Author's Note

We've reached a 7 day plot hole. One day you'll be able to read all about what happened at the race, hanging out on Lake Norman the following day, flying back to Brighton and getting back into the remolding projects, but first I have to locate those elusive handwritten pages (or dream it all over again).

Suffice to say, it's all just filler. No major revelations, new characters, or significant foreshadowing. The good stuff kicks off with the next installment.

Gentlemen (Ladies, Rednecks, Waffle-bellies), Start Your Engines

Olie, being a man of his word, was up bright and early. 7:30am! I agreed to leaving at 9am which means sleeping until at least 8:30am, but apparently what Ollie didn't disclose last night was that leaving for the track meant leaving Bojangle's for the track not leaving the house for the track, which would include a stop for biscuits on the way. It's worse than dealing with my father who prides himself on being able to get one over on people purely through semantics. It is the kind of thing you can't even get upset about, because you are the fool who didn't ask the right questions upfront and assumed that you were dealing with a normal, rational human being.

Anyway, the day started out the same as any other tailgate. Luke and Olie unloaded the trucks while Janey, Beth and I got the tables and chairs set-up. By 10 am we were all settled in with our first beers, enjoying our handiwork as the American and Dale Jr. flags wafted overhead. Olie is the only person I know with a full-size portable flag pole.

Several of Olie and Luke's high school buddies showed up not long after and they all wandered off to toss the football around before the lot filled up. Beth, Janey and I sat around trading recipes and laughing at the guys as they tried to relive past gridiron glories in the middle of a sun baked grass lot.

A little while later, Red arrived with 5 shirtless friends, all sporting farmer's tans, loaded in the bed of his Tacoma. We could hear them hootin' and hollerin' from a quarter mile off. These guys are always entertaining. They are the type that always hold the door open for you, but talk about your ass as you go by; in an appreciative way.

They all piled out of the truck, cranked up some Johnny Cash and set about assembling the smoker for the "drunken" chickens. This is Red's contribution at every tailgate; chickens and the washer boards. As soon as the chickens were safely closed in the smoker the boys started playing washers, accepting challenges from all comers. There was a father and son, a couple of middle-aged good ole' boys drunker than a go-or-go-homer the morning after failing to qualify, a couple of waffle-bellies (girls who think they can find their future husband by pressing themselves against the track fence and yelling at drivers), and a chain smoking granny with her oxygen tank in tow who handed the guys a serious beating.

Somewhere around noon, a gaggle of silly little girls appeared. I say "silly" because some were wearing mini-skirts, others heels, to stand in a field drinking or sit in camp chairs showing their business. SLUTS. But they are everywhere else in the world, so why not at a race.

These girls, let's call them Slut 1, Slut 2, Slut 3, Slut 4 and Lolita, were extra special though. Sluts 1-4 bounced around annoyingly generally getting in the way and constantly whining about something or other to Red and his friends. Lolita, on the other hand, was on a mission to stir things up, and so she did.

Lolita started off as the most sensibly dressed of the group, but she soon fixed that. Her shorts were, well short, but covered everything. That is until she bent over to pick something up, and she seemed to constantly be dropping things. Soon after her butt cheeks started making their appearances, Lolita was compelled to ditch her long sleeve t-shirt. While standing inches from Olie and Red, who were taking a rare chair break, Lolita arched her barely legal back and pulled off her shirt revealing a 3 sizes too small tank top that read "SLUT" in big red letters. Lolita had been blessed/cursed by the mammary gods and was erupting from her top. Her solution was to lean down in Red and Olie's faces and shake the "girls" back into her bra.

Beth was not pleased.

It was about time to fire up the grill, but Olie was getting drunk pretty fast, so I ended up manning the grill for the endless rounds of burgers and brats. Everyone piled plates high with their meat of preference, salads, beans, chips. We had a little of everything on the table. Personally I had 2 pork sandwiches and a brat. I didn't actually get to finish any of them though. Red stole each one from my plate after I had taken a few bites.

"Seriously!! Make your own!" I boomed.

"But you already made this one just right," Red shot back.

I fussed at him each time, but there's not much you can do once Red decides to start in on you accept wait him out.

Sluts 1-4 and Lolita toned it down a bit at that point, but we soon learned that Lolita had further plans. Somewhere in the midst of all of us eating, Lolita decided to plant herself on Olie's lap. Olie who was so sauced he had given himself a timeout from the keg.

Beth was not pleased.

Then Lolita thought it would be a good idea to whisper in Olie's ear and lick the side of his face as he sat there like a deer in headlights. Specifically, his wife's.

Beth was pissed.

"Slut!" she screamed.

"Who? Me?" Lolita asked with false innocence.

"Bitch! What the hell do you think you are doing?" Beth fired back. "Who invited this whore!?"

Still on Olie's lap, and not knowing when to keep her trap shut, Lolita replied, "I'm with Red."

