The curious incident...

I was on the deck, smoking the day's last cigarette in the pitch dark while listening to old Ministry on my iPod and reliving my glory days of stomping around the industrial club in my big, black boots and velvet/tulle/leather, size 4 ensembles.

Then it licked my hand. "It" being a neighbor's 100-pound golden retriever, which had escaped its own backyard, leaped the fence into mine, ambled up the stairs to my deck and passed behind me before settling at my right side. I hadn't seen, heard, smelled or felt it approaching me.

I screamed bloody murder. It was probably only three seconds from the lick to the scream to the realization that a big, friendly dog had joined me, but it felt like hours of sheer terror.

I collected myself, then led big doggy, who, by the grace of God hadn't bitten me after I screamed at it, by its collar down the stairs and through the gate and encouraged it to go to its person, who was in his front yard across the street calling for it.

Still shaking, I went back in the house and hovered in the front room for half an hour, waiting for the police to show up after one of the neighbors had surely reported the screaming to the police. They never showed. And even though I was embarrassed, I was even more offended.

When I related this story to my friend Laura today, she said, "Maybe that old lady next door heard you and thought, 'Good. She's being attacked by a bear.'"

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UPDATE:

Well, now that I've seen her in the daylight, I know she's a chocolate lab, not a golden retriever. And since I coaxed her out of mean old lady's backyard into ours so MOL wouldn't call animal control, I know, from her collar, that her name is Sally.

First thing I did was try to lead her home, and I saw that neither photographer man nor designer woman were there. So I brought her back here to our back deck and called the number on her collar. It was apparently the home number and nobody was home. I looked up the number to photographer man's studio and gave him a call. He is such an artist with poor interpersonal skills. He told me that sometimes they have a key in a certain place and to look for it and let her into the house, otherwise please try to keep her in my backyard.

I told him I'd try both. Then he said, "I saw your picture in the paper, so are you going to be writing for them?" "Yes," I responded, I'll be a Lifestyles columnist."

"Okay. Thanks. Bye."

I took Sally across the street, couldn't find a key, but did find her lead and put her back in their backyard. I'm expecting her back any time now.

When a mommy and a daddy love each other...

I was talking to Daddy yesterday while Mama was out. He told me he'd read the story about Steve, Joshua and traveling and that he'd enjoyed it. He suggested I use it for my first N&O column.

I told him the first column, coming out June 24, will be "My Father's Sons." "You know," I told him, "the one about how you treated us like boys when we were kids."

He chuckled and said, "I didn't realize I did that."

"Looking back," I reassured him, "I wouldn't change a thing."

Shooting guns and diving for clams made me brave. Being told my epidermis was showing made me sarcastic.

My mother instilled in me manners, a sense of empathy and the importance of hair care. She made me feel pretty and special when I was really just a bratty princess making her life difficult. She also told me that I could be anything I wanted, that I was smart and the world was out there for me.

So here I am, a product of two attractive people who met by accident in Wilmington in 1965, when my daddy's best friend was courting my mother. Thank the lord that my mother and that guy broke up and that she happened to spot my daddy coming out of a Beatles movie and dropped her proper Southern manners long enough to roll down her window and yell, "Call me!"

Shameless, I tell you. Shameless. And awesome.

Get off my property!

I really need to get out of the house. I'm turning into MOL (that's mean old lady next door for those of you who don't know the back story). God help me.

To be fair, it was Saturday, I'm on sabbatical, Steve's in Australia, and the only human being I'd spent one-on-one time with all week was a 77-year-old man on Tuesday who talked about himself nonstop without asking me any questions. So I was cranky and lonely. Just like... nope, won't say it. She's evil.

-----------------------------------

It was my naptime, but I saw that "The Blue Lagoon" was on cable. And I watched it all the way through. For whatever reason, I thought it would be as engrossing and swoon-worthy as it was when I'd watch it as a kid on HBO with the sound turned down low so my parents wouldn't wake up and catch me watching an R-rated movie. I found that watching it through the eyes of a grownup is nearly impossible. Suspension of disbelief while watching "Gilligan's Island" is easier.

