Dangerous Days and Dancing after Dark

A short Story



These are articles, stories and accounts of my life, as I recall them, and are copywrited. Unauthorized use will be pursued at my determination, to the degree that I am inclined. Any hard feeling caused by memories that don't match yours are unfortunate and you'll just have to get over it! Feel free to contact me if you have a request for their use. I am not writing for prose or poetry, but just to tell a story. Neither do I try to be politically correct. I consider that an act of cowardice, trying to placate the uninformed, ignorant of history folks that are filled with ego and braggadocios, demanding that their perspective be the prevalent one.

I remember that gut wrenching period of my life, when loved ones were being taken from me. I had to make some decisions! Where would I go? How would I get there?

This is the life I have chosen. I think back and clearly remember that it seemed an appropriate decision at the time, and today, I feel that the passage of time has validated that decision. As I think back a number of years when, as a husband, I endured the loss of my wife and three daughters over the span of a few months, my feelings were vastly different than from just last week, when as a crew chief we won a race at the highest level of stock car competition. Having endured the depths of agony, and hosted the thrill of accomplishment, I love and hold dear, the perspective on life that has been provided to me by the wide spectrum from which I have been able to view it.

With the day winding down, I stand here recalling the days as a crewmember, when going over the wall during pit stops, I had been run over in Richmond, dragged down pit road in Darlington, broke my forearm in Phoenix and nearly cut off my left thumb in Talladega. I broke my ankle in Atlanta and blistered both my palms in the Pocono’s. I am also pondering the more gentle side of my life that is intertwined and woven into the very fabric of my being, and is as undeniable as it is obvious, and that is the fact that wherever we traveled to compete, there was a bountiful bevy of beauties that would take a varying interest in what we were doing in exchange for an opportunity to play a small part in it.

As the shadows get longer, and I sweep the shop floor, I think back not to the traveling tarts that travelled from town to town, but to the occasional glimpse of a genuinely classy and elegant lady that had an unexplainable passion for the oily and dusty lad with callused hands, strong back and tousled hair, replete with the pungent smell of oil and gasoline that substituted for deodorant and aftershave. These ladies were easily recognizable by their nicely coiffed hair and sunglasses, polished finger nails and matching toe nails protruding from open shoes, but more importantly, a light cotton summer dress, pressed against her thighs by a timid wind and cut just above the knees, exposing a taunt calf and a well turned ankle. I grew to cherish being able to endure the oppressive heat of the afternoon only to be engulfed by the amorous warmth of the night.

One such lady followed me home earlier this year, and as I stand here in the door of the race shop in the shallow shadow of a setting sun, I turn out the last light as she enters the open doorway and places her bottle on the cluttered desktop. Then, wordlessly she puts both arms around me, tilts her head slightly and nibbles on my left earlobe while leaning inward in an overtly provocative manner, making it abundantly clear of her intentions. The sun has long since worked its way beyond the west window and as her dress finds its way to the floor, the moonlight casts a clearly defined silhouette against the office wall. As she approaches, her movement permeates the room with my favorite aphrodisiac, an alluring and aromatic blend of perfume, perspiration and booze.