"Not no more," Red said as he pulled her up. "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You need to take ya'self on outta here."

Beth took a walk to cool down while Red supervised Lolita gathering her things. Sluts 1-4 had already found a more receptive audience in a group of frat boys nearby.

"But I didn't mean to upset her. I just get really friendly when I'm drunk," Lolita pleaded.

Lying little…I hadn't seen her touch a drop since she got there.

"Just let me talk to her. I'm really not THAT girl," her protest continued.

"Any girl who says 'I'm not THAT girl' IS that girl," Red interjected. "Get on up outta here!"

Beth wandered back around this point and Lolita made a bee-line for her.

"Bess! Bess! I'm so sorry," Lolita gushed. "I didn't mean to start anything. Honest I didn't!" Eyes batting the whole time.

As she reached for Beth's hand, Beth jumped back, looked her up and down exclaiming "My name is Beth, B-E-T-H, you little idiot! Don't you dare get in my face with your lies, you skank!" You could see Beth's dander rise, "I thought she was told to leave!?"

Red grabbed Lolita by the arm and drug her over to her friends and left her there, not uttering a word the whole time.

Red might be a redneck, hence the nickname, but he is also one of the most loyal people I have ever met. Red will push your buttons, six ways from Sunday, but if any one messes with one of "his people", he is the first to come to their defense. It is startling how fast he can go from country bumpkin and southern gent.

Things calmed down after that, thankfully.  

Eli's Coming

It was still early when we got to The Galway Hooker, affectionately called "the Hooker", so there were plenty of tables around when we arrived. Ben and Ollie, who seemed to be the only ones who already knew everyone, pushed several tables together while the rest of us were "passing the 'Hello'". (I stole that term from Emma, who says meeting a whole group of people was like "passing the Peace" at church. You all smile politely, greeting and wishing each other well, but barely remembering whose hand you just shook when it is all over.)

First was Seb - Seb was one of Ben's friends from college. Another legacy name: Edward Sebastian Musgrave VII, of the Charles City County Musgraves. Unlike Ben he has followed his namesakes into the family law practice, nee political training camp. Just like Ben, he had freely chosen the path in life he wanted; it was mere coincidence that it was what his family expected.

Seb's Wife - Sadie had been one of Ben's college girlfriends, who found herself more enamoured of his best friend than of Ben himself. Everyone seems happy with how it all worked out though. Sadie appears perfectly suited to be a politicians wife in her kick-pleated, pressed khaki skirt, lilac cashmere twin set, crocodile pumps and pearls, and even though this was far from standard Irish pub attire, Sadie came across perfectly comfortable and at ease in the environment.

The Twins - Elijah and Joel Wolff were also UVA buddies of Ben's and currently run the Benjamin Holitz IV empire, among other ventures. Eli handles all legal matters while Joel tweaks the numbers. Both of them seem to be constantly cooking up new schemes. Apparently in college they convinced Ben and Seb that starting their own fraternity was better than kow-towing to someone else's rules. Seems the plan has paid dividends, literally. The frat, Eta Mu Omega (HMW for short never EMO), still exists but was structured so that each chapter, currently there 33, must pay charter and member dues to the national organization, which has four members. Each chapter has to be rechartered every year at a rate of $10,000. The reason given being that constant re-evaluation of chapters and membership insures that no chapter can ever "go rogue" and disparage the memory of the founders. In addition, members must pay $300 per semester in dues.

So what does all that money get them? "An African-American, two Jews and a WASP to hang on the wall, stationary, a box of t-shirts bearing the crest, and invitations for members and their friends to "special discount vacations" (booked through Janus Tours, which is wholly owned by the twins), and discounted website hosting and maintenance through Bad Wolff Marketing (also wholly owned by the twins)" Joel explained.

What is most remarkable about the whole operation is that they formulated the entire thing aged 18 and it has remained successful for 12 years enduring collegiate inquests and IRS scrutiny. They may be the smartest guys I have ever met.

"It is a good thing you two were split in utero. All that brain power in one person would unmake the world. Gates and Murdock would be your pool boys," Olie said.

"Actually," Eli replied "we probably would have landed in an asylum from too many ideas bouncing around in the mind and no way of deciding which one to pursue first due to their equal brilliance and the fact that we would have no one to talk to, our brain being so vastly superior of that of a mere homosapien." Eli excused himself while we all continued to laugh and wandered over to the bar to 'check this evening's menu' or pick up chicks as I came to understand.

"As it is," Joel continued, "it is very hard for us to relate to you people at half strength. We are very lucky to have each other for support."

In the midst of all of this, the waitress brought over a tray of Red-Headed Hookers, the house brew, and Lemon Drops. Olie, Seb and the Twins proceeded to trade stories about Ben from prep school and college; Ben and Luke were debating engine configurations, I think, it was very technical and way over my head; which left us girls to chat about the last episode of 'Grey's Anatomy', Celebdaq and trade recipes.