I mean, come on! The kids found the indigenous, human-sacrificing drum people, but the drum people never found their elaborate, beachfront fortress? The boy kept getting mad at the girl and trying to leave in a homemade sailboat that inevitably collapsed when they had the well-preserved dinghy all along? Don't even get me started on the pristine, well-pressed white cotton clothes the girl and the baby dressed up in. Steve's professionally laundered button ups he bought a year ago are dingier than those apparently saved in a trunk for a decade.

It occurred to me then that the only reason we watched it over and over as kids was because of Christopher Atkins's nekkid swimming scene; which, of course was edited out for cable.

Irritated with myself for wasting two hours of my life that could have been spent napping, I switched off the TV. I was trying to go to sleep and heard loud talking outside. I looked out the window and saw MOL in her yard talking to a man in our yard.

I marched outside and said, "Can I help you?" The man said, "I was just talking to your neighbor." "Do you mind doing it in her yard?," I demanded. Then I recognized him as the son of the elderly man on the corner, the same man who chainsawed trees for me after the hurricane 11 years ago. They were talking about the certified letter everybody in the neighborhood has gotten from the city telling us we now have to pay them to maintain that 15-foot drop to Wake Forest Road in our backyards.

MOL skittered away and the man, whose name I now know is Mike, started talking to me. For an hour and 15 minutes. I was hot and dehydrated, but feeling like a very, very bad person for being rude. To him, not MOL. I apologized over and over.

-----------------------------------------

Today I had bellinis and delicious brunch with my friend Laura. I really needed to go out and play with a kid my own age. Now I feel much better. And more likely to be kind to my fellow human beings. Well, most of them.

Junior Explorers' Club for Boys

When I told co-workers that Steve would be traveling to Australia and England during my sabbatical, they asked me if I would be going with him. I told them I wouldn't, citing the weakness of the dollar right now making everything horribly expensive. As in too expensive for us to hire a private nurse to keep me sedated and hydrated while applying fresh nicotine patches every hour.

I'm not afraid of flying by any means. I'll take off to New York to eat, drink and shop in a heartbeat. But New York is an hour and 15 minutes away. Otherwise, I am a terrible, bratty traveler. Even when we drive two and a half hours to see my parents, I have to pack my bag of fun containing magazines, cryptograms and my iPod. Steve gave me a portable DVD player for Christmas, and it keeps me from whining. (My daddy called Steve out on that, saying it was more for Steve than for me, which is true.)

Steve's trip to Australia this time was a nightmare. His itinerary called for a flight from Raleigh to New York, New York to Hong Kong, Hong Kong to Perth. During Pacific typhoon season.

The Hong Kong flight was diverted to Taiwan. The plane landed for refueling, but none of the passengers could get off the plane, as none of them had Taiwanese visas. They then headed for Hong Kong and circled the airport for a couple of hours before the pilots decided to make a very daring landing.

After being on the same plane for 22 hours, Steve had long since missed his connection and had to spend the night in Hong Kong. He got to Australia a day late and three days ahead of his luggage. "Nipped off to the Australian version of Wal-Mart for jocks-n-socks," he wrote me.

The crazy part is that he loves this stuff! I theorize it's because he's English, and that desire to explore and conquer is in his blood. You could probably go to deepest Borneo or the remotest part of Antarctica and be greeted by a Brit offering you a cup of tea.

When we were kids, the same age but 4,000 miles apart, as I was practicing my shuffle-skate moves in our carport to the tunes of Donna Summer, Steve was lying on his stomach in his bedroom, poring over atlases and maps, planning his imaginary adventures. Now, (cough) years later, he has a job that takes him all over the world, to places most people would never get to see.

As he's 15 hours ahead of me right now, Steve e-mailed me to let me know he'd arrived safely and described his travel in great detail. I shared the e-mail with my mother, who made me promise to share it with my sister with the promise she share it with my nephew Joshua, who is apparently very into maps.

