Bullet Proof Derby

It was 90 degrees and I was trying to run in a pencil skirt. Commenting on the stupidity of this act is unnecessary. I mention it only as an indication of how well I fit in with this crowd of tank-tops and t-shirts that boasted "SAUNTER" as their fastest gait.

The announcer's voice crackled over the loudspeaker. A round of smashing was about to begin and we were half a mile away. A quick word with the event staff for directions and we were off to the other side of the park, past the Ferris wheel, the camels, and cotton candy machines. Winded, we arrived and I practically shoved money in the hands of the gruff ticket-vendor. I practiced breathing as my friend produced her checkbook. It is no big deal, breathe. You can wait. Just out of sight I could hear the cars revving their engines the crowd barking like wild animals. The announcer screamed, "Three, two, one, GO!" Within a few seconds I heard the first crunch of metal. She was checking the date on her phone and filling in the lines. Breathe. Patience. She was working quickly but I felt like a kid waiting to peek around the corner on a December morning. We grabbed our purple wristbands and raced into the arena. A man with a shaved head, sunglasses said to Jennifer, "Want help with that wrist band?" "Uh, I think I am good." Friendly but weird.

We ran to the edge of the fence and started circling, looking for a seat or standing room where we didn't block anyone's view. Dirt was flying from under the wheels of the cars. Flames were coming from the exhaust pipes funneled directly from the engine. Cars were speeding across the field and narrowly missing their targets. Smashing, stalling, flag pulling and the round was over. Tow trucks and pit crews flooded the circle pulling the cars out into an adjacent parking lot.

We wait a half an hour and then next heat begins.

A neon green car with a double digit number spray-painted on the door came barreling through the arena, kicking up dirt as it went. A two seconds later it crashed into the side of a teal car with "I *heart* Autumn," scrawled on the hood and pushed it into the four-foot-tall, dirt barrier surrounding the driving area. A member of the pit crew jumped from the top of the barrier, barely escaping the crash. A station wagon from 1984 dressed up as an American flag rammed into the two cars struggling to get started after the impact. Number six, an orange hatch-back, another familiar car from my childhood, slammed into the sloppy stars and stripes. The collision made that stomach-turning crunch that no one wants to hear outside of this field. But somehow, despite that natural reaction to flinch,the crowd bellows for more. The man sitting a few benches down in the tier of metal bleachers is wearing a pair of Wranglers, a camouflage hunting hat, a t-shirt that features all capital letters and a crescent wrench. His wife, who outweighs him by two hundred pounds, hands him their baby. The ruddy-nosed man in front of me glugs down his his third Bud-Light and cheers for the car that is so beaten up that from the side it looks like a "U."

I am out of place but I am so happy. I scream like a white-trash soccer mom, cheering for random cars and bad mouthing the announcer/ref. Number six locks grills with another car. They turn sideways and rev the engine trying to unlock. A car comes and smashes into them. They are still stuck. A minute passes and they are both out. "BOOOOOOOOOO!" we scream as he says, "Number six, pull your flag." "BOOOOOOO!" A lady behind me yells,"Stupid ref! Number six is has the best engine in this whole derby!" We scream for justice, but the ref says, "He's out."

We are defeated. Tow trucks come. The grunge match starts. All of the cars that had their wheel-wells hammered out and their spark plugs changed are back, fighting to the death. One car turns off its engine while waiting for the last car to join the battle. His engine never turns over again and he sits while the other cars wallop each other and send bursts of engine-smoke fifteen feet in the air. Then it is over. I am hoarse.

As we leave the parking lot La Roux comes on the radio. "This time baby, I'll be bullet proof."