We went on to argue about the points structure for the Chase, the best section to sit in that the speedway, crew chief superiority, Tony Stewart's attitude - conceited prick or victim of regional prejudice. In the midst of what was becoming a very heated discussion regarding the state of the lack of southern appreciation for the Great Lakes and Mid-West working class, particularly their straight-forwardness and dry sense of humour, Eli returned from chatting up a couple of girls at the bar. Suddenly, Joel broke conversation and grabbed Ben’s arm, looking around suspiciously.

“Eli's coming”, Joel said.

“Eli?” Ben asked. “From the Three Dog Night song?”

“Yes,” Joel replied.

“Guys! Must you always do this bit?” Seb asked.

“YES!” came back in stereo.

“Eli's something bad. A darkness,” Joel continued.

"’Eli's coming, hide your heart girl?’” Ben paused. “Eli's an inveterate womanizer. I think you're getting the song wrong.”

“I know I'm getting the song wrong, but when I first heard it, that's what I always thought it meant, and things stick with you that way.”

“Seriously! Must you run through that every time we get together?” Seb demanded.

“Of course,” replied Joel. “One, it perfectly sums up Eli - bad twin and unscrupulous playboy. Two, who doesn’t have a soft spot in their heart for the underappreciated brilliance of Sports Night?”

“Unscrupulous!?” Eli feigned offense.

It seems Joel is mildly obsessed with Aaron Sorkin. He went on to discuss similarities between Sports Night and The West Wing. Eventually, he was talking to himself, although before I wandered to other conversations it was made very clear to me that Sorkin is lucky one can’t be prosecuted for self plagiarism.

The rest of the night was spent laughing at Eli and Joel as they told the most ridiculous stories, which Ben, Seb and Sadie kept insisting were true. Like when their friendly campus pot dealer, Paco, hired Joel to do some "consulting" for him. Seems Paco thought that some of his crew were cheating him so he had Joel go undercover as "Joe-L from Little Havana" and infiltrate the crew from the bottom up, assessing the accounting controls and risk at each level. Through further consult with Eli, Paco was convinced to open a homeopathic remedy store and make his entire crew employees. Most of the guys who were skimming weren't legal, so they were eliminated and of the rest some had no interest in "going straight". Those who hired on were rewarded with the option to pick up the other guys territory or take a legitimate job with full benefits. Most chose the latter, cause as we all know, no one works for the money. We work for the employment trinity - medical, dental, vision.

After several rounds of Hookers and plenty of opportunities to laugh at the guys adolescent faux pas, except for Luke whom no one seemed to have any dirt on, we said our goodbyes. Ben and friends promised to tailgate with us for awhile before the race, but were vehemently against meeting us anytime before 1pm. This of course caused the insults to fly; crazy, fair-weather fan, fanatic, narcoleptic, insomniac, pretty-boy, redneck. We got back a little before midnight; just in time for me to finish off the.  

Charlotte Eats

Once we wrapped up, I wandered around the office saying 'Hello' to everyone before venturing down the street for an early lunch. My former neighbor, Tristan, is the owner/head chef/ring master of Mimi's. When he first opened the place six years ago, he was dating my roommate Renata and the three of us spent most of our free time together in some configuration or another.

The interior of Mimi's is my second favorite thing about the place, behind the food. Tristan hired a local artist to paint a mural across the façade over the counter and most of the rest of the walls are dark blue. The exception being the wall behind the counter which is bright orange, which I spent an entire weekend helping Tristan and his Weimaraner paint.

"Hey Loser! Didn't we get rid of you!?" greeted me from behind the counter.

"You wish dumb ass!" I bellowed back. Loser and dumb ass have been our pet names for each other since we met. No real reason behind it; it is just fun to be able to call someone names with no repercussions.

By the time I had reached the counter, Tristan had walked around and immediately pulled me into a giant hug.

"You look great,” he said low in my ear. "You need to eat," he added loud enough for everyone to hear.

I grabbed a tray, ordered a plate of chicken and dumplings, green beans, peach cobbler and sweet tea. Since it was only 11:15, there was no shortage of tables and I chose one by the windows so I could entertain myself with the passers-by. Just as I shoveled the first fork full into my mouth, Tristan sat down across from me.

"Did I catch you at a bad moment?" he asked through a sly grin.

"Damn you Cadwaladr!" I replied as soon as I was able to swallow. "I really do hate you!"

"No you don't. You only hate that you can't have me."

Tristan sat with me trading quips, making me alternately scowl and roll with laughter, as usual. Apparently, there is some face I make when I am pissed/offended that he finds infinitely amusing and takes great pleasure in eliciting from me. Once he went back in the kitchen, I finished my lunch, making sure to savor every bite of cobbler. Mmm peaches! I sat there awhile enjoying the warm October breeze before getting up to leave just as the lunch crowd started streaming in. 