I told Steve about Joshua's interest on the phone the next day, and he nearly squealed with delight. He's always pulling out the atlas and trying to teach me things. I can only focus on these teachings briefly before my mind wanders back to celebrity gossip. But now, Uncle Steve has a protege! A mind to mold with the wonders of the world! Another person to share his passion for maps and geography!

Steve excitedly e-mailed Joshua about his travels, embedding a map in the prose. He promised to bring Joshua maps from all his travels. Then, being a good uncle, he e-mailed my sister and asked her what Banyan was interested in so he could bring him presents, too. Jill e-mailed him back: "Banyan's really into the Pogues."

The Pogues? He's seven.

So now I have an image in my head of nine-year-old Joshua lying on his stomach in his bedroom in Vermont, poring over atlases and maps, planning his imaginary adventures. In the same room, the already world-weary Banyan slumps in his chair, crooning along with the ever demure and coquettish Shane MacGowan:

"It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank.
An old man said to me
Won't see another one..."

But it gives me hope. Joshua and Uncle Steve can jet off to Papua New Guinea 20 years from now. Banyan and I will sit in an Irish pub, drinking stouts and pondering what to do should we fall from grace with God.

Pogues Fairytale In New York
Uploaded by stevanhogg

Vignette from a story in the making (NSFAJ)

(Background: I'm helping a fancy elderly man write his memoirs. We've spoken on the phone and e-mailed. Today, I met him in person for the first time.)

I couldn't believe I was sitting there at the Olive Garden in Cary. It was packed with suburban people and their suburban children who'd arrived in their suburban SUVs. It was so loud I was straining to hear my companion talk on and on and on about himself without ever pausing except to let me agree that he is, indeed, a fascinating person with a story to tell.

He leaned in closer and his dancing blue eyes took on a more serious expression. "I have slept with boys and girls," he said, pausing to see my reaction. If he was trying to shock me, he only succeeded in doing so by telling me he'd slept with girls. "But I don't want to write a sex book. I find that distasteful."

------------------------------

He's writing a book, but I'm going to have a book's worth of material by the time we're done.

Sabbatical: Week three, day two

I had a hard time adjusting to this time away from the office for the first two weeks. I didn't realize how much my work routine -- and seeing my work buddies every day -- was an integral part of my life. And the weather's been dreary: unseasonably cold and rainy for the South in April. Steve's been traveling and, as much as I love my alone time, I had nobody to talk to and was developing cabin fever.

Steve's in town this week and I've stopped sleeping all afternoon and staying up all night. Yesterday I got up in the morning, took a shower and waited for Susan, our cleaner, to get here. After Steve left to go to the science lab, my mama called. I was standing on the front porch talking to her when a huge gust of wind blew a big wodge of that icky, stringy, pollen-filled stuff that comes off oak trees directly into the back of my still-wet head. "Gaaaahhhh!," I screamed into the phone as I frantically shook my head and ran my fingers through my hair. I told my mama I'd call her back and went into the house, trailing tree excrement behind me.

Susan showed up and I cleared out. It's been hard finding things to do outside the house as I'm on financial lockdown, but my girlfriend told me about a cheap nail salon near us. So I went to get the third manicure of my entire life (it was only 12 bucks).

The manicurist's name was John. He was a good-looking guy in his 20s. We got to talking about our lives and he told me he came from California to escape his gang-banging past (just above his buttoned up to the second-hole shirt, I could totally see the scripted tattoo across his chest). He went on to tell me all about his baby-mama drama.

Keeping up my end of the conversation, I asked, "So how long have you been doing this?" "You're my first customer," he replied. "How am I doing so far?"

For a split second, I freaked out. Then I called him out. We spent the next 20 minutes taking the piss out of each other. It was very much fun.

I left the nail place, got in my car, fished out a cigarette, and completely tore up my nail polish.

As I still had time to kill, I went to Borders to buy a birthday card. While I was there, I decided to peruse the memoirs and look at page counts in order to get an idea of what I need to do to write my own book. The last one I picked up was called, "Mississippi Sissy." I flipped it open to a random page and read: "(Expletive)!," said Frank Hains. "I knew I shouldn't have given that last bourbon to Eudora."

