Page 184 of Trading Paint
Most of my time there in Charlotte that week was spent with sponsorship obligations.
On Wednesday night, I had a meet and greet at the Ford dealership in downtown Charlotte that Alley attended with me. Being my publicist, we rarely spent much time apart. We both hated this by the way. She couldn’t stand me and I personally thought she was a fucking bitch.
The meet and greet had the usual crowd of garage groupies, the girls who were in their early teens and wore enough make-up to appear almost twenty. Then there were the pit lizards with their tits hanging out of their tops and jeans so tight I was sure the seam popped their cherries and finally there were the older ladies who followed me faithfully to every race and applauded my every move regardless if I called another driver an “asshole” on national television.
Then you had the corporate assholes who hung around for the free tickets to the races and a chance at taking home a pit lizard. They were almost harder to stomach than the actual pit lizards because they thought they were my best friend.
Walking toward the table, the lights seemed brighter than before, the crowd appearing larger. When they introduced me and I stepped forward to sit in front of them, the room erupted in cheers and clapping.
Putting on my game face, I smiled politely for them, taking time to sign everything they pushed toward me, speaking melodiously to the women.
I’ll tell you something about this, not that I agreed with it but flirting with them did wonders for merchandise and product sales.
And who pushed merchandise/product sale? That’s right, sponsors. They paid me to be available to sell their product so this meant sellingmyself. As wrong as it felt, it was another part of the puppet game.
I knew encouraging them was wrong because I had absolutely no intention of playing along with whatever ideas they had concocted but sometimes it was just easier to go along and smile. If anything, it made the sponsor happy if let’ssaythat one girl who I spent a few minutes talking to, left and bought a few t-shirts and then her boyfriend, pressured by her, bought shocks from Simplex. That’s what Simplex provides the sponsorship for.
So even though I had no intentions with them, it was just business.
Even with all these women throwing themselves at me, I had no desire to leave with them.
It had been since last April that I’d been with a woman physically and though the need was there, the desire simply wasn’t. I didn’t find them interesting any more. Some peeked my interest yes, because these pit lizards ran around the track dressed in barely anything, but that was as far as it went. Why did I feel this way? I can only assume because Sway is what I wanted. When I looked at other women, I pictured what Sway looked like.
Even with all those frivolous one-night stands, I can’t remember one of them.
I remember every touch and every kiss with Sway. For a long time I felt like a line had been drawn in the sand between us, telling myself: “No way you’re crossing that.”
But as determined as I was to keep from crossing it, the destructive combers curtly toppling over my line, swallowing my will from beneath me.
I was left with my tenacious side just as equally determined to say: “What line?”
I was up earlier than I needed to be, a consequence of both traveling and nervous excitement of the Winston Open. I loved races like this when I could just let loose and race.
Normally on a race weekend, you wouldn’t find me in the garage area any other time apart from qualifying and practice runs. Usually I had too many other engagements. Not today, it was Friday, the day before the Winston and I had nothing for the morning or afternoon. Wanting to burn some energy, I went for a run around the track and then headed to the garage.
A few teams were in there but it was mostly calm. Nowhere near what it was like during practice sessions.
Sitting down on a pair of scuffs, I examined the new springs we were testing out. I have no idea how long I stared at those springs, clearly I was thinking about the spring rates or weight distribution, as I should be. My mind was a maelstrom of questions, thoughts and observations. Eventually, my attention was grabbed by my mom opening the door to the garage.
I don’t know if my mom is similar to everyone else’s but she had this way of always knowing if something was wrong with me, like right now.
“Have you ever stopped to think that maybe she feels the same way?”
“She doesn’t.” I was only lying to myself. I knew she felt that way.
“Have you ever asked her?”
“No.”
“Well than you don’tknow.”
She was right. I didn’t know for sure that she did or didn’t feel that way. But now, with Charlie being sick, that changed everything. It didn’t matter any longer. All that mattered was...well, I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell you. That’s what had me so confused.
“You can’t change your situation Jameson, or hers. But youcanchange how each of you are dealing with it. That’s within your power and always has been.”
We eventually started walking back to my motor coach when I caved. “I can’t breathe.” I told her falling against the couch. My hands in my hair, my eyes falling closed at the admission.
“I know. I’ve seen this coming for years.” She said amiably rubbing my back with slow strokes just as she did when I was younger to calm me. “You need to tell her how you feel.”
