in your beady little masculine brains.”
“So, maybe I’m doing the human race
more good than I realize.”
“Don’t get yourself a Tommy John
injury patting yourself on the back. My dad used to take me with him to car
races.”
“Tommy John? You know baseball,
too?”
“Geez—you think women don’t follow
sports? I played softball in high school, you know.”
“Yeah, but Tommy John.”
“I’m not talking about the guy .
I’m talking about the surgery . Anyone can injure an elbow. Everyone’s
unemployed, we’re fighting umpteen wars, the polar ice caps are melting, but
you turn on the news in L.A. and
the top story is about some celebrity gone wild, or a hundred-million-dollar
pitcher who needs his elbow rearranged. Nothing’s more important than how it’s
going with the Dodgers’ rotation.”
Rotation? Fuck! A wavelet of panic shot from Lara’s chest to her head.
“Sports is big business,”
Clay said. “I mean, if you’re paying a guy a hundred million dollars.”
Whew.
Lara looked at the vibrant desert
stretching out in all directions. Endless shades of red, brown and gray
accented dusty green plants that thrived in spite of the environment.
“So,” Clay said after a lull, “your
father took you to car races?”
“Is that strange?”
“I don’t know. Define ‘strange.’ My
father was an international playboy.”
Lara hated to abandon the caresses
of the sun and the wind, but she turned to Clay.
“My dad…more or less…raised me on
his own. After I turned seven.”
“Oh.”
“He took me to Pomona,
Ontario, Bakersfield.
He loved anything fast and loud. Stock cars. Formula One. Dragsters. We’d sit in
the grandstand and he’d tell me all about whatever cars happened to be on the
track. After a while, I picked up on things to where we could argue about which
cars were faster, which handled better. I always cheered for the ones with the
big horsepower.”
“Yeah, that’s important, but it all
comes down to handling.”
Lara’s mouth dropped open. “That’s
what my dad always said.”
“No kidding?”
“He said, ‘What difference does it
make if you’re going two hundred m p h if you spin out in the curves?’ That’s
how he said it: m…p…h.”
Clay nodded.
“‘There’s no sense in stomping your
foot to the floor,’” Lara said, “‘if—’”
Clay took over. “‘If you
can’t make the car go where you need it to go.’”
Lara looked surprised.
“My old man used to say that, too,”
Clay explained.
“Who would have thought our
fathers...”
“My dad was a decent guy,” Clay
said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Most people don’t know anything about him
beyond his public persona. Their loss.”
Lara studied Clay’s face. She could
almost read what he was thinking.
“I loved doing things with my dad,”
she said. “A little girl on an outing with her hero. He gave me everything I
wanted: Popcorn. Hot dogs. Slushies. If I liked a hat, he’d buy it for me. He
knew how to treat a lady.”
Lara looked out the window. The
colors that looked so amazingly distinct before now blew past in a blur.
“Your dad sounds like the kind of
guy I’d like to meet,” Clay said.
“Oh, um…he died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it was a long time ago. When I
was in high school.”
“Yeah, but it’s still a big thing.
You two had something special.”
“I didn’t mean to turn this into a
downer. I have lots of great memories. Probably more than most people. In his
last few months, we’d just sit together and watch NASCAR. Sometimes not talking
for hours.”
They fell silent.
“You know, that’s a great thing,
just sitting and watching sports with someone,” Clay finally said. “Most women
don’t understand how men can watch sports together without saying a thing, and
then insist it was a great bonding experience.”
“Anyway,” Lara said, “you have a
destination in mind, or are we just out cruising?”
“I thought
“So, maybe I’m doing the human race
more good than I realize.”
“Don’t get yourself a Tommy John
injury patting yourself on the back. My dad used to take me with him to car
races.”
“Tommy John? You know baseball,
too?”
“Geez—you think women don’t follow
sports? I played softball in high school, you know.”
“Yeah, but Tommy John.”
“I’m not talking about the guy .
I’m talking about the surgery . Anyone can injure an elbow. Everyone’s
unemployed, we’re fighting umpteen wars, the polar ice caps are melting, but
you turn on the news in L.A. and
the top story is about some celebrity gone wild, or a hundred-million-dollar
pitcher who needs his elbow rearranged. Nothing’s more important than how it’s
going with the Dodgers’ rotation.”
Rotation? Fuck! A wavelet of panic shot from Lara’s chest to her head.
“Sports is big business,”
Clay said. “I mean, if you’re paying a guy a hundred million dollars.”
Whew.
Lara looked at the vibrant desert
stretching out in all directions. Endless shades of red, brown and gray
accented dusty green plants that thrived in spite of the environment.
“So,” Clay said after a lull, “your
father took you to car races?”
“Is that strange?”
“I don’t know. Define ‘strange.’ My
father was an international playboy.”
Lara hated to abandon the caresses
of the sun and the wind, but she turned to Clay.
“My dad…more or less…raised me on
his own. After I turned seven.”
“Oh.”
“He took me to Pomona,
Ontario, Bakersfield.
He loved anything fast and loud. Stock cars. Formula One. Dragsters. We’d sit in
the grandstand and he’d tell me all about whatever cars happened to be on the
track. After a while, I picked up on things to where we could argue about which
cars were faster, which handled better. I always cheered for the ones with the
big horsepower.”
“Yeah, that’s important, but it all
comes down to handling.”
Lara’s mouth dropped open. “That’s
what my dad always said.”
“No kidding?”
“He said, ‘What difference does it
make if you’re going two hundred m p h if you spin out in the curves?’ That’s
how he said it: m…p…h.”
Clay nodded.
“‘There’s no sense in stomping your
foot to the floor,’” Lara said, “‘if—’”
Clay took over. “‘If you
can’t make the car go where you need it to go.’”
Lara looked surprised.
“My old man used to say that, too,”
Clay explained.
“Who would have thought our
fathers...”
“My dad was a decent guy,” Clay
said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Most people don’t know anything about him
beyond his public persona. Their loss.”
Lara studied Clay’s face. She could
almost read what he was thinking.
“I loved doing things with my dad,”
she said. “A little girl on an outing with her hero. He gave me everything I
wanted: Popcorn. Hot dogs. Slushies. If I liked a hat, he’d buy it for me. He
knew how to treat a lady.”
Lara looked out the window. The
colors that looked so amazingly distinct before now blew past in a blur.
“Your dad sounds like the kind of
guy I’d like to meet,” Clay said.
“Oh, um…he died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it was a long time ago. When I
was in high school.”
“Yeah, but it’s still a big thing.
You two had something special.”
“I didn’t mean to turn this into a
downer. I have lots of great memories. Probably more than most people. In his
last few months, we’d just sit together and watch NASCAR. Sometimes not talking
for hours.”
They fell silent.
“You know, that’s a great thing,
just sitting and watching sports with someone,” Clay finally said. “Most women
don’t understand how men can watch sports together without saying a thing, and
then insist it was a great bonding experience.”
“Anyway,” Lara said, “you have a
destination in mind, or are we just out cruising?”
“I thought
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