Eudora would be Miss Eudora Welty, the grand dame of Southern literature. My idol. The one for whom I named my precious darling angel princess baby girl.

Of course I bought it. Came home and sat out on the deck devouring the first 100 pages before going to the Tuesday night Board Meeting. It was all I could do to tear myself away.

When I came in, I saw that I had a new message on the machine. I pressed play and heard a message from an older gentleman with a gorgeous, honey-dripping, old-money Southern accent.

He introduced himself and told me who he'd gotten my name and number from. He said, "I'm writing a book and I really need to get somebody to do the editing and help me with it. Betty has said you're wonderful at it. I live in Wilmington, but I'm originally from Raleigh forevah. In fact, my family was the third family in Wake County..."

I called him back with the intention of finding out the scope of his project and telling him about my services, rates, etc. He started telling me stories about his life. Unbelievable, undescribably awesome stories about his upbringing here in Raleigh through his life as a decorator and dilettante in New York in the 50s through his years in London, Paris and Hong Kong.

I barely got a word in edgewise, but my every vessel was perked up and waiting his next word. His stories were that amazing. We're having lunch on Tuesday. I can't wait! I love me some Southern gothic, and I just may have come across the raconteur of my dreams.

Fresh new work from my favorite undiscovered poet

Thunderstorms

Thunderstorms are wild.
Rain falls down.
Grass crackles next to the house.
Humidity rises up
Lightning flashes next to the sea.
Grass burns outside!
Thunderstorms have awesome weather conditions.

--Copyright 2008 Joshua F. A. Thompson

If Jim Morrison and Steven Tyler had a baby

So, inspired by my last "Melodramatic Diary" entry, I went into the attic in search of memorabilia and notebooks from my Jim Morrison phase. Jim Morrison died when I was two, and I fell into his spell when I was 16. And I wrote some fantastically horrible poetry as a result.

Alas, I haven't found it yet. But I did find this t-shirt I decorated with a Sharpie for art class that year. Note the "He Lives."

I got a C. I never could do shadowing. Or Jim Morrison, apparently. :)

I'll take you on, mean old lady

I am a good Southern girl. I was brought up to respect my elders and call them "sir" or "ma'am." I actually love senior citizens and the wisdom of experience they have.

That being said, I hate the old lady next door to me. Okay, "hate" is a very strong word. I dislike her intensely. With a bitterness usually reserved for former bosses and ex-boyfriends.

As my then-boyfriend, my parents and friends were moving my stuff into this house in August 1995, I noticed her observing us from behind her screen door. I gave her a little wave, but she closed her door.

The next day, the guy across the street came over to introduce himself. He gestured to the house next to mine and told me about the lady who lived there. He said one of his college buddies had lived on the street in the late 70s and told him about her. She stares at and gossips about the neighbors.

I found this to be true early on. She would stare out the doors or windows at me and my boyfriend (then a series of platonic male roommates) and never returned my waves, so I stopped trying.

A freak Hurricane called Fran ripped through Raleigh in the fall 0f 1996 and tore us up. Power was knocked out and trees were down everywhere. My parents, who live in hurricane central on the coast, actually came up to help me out. My mama saw mean old lady (MOL) with her adult son and daughter in the front yard, and, being a friendly, saintly sort, went over to ask MOL if she needed anything and told MOL I was her daughter. "I try to speak to her," MOL lied, "but she ignores me."

Okay. You can be mean to me, but when you lie to my mama, the gloves come off. MOL and I have been embattled in a passive-aggressive feud since then.

The spring after the hurricane, I was living alone and didn't have a lawn mower that worked. I did, to be honest, put off calling my friends to borrow one for a while. And I got a public nuisance warning letter from the city. The worst part that my mama's name was still on the loan recorded in the public records, so my mama, the president of the garden club back home, was named as a co-public nuisance in the warning letter. The other neighbors told me that MOL had reported me.

