Black Flag (Racing on the Edge) (54 page)

Most of my life, I
avoid everything in the hopes that it would magically go away and I wouldn’t
feel anything. It didn’t work. There were times when the only thing we could do
is feel the pain. At some point you’ll feel it, whether it’s instant or thirty
years from now.

You could be in the
grocery store, getting your mail, driving, daydreaming. You can be doing and
thinking about nothing and then all of a sudden you feel it. We may not know
what the feelings mean but we have them and it’s important to have them,
it’s
part of healing, right?

Back inside the room in
bed, my phone buzzed, snapping me out of my self-pity party and I was relieved
to see that it was my dirty heathen. Playing with the strands of my wet hair, I
read his message.

Missing
you right now honey.
Just wanted to let you know I was thinking
of you, love you.

He always knew exactly
what to say and when to say it. There I was wondering how in the hell we would
heal from this and here he was, thinking of me in that exact moment. I started
crying again clutching my phone to my chest. Eventually my hormones calmed down
and I was able to answer him.

I love you too,
congrats on the win.

As always, it was
for you.

I know, thank you.

Give my little guy a
pat for me.

I will, see you
soon.

The
woo
will be waiting for you.

Slipping my phone under
my pillow, I eventually drowned out the horrific noise of Emma snoring enough
to actually sleep. I had a feeling the little flailing spaz could hear it too
because he was flailing all around all night. Or maybe it was the pint of ice
cream I devoured before bed?

Being
on a road trip with Emma had about as much appeal to me as setting myself on
fire.
Sadly, there I was somewhere between Ohio and Indiana and at that point, I
could care less after everything that has happened so far on this road trip. It
was a disaster.

We stopped somewhere to
get food and gas. I couldn’t tell you where because like I said, I didn’t care.
All I knew was it wasn’t Elma.

Being a punching bag
for a child; I had to pee. Grunting, pushing and pulling just to get out of the
car, I was amazed I was able to actually walk.

Peeing in a taint tank
aka
porta
potty also had about as much appeal as
setting
myself
on fire but I’d go a step further on
this one and include having my toenails ripped off.

Just the smell in that
damn thing was enough to make me want to puke.

I intended on trying to
place toilet paper on the seat and then just scratched that idea and did the
hover over the seat thing.
Well
, that plan would have worked but I
failed to realize how slippery the floor was.

I’ll spare you the
gruesome details but in my attempts to right my footing, my arm, the casted
one, slipped inside the doom dump. Gagging, I almost vomited right there. I’m
actually amazed I didn’t.

Most disgusting,
horrific, smelly, incident that had ever happened to me. Embarrassed and
smelly, I made my way back to the car to wait for Emma and Van.

What seemed like for
fucking ever, Emma and Van finally emerged, and then burst out laughing.

Fucking laughing!

“Can you just help me?”
I reached for the paper towels next to the pumps.

I must have looked
rather ridiculous. I mean there I was with a baby bump walking around with shit
on myself.

What was worse, my baby
bump had popped out considerably. Now I looked like two sticks with a baked
potato on top. Not to mention my pants kept slipping down because in my mad
rush to exit the taint tank, I forgot to button them. I could apply for my
plumber’s license any day now.

More laughing, no
helping and at one point Emma began taking pictures with her cell phone. Van
was no fucking help either. He was doubled over, face turning red from
laughter. I wanted to push his burly ass but no there’d be no budging him.

How this is so funny is
what I want to know? I’m covered in poo, hardly funny and those two could
hardly look at me without giggles.

“You know what
assholes? Can you just laugh at me after we clean this off?”

Van tried to nod,
laughed and then reached for a hose.

A little shit head of a
kid walked past, staring at me in horror as he took in my appearance. “What are
you looking at?” I blurted out.

He gave me a look that
was somewhere between scared shitless and horrified by what I had on me.

The assholes finally
stopped laughing and assisted me in cleaning up the mess but Emma being Emma
wasn’t watching where she was throwing the used paper towels after we cleaned
off my cast. I was tempted to cut the cast off because it smelled that bad.

Anyhow, Emma was
throwing them over her shoulder.

They were not going
into the trash.

Instead, they went into
the back seat of this old Plymouth parked beside us with an elderly woman
sitting in the front seat. When her elderly husband got inside, he wrinkled his
nose and gave his wife, I assumed, a look of complete disgust.

“Irma, did you shit
yourself again?” he asked his wife.

Emma, Van, and I all
looked at each other at the same time. We had no choice but to laugh
uncontrollably at what just happened until I actually
peed
my pants.

18.
           
Spoiler
– Jameson

Spoiler – A metal blade
attached to the rear deck lid of the car. It helps restrict airflow over the
rear of the car, providing down force and traction.

I believe our bodies
are like the engines we run. We are pressurized systems, except we have blood
instead of oil pumping through our veins. Just like an engine, there has to be
a safe way for us to relieve the pressure built up before it finds its own way
out. This is essential, because when an engine explodes, usually the connecting
rod goes through the engine block, producing a lot of smoke and steam, and the
results are catastrophic not to mention expensive.

