constricted with a healthy dose of fear, and my immediate response was to shake my head. “No. No thank you. I think I’ll pass.”

“You said you wanted adventure.”

“Adventure isn’t the same thing as trying to kill yourself.”

Now he laughed. “It’s not that dangerous.”

“Says the Dare Devil, Duane Winston.”

“So, you’re telling me that when you leave and go on your wanderlust walkabouts, you’re planning on having only nice, quiet safe adventures?” He made a face, like he was disappointed in me. “That’s not living. That’s just more time spent planning.”

Again I squirmed in my seat and grumbled, “No.”

“Yes,” he countered.

Mild irritation made my chest and cheeks hot, and I glared at him. “Just because I don’t wish to throw myself out of a plane and plummet to the earth doesn’t mean my adventures will be boring.”

“You don’t have to throw yourself out of a plane, because I’ll be there to push you.” With this he glanced at me, grinning like a devil, and winked.

My mouth fell open and a small, strangled sound of disbelief emerged from my throat. But then I laughed through my outrage, because his expression was both adorably and thrillingly mischievous. Soon he was laughing too, likely at my stunned and annoyed expression.

While laughing, I reached over and squeezed his leg. “Well, I wouldn’t want to be a burden.”

He caught my hand. “It would be no burden at all. I’m happy to offer my services any time you need to be tossed out of a plane.”

“Or off a bridge?”

“Or a dock.”

“Or a boat.”

“Yes. Even a boat. I’ll be happy to push you any time pushing is required.” As he said these words we came to a stoplight and he turned just his head, giving me a happy smile and squeezing my hand. His smile was dazzling, and I felt my own lips curve into a wide grin.

Goodness, I loved it when he smiled, like he was doing now. I felt like finally, finally I was seeing the real Duane Winston, the one he only shared with a rare and worthy few. And I fell a bit more. I enjoyed this feeling of falling, the thrill and certainty of it, of his worthiness.

“I feel I must reciprocate,” I said quietly, losing myself in his closeness, the genuine warmth and affection clear in his handsome face. “Please let me know if I can ever be of service pushing you in a similar fashion.”

I watched him take a deep breath, his gaze moving over my features—still warm with affection—and he said in a near whisper, “My momma once told me, you don’t need to be pushed in order to fall. I don’t think you’ll need to do much pushing, Jessica.”

***

It took us about another hour to reach our destination, during which we fell into easy conversation. He told me tales about crazy customers, and I had to guess whether they were true or false. The most outrageous stories turned out to be true, thereby shaking my faith in humanity and reminding me that fifty percent of the population fell beneath one hundred on the IQ curve.

Before I knew it, time was up and we’d arrived. I squinted out the windshield and realized where we were.

“The Canyon? You brought me to watch the dirt races?” I was not complaining, not at all. I was merely surprised, and maybe a little nervous.

Duane nodded as he pulled into a space toward the front. It was conspicuously empty, like it was his spot though I couldn’t see a marker that marked it as such.

He popped his door open as he cut the engine. “Yes. We can watch the races, but there’s good food, too. And we can talk in between. Just stay close, things can get crazy.”

He came around the car and reached for my door just as I opened it, offering his hand. I took his and he kept mine. Our fingers remained entwined as we walked toward the closest of three bonfires. I wasn’t usually much of a hand holder, but I liked his hands—the large, roughness of them—and I liked how the contact kept us close.

“Are you hungry? There’s some tailgaters up ahead. They have ribs cooking, chili, cornbread, and coleslaw, though the coleslaw isn’t as good as the stuff served at the community center on Fridays.”

I made a note of how wistful he sounded about the community center coleslaw. I knew Julianne MacIntyre made it every week and decided to interrogate the recipe out of her at some point.

“Chili and cornbread sound good,” I responded while rubbernecking without shame, endeavoring to scope out our surroundings.

Duane was right. It wasn’t even 7:30 p.m. and things already looked a little crazy. I’d never been to The Canyon before, never seen one of the dirt races, never had an occasion to do so.

This wasn’t some country fair, wholesome dirt racing. This place felt dangerous, risky. The air smelled like various types of smoke—wood fire, charcoal, and engine oil—and would have been overwhelming in the hot, stagnant summer. But borne on the cool wind of late fall it was heady, but not overpowering.

I noticed a group of skinheads and their girls making out next to one of the bonfires—like, for real making out—black labeled bottles of bourbon lining their blanket. Two of the guys were arguing over one of the girls and tempers appeared close to snapping.

As well, I felt a little overdressed. And by overdressed I should say over-clothed. The night was mild, but it was still cold; yet every woman we passed was wearing either a miniskirt or leather pants, sometimes a leather miniskirt. And their tops showed more skin than my bathing suit.

“Not everyone is friendly,” Duane said, obviously noticing my gaping.

“Skinheads aren’t usually known for being friendly.” I pressed myself closer to Duane. He took the hint and wrapped his arm around my shoulders.

“The groups segregate themselves, don’t mix much, except on the track.”

“Which group is yours?” I glanced up at him, watched as his eyes narrowed and he twisted his mouth to the side.

“I don’t really have a group.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I know just about all the racers—the ones who take it seriously—and we have a mutual respect thing going on. But I don’t usually associate with any one group.”

“A lone wolf?”

He smirked, his gaze sliding to mine. “Something like that.”

We passed several clusters of people, either gathered around one of the bonfires or lingering within a circle created by their cars. Several were calm, sedate, like they were tailgating at a football game. Others were rowdy like the skinheads—fighting, drinking, and screwing for everyone to see. I supposed everyone had a different idea of what constituted a good time.

As well, every age was represented and, seemingly, several socioeconomic strata. I saw Corvettes next to souped-up Honda Civics; a rusted-out Nissan truck parked beside a brand new Acura. Some of the groups looked like they were my age or younger—college and high school kids—and several seemed to be at least twenty or thirty years my senior. And some groups were mixed.

After assessing the crowd, the first thing I noticed was that The Canyon wasn’t really a canyon. The Canyon was an abandoned mine.

Street racing was obviously illegal, as it was almost everywhere. Racing at The Canyon, though not technically sanctioned by local law enforcement, wasn’t an arrestable offense. Betting on the races, however, was illegal. But I’d heard rumors that betting was rampant and thousands of dollars exchanged hands every weekend; the race winners supposedly went home with a big cut.