Once Around the Track

Taran waved away the stapler. “Sure. Whatever. Take it now. But go away. I have work to do.”

And she did have work to do, but she didn’t do it. Instead, she logged on to the Badger Jenkins unofficial fan Web site (Badger’s Din), the address of all of her best friends, none of whom she had ever met. At least once a day, the several dozen people who constituted Badger Jenkins’s most loyal and hopeless supporters would log on to hash over the latest rumors about their idol’s NASCAR career, or to alert each other to the mention of his name in news articles. Sometimes one of them would have a thirty-second encounter with Badger at a scheduled appearance, and then a breathless account of What He Said to Me (“How you doin’, sweetie…”) would be posted and endlessly discussed. The account was often accompanied by a fuzzy digital photo of Badger gazing pleasantly into the camera lens, flanked by a beaming fan in the transports of religious ecstasy. So you knew what some of your fellow disciples looked like, but not their real names, because the women tended to use aliases, like Lady Badger (wishful thinking), Badgeera, or Short Track Gal, while the male fans called themselves things like FastDrawl or Bonneville Bill.

Some of the guys had an annoying habit of digressing into harangues about pro football or their mostly nonexistent sex lives, and they tended to “flame” any adoring female who dared to make syrupy comments about Badger’s perfect nose or his golden brown eyes, but all in all, the folks at Badger’s Din were the only people in the world willing to discuss day after day, ad nauseum, the fascinating topic of Badger Jenkins.

Is this new team any good? What is his new number? Sponsor? Has anybody seen any new Badger gear? Ordered a hat or a tee shirt? How is Badger’s turtle doing? Every day they danced around in a ring and supposed, but Badger never ever replied or took any notice of them at all. They didn’t expect him to, really. They became friends, and sometimes their own discussions of snowstorms, sick children, and job issues took such prominence on the site that one would almost think they had forgotten that Badger was the reason they were there.

But now their personal lives were forgotten, and they were all abuzz with the news of Badger’s new team. An all-female team! Is it true that Miss Norway is going to be one of the pit crew? Had they hired a beautiful Vegas blackjack dealer as a tire changer? Rumors were rife. One of the posters had a friend whose son was dating the daughter of a NASCAR mechanic, and so she had it on very good authority that…Except the rumors never turned out to be true somehow.

Taran sat with her fingers poised over the keyboard. She was going to tell them that she would be trying out for a spot on the pit crew of Badger’s new team. She would have the inside track. She would befriend their revered driver. The news she reported would not be a miasma of rumor; it would be actual team business. For once Badger’s fans would know the facts-even before Engine Noise got the scoop. She took a deep breath, but she didn’t push down any keys.

She hadn’t actually gotten the job yet. Why get this bunch all excited about a mere possibility? The guys (especially FastDrawl) would tease her mercilessly and make bets that she wouldn’t be chosen. The female Badger’s Din members would be more supportive, but their very enthusiasm would be annoying, too. They would ask her every day-no, twice a day!-if she had got the job yet. And once she had it, they would ask her a thousand questions a week.

What was he wearing? What does he eat for lunch? Can you get him to personalize a team hat for my nephew’s birthday?- And, worst of all…When can we visit?

Oh, yes, they would want to visit. Taran would suddenly become the Queen of the Damned, the high priestess of the Din, and the dearest friend of several dozen cyberstrangers with agendas. They would want passes to Cup races, permission to attend practices. Oh no! They would want to meet Badger. To have dinner with Badger. To become pals with Badger. They would consider Taran their personal ambassador to Planet Badger. Can he come to my company’s annual picnic? Can we have a tour of his motor home? What’s his cell phone number?

Taran shuddered. She could not possibly tell them what she was up to. No, she would go ahead and try out for the pit crew, without telling any of her friends in NASCAR fandom. All right, they were her friends, sort of, but her first allegiance was to the man himself. She resolved then and there that if she were chosen to serve on Badger’s pit crew, she would have to keep it a secret from the Din. Oh, she might tell them some things, a tidbit here and there, just because she knew that they loved Badger, too, but she wouldn’t tell them how she came by her information. And when all her tips turned out to be completely accurate, she would gain the respect of everyone, even the odious FastDrawl.

Taran nodded to herself. It was the only sensible course of action. Now, having made her decision, she took a deep breath and began to type:

Hi Guys! Great news about Badger’s new ride! If anybody hears anything about the team, I hope we hear it here first! Can’t wait! Badger 4-Ever, Mellivora.

That was Taran’s name on the site: Mellivora, the honey badger. She was proud of having come up with that.

CHAPTER VIII

Badger Meets His Crew Chief

“Hello, Badger. Remember me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Badger meekly. She looked at him, standing there in his tatty jeans and an old Talladega tee shirt. On the wall directly behind him hung a framed poster of Badger Jenkins the Race Car Driver in his firesuit and opaque shades, leaning against the race car with a look of sullen insolence on his chiseled features. As usual, she could find no resemblance between the powerful man on the poster and the shy-looking kid in front of her. When Tuggle entered the team office, he had stood up. Now he was looking at her with all the solemn deference of a nine-year-old called on the carpet in the principal’s office.

Tuggle’s stern expression did not change, but inwardly she was gratified that despite his fame and money, Badger at heart had remained a well brought-up country boy, to whom manners were second only to breathing. Good. He’d live longer. “Just make it Tuggle,” she said gruffly. “You know we’re going to be working together.”

He gave her one of those smiles that could melt asphalt, and his dark eyes burned with earnest fervor. “It is my honor to work with you, ma’am,” he said, in a golden baritone that dipped every vowel in molasses. “I’m going to give this team one hundred percent.”

“Boy, you can’t even count that high,” said Tuggle. “And you can dial back that drawl, too. That accent is your get-out-of-jail free card, but it won’t be working on me.”

His eyes widened a bit, but he contrived not to react to this speech.

“I know about you,” said Tuggle. “I’ve heard tell. We’ve not worked together, but the racing world is a small town, and everybody knows everything, so we’re going to have a little talk now, and you’d better hope we don’t have to have it again.”

He nodded, expressionless, and she couldn’t tell whether he was still all polite obedience or whether he was mad as hell but holding it in for the sake of the job. Well, she didn’t care either way. Whether he took it easy or fought her tooth and nail, things were going to be done her way, and that was that. She knew that some of the team would look at that Christmas tree angel face of his and melt, but it left her unmoved, except as a warning that here was a pretty boy who had cruised through life in neutral on account of that doll baby face. Well, she wasn’t buying it.

“As wheel men go, you’re not half bad, Badger,” she conceded. “You came up on dirt track, and that’s in your favor. Means you can drive a loose car without taking out half the field. That’ll help some. And your instincts are good-you don’t swerve when you can’t see; you don’t throw the race to win a grudge match against some other driver. Put you in a race car, and I got no complaints.” She saw him begin to smile and she held up her hand to forestall his relief. “But-there’s more to this job than seat-of-the-pants talent. And that’s what we need to talk about.”

The smile faded. “Yes, ma’am?”