The Driver (34 page)

“Just
tell
me.”

“The truth is, if you and I, who have nothing in common besides Gumball, who travel in vastly disparate social circles, are now among the two most veteran drivers in our little circle, and if neither of us has found the slightest shred of evidence of any such secret races among like-minded gentlemen, then—”

“You'll do it?”

“If no one else is taking the leap, it would seem all the more reason.”

“Mr. Ross, is that a commitment?”

Ross, the only five-time veteran I know of—who, despite his flu, had ridden 3,000 and flown 14,000 miles in eight days, driven up to six hours per day, slept no more than five each night, fixed the car twice, and retained his composure and humor throughout—looked tired. If he had twenty-four hours to recover, I knew he'd get back in the GT and drive me the 2,794 miles home to New York. If he had five months to prepare, I knew he could—and would—take Nine's place.

But, for the first time since we met, Ross didn't have a ready answer.

“Michael, I'm serious. I need to know. If you need more time, or if you want to see all my research—”

“Alex, does anyone other than yourself think 32:07 can be broken?”

“Only Rawlings.”

“Perhaps someone who's done some research? To the degree you have?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

“And your driving protocols…you know we only used them perhaps fifty percent of the time, and only on the American leg. On my behalf, I wouldn't quite call that an audition, or even slightly adequate practice. I want you to be perfectly honest. How much more difficult is the full cross-country? Surely—”

“Bad.” I paused to avoid giving the impression I was joking, or exaggerating.

“I'm sure.” He nodded. “I see it in your face. You never laugh when discussing it.”

“One Express driver said it made anything on a track look pathetic. Anything.”

“Is that all?”

“Another guy said Paris-Dakar was the only thing worse.”

“On that basis alone”—Ross chuckled—“I'll do it. But there is another matter. Jon has a lot invested in this, and in you. I can't go until he's fully withdrawn, out of respect for him and, I think, sensitivity to your friendship. I think Mr. Goodrich will need a little more time than you've given him. A lot, perhaps.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I told him I'd ask you. He said you were the only one he felt comfortable with taking his seat.”

“Too kind, but I say you give him until July or August. But, Alex…
you
have a decision to make. I want to do it, but you
need
to do it. The logistics, the film crew, the spotter plane, it doesn't seem likely you'll pull them together again. This Cory woman, and Weismann and Baskett…you have to make it
this
time. You need her, and no pilot-for-hire can be trusted, or remotely as committed as your current air support. So, the odds of success decrease with every naked run thereafter. The question for this next one is…if you're stopped by the police even once, what would be the effect, positive or negative, of a foreign national at the helm?”

I wanted to lie, to him and myself, but it was too late for such machinations.

“I don't know, Ross.”

“Then you best find out, and since this is so important, please allow me to take care of the bunnies while you call your attorney. And I'll find out whether any possible criminal charges may hinder future visits to your fine country. It would be highly unfortunate were I unable to visit my American girlfriend.”

“Ross…you have an American girlfriend?”

“By then, I may. Now go pay attention to your little Maggie before she gets upset. She's more popular here than the bunnies, and she came a long way to surprise you. Wait…you
have
told her you're going again, haven't you?”

“We haven't discussed it since—”

“Alex, you must tell her immediately. You musn't drag it out even for a second. To lose her slowly, to hurt her slowly, it's far worse than any crime you may commit come October. She's quite lovely, by the way. If I didn't know what you had in mind, I'd say you were a fool.”

 

“Are you in jail?” said Seth, the waves crashing against the sand in front of his New Jersey beach house. This was always his first question when I called on weekend nights. “Because if you're not, I'm hanging up right now. It's Sunday.”

“I'm free, I'm in L.A., and I'm safe.”

“What's all that noise in the background?”

“I'm standing in front of the Playboy Mansion.”

“(A) The last good party there was when I was your age. (B) You're a jerk. (C) You have 30 seconds.”

He cut me off at precisely 30. “Check your e-mail, smart-ass. You and your buddies aren't going to like the spreadsheet of applicable laws I sent you.”

