thing in the world, if only he weren’t so shy. Badger eased his way through the crowd of admirers, alternately shaking hands and hugging his well-wishers. He had perfected a genial one-armed hug that managed to seem friendly without giving the recipient too much encouragement. Sometimes he’d wink at someone who was standing too far away for a hug or a handshake. Charm personified. She wondered if he had been born with charm or if he had studied his technique as painstakingly as he’d learned driving techniques. Watching him was an education.
When someone pointed a camera at him, he obligingly went on point, smiling happily for the camera as he posed with his new best friends, the total strangers on either side of him. To his credit, the party guests seemed delighted with him. He played the part of a gregarious celebrity very well. Suzie wondered how he really felt about it; surely such poise had not come naturally to a backwoods boy from Georgia. She resolved to ask him if she ever got another chance to speak to him in private.
Dutifully, she hovered at Badger’s elbow, ready to bring him a drink, supply a name, hand him a Sharpie, or to make herself otherwise useful to the guest of honor. Thus, she was probably the only person who noticed that his responses were not only perfunctory, but identical. He said almost the same thing to every single person. Of course, in fairness, almost every person said the same thing to him, so perhaps there were only so many variations that one could make on “Thank you. How kind of you to say so.” Anyhow, he was such a handsome, unassuming guy that it didn’t much matter what he said. Just the smile would have been enough for most people.
Badger had also perfected the art of scribbling his name on whatever was handed to him without seeming to notice that he was being asked for an autograph. He’d simply scrawl his name, hardly glancing at the paper, while he kept on talking to the women crowded around him. You didn’t even have to
It took the embarrassment out of the situation, Suzie decided. The fan was not required to formally request “the great man’s” autograph, and Badger was spared the awkwardness of being fussed over or seeming to demand deference. He seemed no more arrogant than a ticket taker, accepting pieces of paper, “processing” them, and then handing them back without ceremony. It was a graceful maneuver, she decided, and she wondered if all the drivers were similarly skilled in celebrity.
Badger also had his sound bites down pat: a modest, cheerful, patient litany of platitudes. He was honored to be a part of the team; he couldn’t say how well they’d do in the season, but he would certainly try his best; and no he didn’t think he was the most skillful driver
In a momentary lull of adulation, Deanna, the secretary, touched his elbow and pointed to the stack of Badger likenesses in a letter tray on the table. “We thought people might like to have signed photos of you,” she said. “I know I would. If you wouldn’t mind?”
“I’d be honored,” said Badger, taking the proffered Sharpie from Suzie and reaching for a photo from the top of the pile. He winced. “Oh,
Deanna sighed. “I think you look wonderful in that shot. That solemn, dedicated look on your upturned face, and the way the light hits you. Like an angel in a stained glass window.” She willed herself to stop babbling.
“Yeah,” said Badger, as if he hadn’t heard a word she said. “I remember when they took that shot. We had just finished a three-hour race. I came in second, and they just swooped down on me with the microphones and the camera and all, and, Lord, I had to piss so bad I thought it would come out my ears… Who do you want me to make this out to, sweetie?”
Deanna summoned a wan smile, “Oh…just sign it,” she murmured. There was always eBay.
Christine Berenson and several of the more important party guests waited until the frenzy had subsided somewhat before they attempted to converse with the star of their team. “Such a joy to see you,” said Christine, pressing her cheek against Badger’s. Since they were the same height, this was not difficult. She nodded affably to Suzie. “I think you know everyone,” she said to the lawyer, but she recited the names of the gaggle of socialites in her wake and beamed while each of them hugged Badger, some with considerably more determination than others. Suzie thought she detected a slight reduction in the voltage of his enthusiasm. His smile seemed a bit more perfunctory, and he had begun to look restive. Perhaps he was an introvert, after all. He did spend a lot of time alone fishing on that lake back home. Being effusive to a room full of strangers must have been quite a drain on his reserves of cordiality.
Christine had drawn Badger aside for a private talk. “How do you like the decorations for the reception?” she asked.
“Real nice,” said Badger without a glance at any of them.
“There’s one item I particularly wanted to show you. A piece of racing memorabilia that someone gave to me when I started the team. What do you think?” A metal chair against the wall held a cheaply framed two-by-three foot poster labeled
Badger said, “That’s a dirty poster.”
“What? It seems in mint condition to me.”
“They did a clean version of this poster, after they caught it, but this is the original one. Look.” He put his finger on Neil Bonnett’s right ear.
When Christine knelt down and peered closely at that part of the photograph, she realized that directly behind Neil Bonnett’s ear-but not entirely obscured by it-was the erect penis of Tim Richmond, dangling out of his white and red firesuit, while he stared into the camera with careless bravado.
“Tim Richmond was pretty wild,” said Badger. “Great driver. Died of AIDS. That was before I got into the sport, of course.”
If he had expected her to be horrified by revelations about her X-rated poster, he had underestimated the corporate she-wolf.
Looking distinctly unshocked, Christine gave him a long, appraising stare below the belt, leaned close to his ear, and whispered, “Tell me, Badger, how do you think you measure up to Tim Richmond?”
Now he was shaking hands with one of the few men present at the reception, the silver-haired husband of a regal older woman whose silvery dress matched her hair. The couple had been persuaded by Christine to make their furniture company a minor sponsor of the car despite their own genteel misgivings about the sport of stock car racing. Now that the object of their dubious investment had materialized, the elderly gentleman took the opportunity to question Badger as if he were a customer service representative instead of a famous Cup driver. “It certainly costs a lot of money to put that palm-sized decal on your car, young man.”
His wife nodded emphatically. “It certainly does. Daylight robbery.”
Badger hesitated for a moment, perhaps wondering if the couple were joking, but apparently he decided they weren’t. Summoning his “aw-shucks country boy” look, he said in his most mellifluous drawl, “Well, ma’am and sir, if it was up to me, I’d be happy to slap that decal on there for you for nothing, but you know I don’t really have anything to do with it. The owners set the prices for sponsorship, and I reckon they spend most of that money seeing that I don’t run out of tires or have to use secondhand parts. Since I’ve been in the hospital a time or two from going into the wall from a tire blowout or wreck due to a faulty part, I guess my life pretty much depends on a well-funded car. So I sure do appreciate your help in keeping me safe.”
The man sniffed. “Our decal is on the side of the car. The only time it shows up on television is if they show a close-up of your car, and the only time they do that is if you are in the top five.”
His wife gave his arm a playful smack. “Oh, stop it, Lewis!” she said. “This poor boy’s life is at stake. If you want a bigger ad, then give him more money.” She enfolded Badger in a motherly hug. “And you be careful out there, honey, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Badger.
With a proprietary hand in the small of his back, Christine steered Badger away from the elderly furniture
