Page 138 of Trading Paint
“Yes, paper.”
Tommy looked more confused than me at what just occurred until Emma found us.
“Hey,” Emma smiled. “Jameson is looking for you.”
“What’s paper?” we both asked Emma noticing the pass around her neck was a hard plastic like a credit card.
“Oh, some passes are temporary so they’re paper. They only get you in this weekend. If you have a hard pass, like this one,” she held the pass up. “It gets you into every race. You don’t have to stand at the credential sign in. You just walk right in after you show them the pass.”
That made sense but why did that woman make a big deal out of it. I was only here for the weekend. Naturally, I wouldn’t need a hard pass.
“Is that some sort of status thing among women?” I asked Emma as we walked back to the compound area.
“I’ve heard it is. Most of the drivers bring girls to the races and give them paper passes for the weekend. Some of the wives and girlfriends around here believe you’re just a pit lizard with a pass until you get the hard card. They’re expensive so obviously a driver doesn’t just shell them out to just anyone and the owners are the only people authorized to purchase them.”
“So she thinks I’m a pit lizard?”
“Pretty much,” Emma replied like this was no big deal. I was less than pleased but when you think aboutit,I guess I was kind of a pit lizard these days. Sure, I wasn’t trashy like most of them but I didn’t follow Jameson around like he was the mythical idolized creature he was to me.
Pathetic.
Tommy laughed when we entered the motor coach mumbling something about me being a pit lizard. He didn’t get to finish his sentence though. My fist in his stomach ensured that.
I did a little more observing into those so called, “Plastic Passes” the women seem preoccupied with and found out there were two different passes as Emma indicated that either the wives or the girlfriends wore. If the woman was a permanent fixture in the driver or team’s life, they got a hard plastic pass that had their name, picture and what team they were with.
I wasn’t sure what that chick wanted when she asked me if I was his girlfriend and then observed my pass but these last few days I was constantly being asked if I was his girlfriend by the other driver’s girlfriends and wives. I gave them all the same answer, “Just friends” when I wanted to say “Touch him and die.”
The whole pass thing was enough but really, did everyone have to constantly ask and then stare at the paper pass around my neck? Talk about a bunch of superficial bitches.
The night before the race, Cal fixed dinner for everyone. Grandpa Casten had showed up, which made life interesting to say the least.
Jameson had been a little fidgety with everyone around, but he did well as long as I held his hand. This didn’t go unnoticed by old Casten either when he elbowed Jameson in the side as we sat outside the motor coach.
“Taken the old dermal tool to the crankcase huh?” he smiled nudging his shoulder with his elbow.
I choked on my beer, as did Jameson.“Grandpa!”
“Hey, back in my day...” he paused for a moment and then smiled. “Hell, I don’t remember what I was going to say.”
“I think that’s enough whiskey for one night there dad.” Jimi suggested removing the flask from his hand. Casten grumbled for a moment but I think he knew he’d hadenough,he was starting to fall asleep.
“What a de...mal?” Lane asked looking up at Jameson who was holding him.
Jameson snickered, Alley slapped the back of Grandpa’s head and Spencer choked on his beer. Little Lane was almost three now and askedlotsof questions. Last night, he asked Jameson why he was an asshole. Jameson had no response I might add.
“You know back in my day...” he paused. He did that a lot and most of the time he forgot what he was even saying when he spoke again, as you can see.
“When was that grandpa? Back when they still had wagons?” Spencer said with a smile knowing damn well this would piss him off. “Now tell me, when was it that they went to a rubber tire as opposed to wood?”
“Oh fuck you Spencer.” He grumbled and then spilt his coffee Jimi gave him down the front of him.
“Are you nervous?” Emma asked Jameson while he fumbled with the hem of his shirt. He hadn’t said much tonight and as of yet, no one had called him an asshole.
“No,” he answered adjusting Lane, who had just fallen asleep on his lap. “It’s just a race.”
“You’re lying.” Spencer chuckled across from him. “It’s the Daytona 500. You’re probably shitting your pants right now.”
“Like I said...it’s just another race.” Jameson replied stretching his long legs out in front of him to lean back in the camping chair he was slouched in. “And I’m notshittingmy pants.”
