Ham on Rye and a Corvette Death...Pt One

The bar stunk of Death and stale beer and Gospel Blues and the girl with the hibiscus hair said Hello over the top of her Gin and tonic. I smiled at her but told her to stop wasting her time. I do not Sleep with women with tonic on their breath. She told me to Fuck off. I don't blame her. I am Damaged and will Sleep with anyone. She saw that in my eyes and was appropriately insulted. I do Not care.

I am Damaged and an Asshole and that is all there is too It.

The bar still stank of Angry hibiscus and stale Death and praises to a god I no longer believe in when Sally puts his hand on my shoulder and tells me about The Race. Sally is a new Friend and nuerotically Damaged and a Good Guy. He talks too much and has panic attacks but is always ready for irresposible Weirdness when the occasion calls for it.

The Race, he explained, was an illegal road course set up in the Wild back roads around Miami near the Glades and far removed from the prying eyes of the Man. Suped-up Hoopties and over-sexed sports cars would be Screaming around coned tracks set up on the one and a half lane, barely paved serpentines winding through the mangrove marshes between the Indian casino and Nowhere Special. The Grand prize was 100,000 dollars and a sponsorship from, one can only assume, an auto parts concern or Hooters. There would be Drinking and hookers and Danger and possible death by dismemberment.

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Like a moth to a Flame....


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Stops for gin and to cash a Bad check notwithstanding, we made pretty good time. Along the Tamiami Trail, Sally fell asleep. Just as well. I had Lyle Lovett on the stereo and a fat joint crunched between my teeth as I barrelled along the flat stretch of humid Nothingness and imagined myself in a race. A race that I was finally winning. A race that could not be lost or Squandered carelessly. My foot jammed nearly through the floorboard, singing Bad karaoke about a pony on a boat, and smoking that shit, I raced no one. The fetid swamp on either side whipping past with hardly a Whisper, the black shapes of Nightmares fading as quickly as Hope and youth and it was Good.

Somewhere near Shark Valley we broke out the Gin...

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Gin is Baptism and god and everything right with the world.

Gin is a reason.

Gin makes me happy.

When Sally brought out the green bottle of Tanqueray, I smiled a crooked smile and backed my foot off the gas pedal. We were almost There and too fast and Sally looked frightened as a bunny. I pulled over gravel quick within sight of two Fat alligators and an egret on lunch break. I poured a Huge wash down my throat, letting the botanicals burn away my Sins and remind me that we were on a Mission. Sally lit two cigarettes and handed me one. He is a Good guy.

Some Saturdays just lend themselves to the gods of Gin, manic driving, and gashes in the fabric of the cultural Norm. This particular Saturday afternoon, as it turns out, was one of Them. I knew we were in Trouble when Sally insisted upon getting close enough to the Largest of the two gators to piss on its head. I completely understood the Temptation. It is quite the Manly Thing To Do. With the second shot of booze already coursing in the general direction of my ears, I watched helplessly giggling as Sally whipped It out, pinched the head of It and try to spray the Sleepy beast in the eyes from a distance of about nine feet.

The funniest part about watching your Good friend being chased by a pissed-off, pissed-on alligator is that there is absolutely Nothing funny about it. It is terrifying and crashing and wet and Loud.

Shaking and soaked to the bone, fly undone, laughing, Sally returns to the car and grabs the Gin from me. I have never seen a man drink so long from the neck of a bottle. It was beautiful to watch. Complete Abandon. Like cake to a Fat kid. Like sweat on a Preacher. Like rubber to road...

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There is some shit you just Do Not do.

Marry a thick Blond with pink toenails and a drug habit. Snort aspirin. Drop acid at a Pentacostal revival. Laugh at a friend's Cancer diagnosis. Have sex with the widow AT the funeral. Piss on an Alligator. Show up Gin drunk for a High speed clandestine road Race and offer to officiate Turn 3.

They said Yes.

While waiting for transport to our station, we wandered aimlessly through the pit area and the starting line. Porsche, Lamborghini, Lexxus, BMW, Lotus, and Corvette were represented, as well as a few Ghetto-mean VW's thrown in with sullen moods and bubbletops. A gaggle of drivers and mechanics encircled a glass topped patio table astrewn with the accoutrement of the Seriously Deranged. Empty bottles of scotch, half empty paper cups of Colada and Massive lines of crushed Oxycontins mixed with SoFlo cocaine. The drugs were bad enough,jesus, but the Colada, high-powered Cuban coffee strained, Presumably, between the legs of Blessed Virgins and whores, was just damned irresponsible!

Sally, affable Gentleman that he is, introduced Us to this caffeine and painkiller addled bunch of adrenaline junkies as Helpful Volunteers and Race Fans. One of the Race organizers saw us eyeing the table and drooling like pedophiles at a playground.

"Help yourselves, boys. Just remember to keep your eyes open out there in Turn 3. Its a bad one and we wouldn't want Ya'll to get Hurt. Its easy to do out here."

Face buried in Illegal substances and Scotch, we offer our assurances that we are Professionals when it comes to mind-altering chemicals and we would rather Die than see anyone get Hurt.

"Well, just don't turn your backs to oncoming cars. You should be fine."

Mosquitos swarmed the site where we were unceremoniously deposited with a walkie talkie,a flag, a fire extinguisher and two sheets of paper. One with the Rules printed upon it, and the other slathered with the itinerary of the weekend.

1pm tech inspection and hot track
2pm lemons and hoopties division
3pm smoke joint with large woman
4pm hear the monster in the swamp
5pm sports and muscle division
712 huge wreck involving tiny rutting deer, a little red corvette, a poetry reading by a dead man, and lethal doses of a bug spray that may or not be legal in this country.
8pm end of race
9pm pitch nylon tent behind car
905pm contract dengue fever
10pm uncomfortable banquet hosted by the devil and anthony bourdain.
1130 be escorted to the door of the overpriced neo-cajun restaurant and asked to politely fuck off.

It all seemed pretty straightforward...

We were to stand in the Painful arch of Turn 3 with a red flag and a fire extinguisher and the mosquitos and watch the track for Obstructions of dubious Nature, radio HQ when track was clear. The rest of the gig consisted of resetting the rubber-scuffed orange cones whenever the drivers knocked them over in their Desperate clawings through the Slalom directly before the Hairpin that Turn 3 wrapped around laughingly.

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Corruption and South Florida lie around like Old lovers in comfortable shoes, bolstering and consuming at the same time. It is a way of life. Like subtle Racism and cornbread, corruption is just an accepted thread in the fabric of daily existence. So with the backdrop of Little Milton playing in my head and gin soaked flying bloodsuckers buzzing in my ears, I did not even flinch when I saw the Sheriff's car roll around the hairpin, going the wrong way on the track. The race had not begun yet and there was no danger of a head-on collision but I red flagged him all the same.

A Grizzly bear in a pressed brown uniform rolled down the passenger window.

"How you boys doin' this fine afternoon?"
"Good, and you, Sheriff?"
"Oh, just fine. Say, you boys do know that this race is for Members Only, dontcha?" He smiled yellow and sanguine and knowing.
"We are not racers, Sheriff. We are only working the track today.
"Doesn't matter, fella. Still gotta collect your membership dues. It's the rules."

After a brief interaction involving our cash and the Sheriff's huge paw, he was gone, leaving nothing but a bad taste in our mouth for authority figures and half of a can of DEET bug spray with a faulty nozzle.

We were now Members of an exclusive club.

Bluebird by Charles Bukowski...My Favorite Poem

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?