Throughout my racing
career, pressure was continually building until I eventually reached my
breaking point. What I needed was a way to relieve this pressure before I
exploded and released my own smoke and steam, like I did the time I was racing
USAC and Sway left for college.

While sitting inside my
motor coach alone, I took a look at the NASCAR website, even when I knew I
shouldn’t. Lately all the articles focused on how out of control I was. They
weren’t altogether wrong, but some upset me more than others because of the way
they were written—portraying me like I was a childish rookie who let his violet
temper tantrums
control
him.

The headlines would all
read the same.

The Rise and
Fall
of Greatness

A storm brewing in
Black and Red

Where’s Torres? Ask
Rowdy Riley

Reading through the
lies and miscommunication between me and the media, I couldn’t help but smile
despite my rage. When I came across the one that read:

Quell on edge of
Desperation

I tossed my laptop
across my motor coach. It didn’t make me feel any better. It just meant I
needed to buy another, my third this month alone. I just couldn’t believe the
lies written and the believing ears waiting to read it.

I made my point known
too. Every report out there wanted to question me on Darrin and where he was.
Guess what, I ignored them. That’s when the lies appeared. But the thing was,
NASCAR made it that way. I couldn’t speak my mind for the simple fact that they
would fine me.

It was no secret that
NASCAR controlled our interactions with the media. When we were at the track,
it was their stomping grounds. We needed to behave in a manner they felt
appropriate. If they deemed your language during an interview as inappropriate,
they
fined
you. Let’s just say I had a lot deeming
going on these days. It turn, I declined interviews with just about everyone.
By doing that, I had my sponsors deeming me too.

They would say things
like, “Jameson, we respect your aggression you show out there and the way you
can make the car come to you. Even though you’re not on the track, you’re still
representing us. Your fans, your sponsors, your team, all depend on you. If you
can’t represent us in the manner we wish, we have a problem.”

It was suddenly like no
one understood me anymore or why I felt this way. More importantly, it felt
like no one knew me.

Even
my family who supposedly knew me better than everyone.

 “Jameson you need
to snap out of this shit!” Alley screamed in my face before the Dover race, her
calico hair falling into her eyes as she brushed it back behind her ear, her
face flushed with anger. “If I have to make another public statement as to why
you accosted another NASCAR official, I’m going to accost you!”

I knew the strain my
recent polemic with NASCAR was putting on my team but I snapped once again. I
slammed my fist down on the table inside the hauler, the water bottle that was
balancing precariously on the edge fell to the floor.

“What the fuck do you
want me to do?” I growled back pulling at my hair, my head rested against the
table.

Most race car drivers
fear the unknown and we fear ourselves. It’s almost like there’s a shadow of
fear following us around. It’s fear,
it’s
doubt, it’s
anxiety, it’s everything all the time. But the thing was, we couldn’t let on we
had this fear. If we did, people would know we weren’t those mythical creatures
they thought we were.

Instead, we hope that
by winning more races and outsmarting the competition on setups that we can
outrun all this fear, doubt and anxiety, and
be
those
mythical creatures.

Some say you can’t
outrun a shadow. So how do you leave it behind? How do you leave behind fear
and move forward?

Alley looked down at
me, her face relaxing. “I don’t know
...
just
...
you’re being fined again.” she threw the
paperwork at me. “You cannot throw your helmet at an official and not get
fined. You can’t flip an official off and you sure as shit can’t try to run one
over with your car.” Her eyebrow arched. “I know damn well your foot didn’t
slip off the brake.”

“Whatever.” I mumbled.

“Don’t whatever me.”
she protested punching my shoulder. “You need to take this seriously.”

“Don’t touch me,
Alley!” I stormed out of the hauler before I said something I’d regret, or
destroyed something. The metal door slammed behind me. I was tired of everyone
telling me what
I
needed to do or how
I
should feel about all
this.

“Jameson?” I heard
someone call from behind.

I glanced over my
shoulder but kept walking and noticed Tate trying to catch up with me. “Jameson,
hold up a minute.” He took a few large strides before he was beside me.

I drew in a deep
breath, ran my hand through my hair and turned toward him.

“What’s up man?” I was
trying to act patient but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t considering I wasn’t even
looking him in the eye, my attention was focused on my phone checking my
messages.

“You want to grab some
dinner?” he asked keeping pace with me.

“I need to go call
Sway.” I told him, my voice full of forlornness. “But after that we can.”

“Sounds good
...
call me when you’re done,”

When I entered the
motor coach Spencer and Aiden were in there playing Xbox. One look from me and
they were making up excuses as to why they needed to leave, which was fine be
me.

I changed out of my
race suit and then sat down on the couch.

I knew I was fucking
up. I knew I needed to snap out of this bullshit but I honestly had no clue how
to.

My thumb hovered over
Sway’s number but before I called, I needed to get my shit together. She didn’t
need to speak with the out of control reckless man I’d become these past few
days. She needed the man she fell in love with.

I could see the sun on
the horizon, dark to light, nothing changed though. For me, I remained rooted
in the shadows of the aftermath trying to make my way through rubble.

I pressed send and
waited for Sway to answer. Her voice was soft and tranquil when she answered.
“Hey handsome,”