After that, even though I was strapped financially, I hired people to come over every month to clean up the lawn. I was never at home when they came, but when they came later to pick up their checks, without fail, they told me stories of MOL standing on her side of the fence barking out instructions and telling them how grateful she was because "SHE doesn't take care of her yard."

Roommate after roommate got used to being stared at over the years. One night, Greg and I were enjoying beverages on the back deck and could see MOL pulling her drapes apart to watch us. We both waved to let her know we could see her, but she just stood there looking. "I'm gonna pee off the deck," Greg announced. "That'll give her something to look at."

A couple of years later, I was living alone again. I was smoking a cigarette on the deck at 11 p.m. and saw two 20-something guys taking things out of MOL's shed. So I called 911. I can't stand the old bag, but I wouldn't wish a murder/burglary on her. The police came and found that she was just fine and had hired some people to help her get ready for a yard sale. I know this because they came over to assure me that everything was fine. And she watched them do it.

Did she say, "Thank you for watching out for me?" Oh, hells no. She just kept complaining about my yard to the neighbors. And watching me as I came and went.

Steve moved in just over two years ago when we first got engaged. He was out working in the yard when she came out to the fence and told him, "I'm glad you're doing it, because SHE certainly won't." She apparently became enamored with his English accent and began talking to him any time he was outside alone.

After the first time MOL talked to him and I admonished him, Steve came back with, "She's old and she's lonely." After the second time, he told me, "She HATES you." See!, I told him, she's evil and mean! But he felt sorry for her, so on trash/recycling nights, he'd knock on her door and offer to take them out for her, saying she had a bad arm. I've observed her mowing her yard, all while getting meals delivered and letting Steve take out her trash.

Yesterday, Steve pulled up from a grocery run and MOL was out in the yard. She waved him over and asked, "So, does SHE work anymore? I've seen HER car here every day." Steve replied, "Leigh Ann's a writer and she's finishing up a book, so she doesn't need to go to an office every day." "Oh," MOL replied, then turned her back and walked away.

Mean old lady. But Yay! for Mr. Sweetypants!

Melodramatic old diary entries, Vol. 2

I'm two weeks into my eight-week sabbatical. My manuscript (taken from stories on this blog) is 122 pages long, so I have a lot to do.

Trying to find inspirations and memoir stories to write, I started reading my high-school diary out on the deck. After about 10 minutes, Steve came out to ask what all shrieking was about. So I started giving him dramatic readings from my mortifying, cringe-inducing 16th year on this planet.

Here are some of the ones I can laugh at now. Most of the others leave me wondering who that pathetic, shallow girl with no esteem was who wrote in my diary. :)

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11.3.1985

I'm starting this new diary. I'm going to try to be more faithful to this diary than the last one. If anyone ever writes my story, I want it to be accurate.

11.18.1985

Today was the second anniversary of my first kiss. It seems like a lot of time and boys have passed since then. I'm so glad I have a "nice" reputation.

11.22.1985

Tonight was the first Friday night in a long time that I had to stay home. At least I got to see Miami Vice. Mama has taken to calling me "Little Witch." I don't know why.

12.2.1985

I've got to quit skipping school. Tonya came over to take me to the new Burger King. Daddy made a big deal about it and I was sooo embarrassed.

12.21.1985

Felicia, Mary B. and I got dressed up and celebrated Christmas together. It was a really nice occasion. The three of us realized we're grown up and have to enjoy life.

12.28.1985

I got a new perm today. It's a whole lot of body and I like it. I am starting to look pretty good, if I do say so.

12.31.1985

Bernie Russell, you have ruined my life. I will always love you.

1.4.1986

Finally bought "The Wall." It's so deep and inspiring. I've been writing some deep stuff about love and death -- same difference. I love Bernie.

1.28.1986

After exams, Julie and I went over to David's house. He is so fine! Julie's gonna ask him if he likes me. The space shuttle blew up today and that's pretty bad.

---------------------------

That's about as far as I could go, and believe me, I left A LOT out of this entry. The diary goes through my sophomore year in college, so when I can bear to make myself read them, future "Melodramatic diary entry" volumes will write themselves.