“But what if I bring a foreigner?”

“(A) Don't do this. (B) How the hell should
I
know? There's probably fifty thousand cops employed by all the departments in all the jurisdictions you're going through. One guy may hate Italians, another guy Germans. Where's your friend from?”

“England.”

“At least he speaks English. That might help if you're stopped. My advice is to take a long hard look at the spreadsheet. Even if you make it safely, there are places you may never be able to go again. Think about whether you want to risk everything your parents gave you. Think about the fantastic girlfriends you turned your back on for this. Think about the business.”

“Look, if you're not going to turn me in, do you have any useful advice?”

“Go fall in love. Be happy, have kids…and don't call me again until you've changed your mind, or it's over.”

“I'm sorry, Seth.”

“Don't be sorry. Be safe. I care about you. I'm going back to my kids now. Good-bye.”

I went back inside and found Maggie talking to Seamus and Muss, who had flown in from Budapest for Gumball's finale party. Other than Ross, they were the only two I trusted to keep her—the only female present not employed by Playboy—unmolested while I was gone. I apologized to her for running off.

“Must have been really important!” Seamus bellowed. “Good God, man! First you bring a fine young lady to this den of filth, then you leave her to make a phone call?”

“Wasn't she safe with you?”

“I,” he said, beating his chest, “would never leave my date with any ex–British army officer who wears a kilt to the Playboy Mansion!”

“Sorry, guys, I had to call my attorney.”

Maggie took both my hands in hers and looked into my eyes. “Did you really just call him?”

We returned home the next day. The countdown continued, but for us, it was too late.

 

Cory and I spoke for an hour virtually every morning and night. She, too, existed in a tunnel whose only exit was some four-odd months away. We discussed Ross's keen remark. Cory and I
would
go as often as necessary, but the next run was likely the last time PolizeiAir would deploy with The Weis and the Captain at the controls. It was our last chance to deploy multiple film crews within the film's budget and timetable. If another assault was required in early 2007, the cost of hiring private pilots and camera crews—essential for documenting our effort for posterity—would force a decision. If I truly believed what I'd told myself for nearly six years, personal bankruptcy would be a small price to pay compared to the alternative. If I had to raise money, that would betray everything I held dear. The canon of modern automotive entertainment—the street-racing videos on YouTube, and films like
The Fast and the Furious
—made that clear;
32 Hours, 7 Minutes
would probably be the first and last effort to respectfully document an epic, untold chapter in American history.

The Driver. Secret races. The Wall. Perhaps those days
were
over.

I no longer cared. One thing remained.

I was going to drive coast-to-coast as fast as possible—over and over, crushing the beehive, if necessary—until I got there. Fast. Just once.

I had to do it
this
time.

 

“Wasssuuuup? Miss me, Mr. Pol-
eez
-eye?”

“
Rowwwww
-lingsz!” I yelled back across the Soho House's sixth-floor lounge. I hadn't been there in months, but the 2006 Bullrun's impending departure from New York demanded that I leave the house. I took malicious glee in booking their most prominent table for dinner with five of the world's most infamous road-going outlaws. The 9:30 crowd still contained the more conservative post-work drink holdovers, but somehow I knew Rawlings and his entourage wouldn't need cars to scatter these pigeons.
“Wilkommen!”
I called out.
“Wilkommen im der Soho Haus!”

Rawlings stomped toward me with a broad grin sharp enough to hack bark off a tree. He stopped halfway between the crowded bar and a neighboring table, his cowboy boots clattered as he performed a five-second jig of greeting, then he froze, slapped his hands together, and began the world's loudest one-man game of patty-cake. Once sure of the room's attention, he doffed his enormous cowboy hat and dropped it on the much smaller head of a woman, who—in an attempt to ignore people she obviously preferred not to see at the vaunted Soho House—had foolishly turned her back on a man toward whom one should never turn one's back. She spun to face him, then, upon seeing the theatrically angry cowboy face he reserved for the weak-minded, she recoiled as if a snake might bolt out of his mouth if she dared speak without permission. He retrieved his hat, curtsied, then strutted toward me and offered his hand.

