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Jimmy rips around the final turn of the track in his tricked-out purple Mustang, spraying a cloud of dirt and coming in a full car length ahead of the competition.
I hoot and shout with the rest of the crew, celebrating like he’s just won the Indy 500.
The kid jumps out of his car and rips off his helmet, holding it up to the crowd. They cheer him on, louder than us only because of their number.
The dirt track is the largest attraction in the tiny town of Newton, South Carolina. Folks from the neighborhood and surrounding farms come in every Friday to watch the local kids and outside competition prove their merit on the track.
And there’s always work for someone who knows his way around an engine.
I join the supporters clustering around Jimmy, slapping him on the back. He breaks away to shake my hand.
“Couldn’t have done it without you, Joe,” he tells me.
“Yeah, you could have,” I say, pushing him away affectionately and toward the fans coming out of the rusty bleachers.
The kid is only nineteen and he still has a ways to go before he’ll be competing for prizes larger than a fill-up and a free hot dog, but I don’t doubt he’ll make it there. He has talent, and it’s been a pleasure to teach him a few tricks over the past months.
I break off from the crowd, grab my toolkit, and walk it over to the garage.
“Your kid did good,” my boss, Alan, says through a cloud of cigarette smoke as he jacks up the husk of the muscle car he’s made his next project. “I see him breaking outta here before the next season.”
“Here’s not so bad,” I say, stowing my tools in the cage and locking it behind me.
Alan snorts. He’s an old timer, born in this two-light town in 1962. As much as he complains about it, I don’t think he’s ever really considered leaving.
“Says the guy who’s been here six months. Talk to me in six years.”
“I’ll make sure I do that,” I reply. I lift a hand in goodbye and head back out of the garage.
Jimmy’s celebration has moved to the track-side bar and grill. I should join, but I hesitate. With half the town gathering to support their sacred son, that means the bachelorettes of Newton will also be in attendance.
It’s been getting harder and harder to avoid their advances, especially those of Beth Ann Saunders, a busty blonde with a down-home accent and a determined attitude.
So instead of hurrying over to the bar, I take a walk.
Dusk is just starting to settle over the town. A movie theater, the track, a handful of bars, and a diner make up the main thoroughfare; nestled around it is a small neighborhood of old-fashioned farm houses with overgrown front lawns. The air is mild, the southern heat helped by a generous ocean breeze that drifts inland from the coast. And surrounding us are miles of farmland, perfect for Sunday drives.
I’ve found my people. Unpretentious, family-focused, willing to lend a hand. Gone are the days of partying until dawn with people I can barely stand. Nobody talks about banks. Not a single person knows my real name. I haven’t seen a tie in months. And I’m free of expectations, of plans others have made for my life, of any propriety other than common courtesy.
And yet not a day has gone by that I haven’t replayed that final argument over and over in my head. I’d been shocked, embarrassed, upset. But I should have kept my cool. I should have talked it out with her. I never should have said those things.
Because even if our lives would inevitably have ripped us apart, I wish we could have parted as friends. Instead I’ve found myself in stasis, unable to move on. Unable to forget the way she made me feel. Wondering what might have been.
I spend my evenings rebuffing women at the bar and my nights refreshing her employee profile, first at the Westing Bank and then, before long, on the Generations Bank website.
God knows what happened there, and the thought of Liz working for Paul makes my stomach clench.
I’ve tried to piece together what happened after I disappeared with little luck. The official reports are bland and devoid of the drama I know was going on behind the scenes. Bill and Marie announced their divorce as planned, but Marie stayed with Generations Bank. Neither have talked with reporters.
I never contacted Bill with the truth. There had been several times, in the weeks following the trip, that I’d come close to calling him. Pain had stayed my hand. I’d been foolish on the island to think that something so inconsequential could mend a relationship decades in decline. It’s too late, and why make it harder for them?
Why not allow them to let go?
I tap my boot on the pavement and turn away from Main Street. I’ll go back to the van, change my grease-stained shirt, and show up for Jimmy.
And fuck it. Maybe I’ll fuck Beth Ann tonight. Maybe I should make a show of moving on too.
The van is backed up to a corner of the field behind the track where the grass meets the woods. With the sliding door open to the privacy of the woods, I have my own little corner of Newton. The van has served me well; I outfitted it with a bed and table and storage when I gained access to the shop and my paychecks started rolling in.