In the meantime, enjoy "I Hate Drake," and tell me stupid things you wrote about in your diary.

I bet I'll do something embarrassing

Last evening, as I do every Tuesday, I met my friends downtown at 5 for our weekly Board Meeting. Because I've been spending my sabbatical at home and Steve's been out of town, I was starved for human interaction and stayed at the bar longer than I usually do.

When I got home, I saw that one of my friends had sent me a gift online. "Hooray! A gift!," I thought as I clicked the link and kept clicking through to get to my gift, not reading what I was agreeing to before clicking each "Next" button. When I finally got to my gift, I saw that it was points on a social-network betting site. I'm not much of a bettor, what with all my stingy Scots-Irish blood, so I closed the window.

That's when I saw the first "out-of-office" messages start filling my inbox. To my absolute horror, I learned that one of the terms I'd agreed to was forwarding the offer to everyone in my address book. That would include my family, friends, colleagues, past and present professional contacts, ex-flames and others I've fallen out with along the way, my attorney, physician, banker, wedding officiant, a writer I wrote a fan letter to, dozens of people whose names I don't recognize and countless customer service representatives.

With my tail tucked firmly between my legs, I crafted and sent out a mass apology in an attempt to save face. Then I stayed up until two, chain-smoking on the deck and occasionally checking the "Ha ha! You're a dumbass!," replies from my friends.

After a somewhat restless night, I've found the silver lining. I've been completely blocked mentally and haven't written much lately, but my muse (that would be my own stupidity) has returned. And the blanket e-mail apology was sent from my personal account, which includes a link to this blog in the sign off.

So if you're here for the first time, welcome! Hope you'll stick around for a while and leave comments. I promise not to spam you.

No, Speed Racer, No

My Daddy is a huge NASCAR fan. My childhood memories are blotted with Sunday afternoons in the car or at home, with Daddy chain-smoking and blaring the race at man volume. The memories of that “Nee-yong, nee-yong, nee-yong” sound still makes my head hurt.

Well, I will never make fun of NASCAR again. I used to think it was not a sport, just people driving around in circles. I stand corrected.

Back in the heady boom days, I worked at a national advertising agency on the Audi of America/Canada account. Perks from vendors were unbelievably lavish back then. In the fall of 2001, because we placed so much media with them, Car and Driver/Road & Track magazines bought us five spots at the Richard Petty Driving Experience at Charlotte Motor Speedway.

This is from my diary after the experience. Someday I hope to go back and make it all past tense to match my blog style, but for now, here it is.

I drove a stock car around a professional speedway.

----------------------

Five of us McKinney girls (the one guy on the team didn't know how to drive a straight-shift) went to the Richard Petty Driving Experience today. I rode with my friends Jennifer and Laura. We took an S4 Avant, a six-speed, 250 hp performance wagon. I drove there, and we got to Charlotte in 2 hours and 10 minutes, including one smoke break in Greensboro.

Met up with the other two and our Car & Driver/Road & Track rep at Lowe's Motor Speedway at 10 AM. Got suited up, signed approximately 241 insurance release forms and watched a five-minute video, then got broken into groups for training. I was separated from my people, but it wasn't for long.

So my group of nine goes out to get into a van to go around the track. As we're filing in, the instructor tells me to get in the front, that I'm the team captain! I realized later that he was just flirting with me, but it's been a while since anybody flirted with me. We set out around the track and the first thing he points out is the flagstand. He tells us to watch the flags for information, that they are the same as in a real race. Since I was team captain, I felt it would belittle my position to speak up and say that I had never actually watched a race. He flew through the flags and what they meant for the only other woman in the group, but I was a little giddy from the flirtation.

He starts to drive around the track, pointing out markers and talking about the maneuvers required at each, but I was in awe of the sheer size of the place. We drove up to the top of a curve and stopped. He started explaining how your natural instinct is to turn away from the curve as you go up toward the wall and that you actually have to turn into it. I was looking out his side, straight down, figuring out the grade and wishing I had paid more attention in geometry.