If he only knew how much respect I had for him. If he only knew how closely I paid attention. If he only knew the terrible guilt I felt lying to him. He saved me in 2003, fought me in 2004, fell behind me in 2005, yet I would always place him on a pedestal. He and I were trapped, two men with no one else to fight. There was no one else. Dennis Collins was his The Weis—men with a surfeit of skill, yet nothing to prove.

I stood up and reached out to shake his hand, but his arm suddenly darted forward and with a loud slap his palm fell beside my (luckily) empty plate.

“Howdja like that??!?!?” He nodded toward where he'd just placed a large skull-and-crossboned Gasmonkey Garage sticker on the Soho House's white plastic retro-mod table.

“Nice, Richard. Let me guess.
Not
removable.”

“Not unless your buddies here've got a blowtorch! I want you to meet my new copilot!” A bushy-blond-haired, short, generously gold-necklaced, nose-, ear-, and pinkie-ringed, and very white Texan dressed like circa-1992 Axl Rose stepped forward holding up his driver's license. “Meet Michael Jackson! It's true! That's his name!” Rawlings howled as he and Jackson dropped into seats across from mine, “Now ain't that somethin'?”

“Where're the Collins brothers?”

“Riiiiiiiggght here!” Dennis called out from across the lounge, his brother Michael—perhaps the best rally navigator alive other than myself—in tow. “Nice to see ya!”

The quartet, now lined up in one row, began slapping their hands on the table, first in a flurry of overlapping stickers, then in impromptu drumming that would have cost me my membership had yet another long-lost voice not pierced the din.

“I have
never
” said Frankl, his reedy tone reserved only for the most contemptible, “seen a larger assortment of criminals, charlatans, and sycophants, not one of whom is qualified to drive. I didn't see your strollers parked downstairs. Are you actually here for the Bullrun? I didn't know the Soho House offered toilet-training classes!”

“Goddammit!” said Rawlings. “Alex, can we get the check?! This is the kinda place that charges just for sitting right?”

“Don't worry,” I said. “I'm seating him on the far end, where every girl's spoken for. It'll drive him nuts. He likes you, by the way…okay, I'm lying. He respects you.”

“Whatever, man, gotta say it sure is a shame you're not doing Bullrun this time. New York to L.A. should be real scenic!”

I shrugged. “Politics, money, car trouble…it's a long list. Besides, six days cross-country? C'mon. No rally should do New York–L.A. It's an insult to our Cannonball forefathers!”

“What about that
32:07
movie? Is it ever coming out?”

“Soon…very soon. A year, maybe. You know these low-budget indie movies. How about this idea? I'll bet you one dollar I can beat you from New York to Miami.”

Dennis burst out laughing. Rawlings backhanded him in the stomach.

“How about this one, Mr. Polizei? Me and Dennis…29:15.”

“What?” I said, then they, too, froze, the three of us rapidly exchanging glances, the crowd around us dissolving into hazy shapes buzzing against a wall before a broken reel projector. I paused for several epochal seconds before saying, “Twenty-nine fifteen?”

“Yup,” said Collins, “29:15.”

“Twenty-nine fifteen what?”

“Cross-country!” said Rawlings.

“You know it!” Dennis giggled and raised his glass.

“Told you I could do it, Alex.”

 

“But what did he say next?”

“Just kidding!”

“Alex,” said Cory, seated at her desk 3,000 miles away, “are you in the Soho House bathroom right now?”

“Yeah, I couldn't wait to tell you.”

“Just keep your voice down in case one of them walks in, just in case it's true. Did he really say ‘just kidding'?”

“Yeah, but it could've meant anything.”

“Alex, maybe he just wanted to intimidate you, or they don't want you to know they went…for the same reasons we don't. Or maybe he still wants to, and is trying to bait you into telling him what he needs to know, so he
can
try.”