We start to head toward pit row. He's explaining how, when we actually drive, the instructor in the pace car, who we follow out of pit row at one car length, then stick behind at four car lengths in our laps, will give us hand signals, indicating when to start slowing into the pit and at exactly which point we throw it into neutral, as we can't downshift or brake. He points out the rough lane on the inside and tells us that under no circumstances are we to drive in it, as it will cut up the treadless tires. I noticed a huge billboard, a green tree air freshener on a yellow background with the words "Little Trees" in quotes, and it amused me.

Next, our group goes for cockpit training. The instructor shows us the gauges and lights and explains what they do. He tells us to rev the engine to 2500 rpms before letting the clutch out, and to shift at 4000 until we get into fourth. The car is parked right in front of the spectator area. Some of the other students have brought friends and family to watch, and there is an employee whose job it is to tell them jokes with a very loud microphone. I laugh at some of them.

The instructor shows us how to climb into the car, as the doors are welded shut. The steering wheel is removed when the driver gets in, then pops back on. He relates an anecdote about a driver whose steering wheel came off during a race. The driver died. I am very hot in my jumpsuit and become paranoid that my deodorant will wear out. He shows us the fire extinguisher and tells us not to pull the cord unless we actually see flames.

I am reunited with my friends as we await our turns at the wheel. The first of us is #23, so we have quite a wait and I call my Daddy and let him listen to the “Nee-yong, nee-yong” sounds in the background. Stadium music is blaring on the amplifiers, and for the first time, "Who Let The Dogs Out" sounds more inspiring than inane. We girls swagger about in our butch jumpsuits and anticipate our turns at the wheel. As I listen to them talk, I become aware of the fact that I don't remember anything I have been told to do.

My turn finally comes. I crawl through the window of the car. The crew guy, Chuck, straps me in and puts cushions behind me to help me reach the pedals. This is not a car, it is a machine of gears, gauges and metal. I begin to tremble. Then I begin to babble..."How do I not spin out? Where is the flag stand? What do the flags mean? How many car lengths? How do I stop? I really do know how to drive a car. Well, not a stock car." He rapidly answers my questions and tells me "Don't worry, you can do it! Chuck says you can. Just go fast!" 

And with that, he starts the car and fastens the net window closed.
The engine roars and the sheer power of the car throbs through every part of my body. I am summoning my super-powers to break free of my restraints and jump through the net and out onto him like a cat in a bath. Chuck starts running along the car, propelling it forward, then yells "Punch it NOW!!"

The pace car is ahead of me, and on top of my horrible fear of stalling out, I fear slamming into it. I want to scream, but I have to find the rpm gauge, keep accelerating and not let out the massive clutch too fast. It hits 2500 rpm in a couple of seconds that feel like minutes, then I fly through the gears from first to fourth. As the car only has four gears, I am relieved to have one less thing to think about.

I keep my hands at 11 o’clock and four o’clock, a minute detail I remember from the van ride, although I don’t remember why these positions are important. I keep my eyes on the pace car in front of me. All I have to do is follow his path. I have to try to do everything he does, as I am being watched and judged on how well I mimic his moves.

The pace car driver goes up the bank as we’re coming into a turn. He looks as if he’s purposely aiming for the wall. My instinct is to close my eyes like I would on an amusement park ride, but my brain reminds me that I am responsible for my own life at this moment. The pace car driver sweeps down the incline to the edge of the part I remember being told not to drive on, as it will tear up the treadless tire.

The car feels like it is fighting against me, defying everything I need it to do. The car is stronger than me, and it seems determined to drift off to the right and fly away. My fingers seem looped around the steering wheel twice, hanging on for dear life. I manage not to crash, and somehow stay behind the pace car as it settles back onto a flat surface in the straightaway.

Suddenly, I am awash in blissful yellow. I see nothing but bright light. “Go toward the light, Carol Anne” flashes through my mind. Maybe I didn’t make it around that curve. Then the light is gone, and I am back in the car, fighting the car. The glare on the track is behind me now.

Up and down another turn and we approach the flag stand. The flagman is giving me a rolled up green flag. Keep going. Close up the distance from the pace car. I have passed the first test. They are giving me permission to go faster, when all I want to do is stop and go somewhere for a nice cocktail.

We speed up a little. Up the bank, down the bank. The guy in the pace car obviously has no regard for his own safety, let alone mine. My job is to stay behind him, I keep reminding myself. Then I remember that I am not being paid for this job, and that lunatic is going to get me killed. The car I am trapped in hates me and wants nothing more than to break free and take me with it. My right foot is firmly on the gas, but my left is providing the leverage for the rest of my body to pull the steering wheel to the left, keeping the car on the track.

Through the glare again, past the flagman. “Keep going and step it up,” he tells me with his green flag. Around we go again, the sadist in the pace car dragging me faster and faster into his sinister plan. As I follow his moves, I become aware of muscles in my jaw and neck that I never knew I had. My teeth are clenched and my face is twisted into a grimace I hope will force out every drop of concentration left in my brain.

By the third lap, I mentally rush through all the busy-work required in tying up my existence. I think about my nephews, my beneficiaries. The equity in my home, in addition to my 401K, may pay for books and a year’s tuition in community college for each of them.

An adrenaline rush reignites my will to live on lap five. I will stay the exact same course as the pace car, come hell or high water. He’s all over the place, I’m right there with him. There is no moment of blissful exhilaration, like driving 85 on a state highway with the sunroof open and a Social Distortion cd blaring. This is sheer survival.

For the love of God, let this end is my mantra through laps six and seven. Salvation comes through a checkered flag, although I don’t realize that at the time. The pace car driver gives me a wave. I remember the instructor in the van saying “And when he gives you the signal, he’s not waving at you, so don’t wave back,” but I don’t remember what the signal means, so I pull into the farthest inside lane. The pace car guy is flailing about, trying to tell me something, but I’m zipping along, trying to remember how to stop this crazy thing.

It dawns on me that I am driving in the tear-up-the-tire lane, so I pull back out behind the pace car. I keep tailing the pace car, although the little figure beckoning me in the distance is one lane over on the left.

We drift into the pit-row lane and I hold my breath, waiting for the concrete pad to come up. At the concrete pad, I throw the car into neutral and wait for the car to slow itself down, as I am not to use the brakes. I am quickly approaching the pit crew, and I am nowhere near being stopped.

I panic and stomp on the brakes with all my might. I approach the pit guys, expecting to roll right on by them, but they grab the car and ease it to a complete stop. Somebody unhooks the safety net and pulls out the steering wheel. I am vaguely aware of two sets of hands undoing my shackles. I want to dive through the window headfirst, so anxious am I to get out of this steel trap, but I am guided up and out. I smack my helmet on the top of the door.

My feet hit the ground. Chuck’s hand is comfortingly on the small of my back and he’s telling me I’m some sort of champion, but all I want to do is find my friends’ faces in the crowd and get to them. My muscles and bones are having a hard time reuniting, and I stagger drunkenly and blindly toward the stands. Flashes are going off. Words are flying by me and I am being patted. I want to put my head on the ground and embrace the still earth.

I reach the bleachers and throw my body down. Jennifer hands me some water, but my hands are shaking too hard to hold the cup. “Get her out of the suit,” somebody yells. My helmet is pulled off, almost taking several earrings with it. I unzip the suit and let it fall to the ground. I slink off to the stands and sit trembling and drinking water for about 15 minutes before I’m able to talk to the girls.

After all 60 people in the “experience” had their turns driving, we had a graduation ceremony. Each of us got a diploma and found out our top track speed. Mine was 129.75 mph. My girl Laura was the valedictorian with the top track speed of 140. That’s right, a girl, a badass chick beat all the boys.

We had dinner with the rep at an Alabama (the band, not the state) theme restaurant near the speedway and drove back to Raleigh. I sat in the back and let the other girls play with the performance car. I was humbled at losing and terrified to get a speeding ticket.