Janey had taken a half day, so I wandered back to meet her at the office and head for the house to start the pork "booty" (as all of my friends have come to refer to it). Really it is just a Boston Butt that I slow roast, but one drunken tailgate, after learning what cut of meat he was eating, Olie started singing "Show me the booty, give me the booty, I want the booty…" needless to say it has become a bit of a tradition now.

I took me about an hour to get the meat cleaned, seasoned and in the oven, where it would stay for the next seven hours. Janey and I decided to walk down to Beth's for some girl chat before Olie and Janey's fiance Luke got off work.

When the guys showed up, we all loaded into Olie's Tahoe and headed over to Red Rocks for dinner. Red Rocks is my favorite restaurant in town, after Mimi's of course, and in the middle of Birkdale Village, an open-air shopping district. It was still 76˚, so we got a table out on the patio where we could properly enjoy Indian Summer. While walking through the bar to our table, "Oh my God!" boomed from behind the bar.

It was Beverly, my Monday night pal/bartender. Nearly every Monday night I would sit at the bar, order a rare burger and a few pints of Guinness and chat with random patrons while watching whatever was on ESPN that night.

"Hey Bev," I said leaning across the bar to give her a hug. "How have you been?"

"Mondays' just aren't the same. Back for the race?"

"You know it!"

"Well enjoy your dinner. Stop back by on your way out if you can."

Our table was in the perfect spot. Close enough to the sidewalk to see and hear all the teenagers, families and couple wandering by. As we were finishing our calamari steaks a light rain started, but under the patio canopy we were able to enjoy the rainy sunset, perfectly dry. We all relaxed and decompressed from the week, granted Beth and I had less to decompress from, but we needed it too. Olie and Luke started debating driver virtues; Dale, Jr. vs. Jimmie Johnson. Eventually, after Janey had to break it up, conversation shifted to the race plans.

"So, is your booty going to be ready for me tomorrow?" Olie asked. We all fell apart laughing as the older couple next to us turned crimson as they scowled and shook their heads.

"My booty will be ready for you when it is good and ready," I croaked in between laughs. "Seriously though," I continued once I had regained some of my composure, "it should be ready in plenty of time to head over to the track."

"We are leaving at 9am."

"Olie! This isn't the first time I have tailgated with you. I know how it works."

Charlotte races are always night races. Regardless, Olie always headed for the track by 9am to set-up the tailgate. A couple of easy-up tents, gas grill, smoker, folding table, coolers, kegs, the works. Even though we all know the routine inside out, Olie insisted on going over the plan while we ate dinner.

While Olie continued to instruct us all on our jobs for the morning, a familiar shadow loomed over me. Just as it’s owners’ hand reach my shoulder, Olie suddenly jumped up.

“Benji!”

“Olie!”

“What are you doing here? Down for the race?”

“You know I never miss it,” Ben replied. “How did you get suckered in by this crew? I thought you had class?” He asked me, obviously trying to incite Olie.

"These are the friends I told you about on the plane." I replied.

Janey jumped in at this point, "What!? Are you two dating?"

"No," I retorted, "I have class."

"That hurts! And after I let you sit in first class with me. Ingrate!"

Completely ignoring him, I continued, "Actually, Ben is my new stalker."

Olie asked, "Do you know what happened to her last stalker?"

"No. What? Did you run him off?"

"No."

"Beat him up?"

"No, worse."

"Kill him?"

"Do I look stupid? I couldn't survive in jail! Not with this sweetness here," Olie replied smacking his rear. "I duct taped the creep naked to a flag pole!"

The entire table erupted at this. When we all finally caught our breath, Janey said, "Don't you normally have a posse or something following you around Ben?"

"Yeah man, where's your entourage?" Luke asked.

"They're in the "VIP" room, of course. You know we can't hang with the common people. We would be mobbed, " Ben teased.

"Then what are you doing out here by yourself? Aren't you afraid for your safety?" Luke replied.

"I just wanted to make sure Thisby here wasn't being abused by you ruffians."

"I thought you were past the cheesy come-ons?" I glared

"Sorry, sorry, mia culpa, mia culpa. My real reason for coming over was to see if you guys wanted to meet us over at the hooker. I'm getting ready to head over there with Seb and Sadie and the twins," said Ben.

We all looked at Olie, eagerly awaiting "father's" approval. He seemed to seriously consider the impact this would have on the tailgating program before saying, "We can go for a little while, but just so we are clear…we are still leaving for the track at 9am. No excuses."   

Who knew work could be such fun!?

Over dinner Janey told me a bit more about how she knew Ben. Seems their families have run in the same circles for generations. Four generations back, a Denton and a Holitz sat next to each other in the Senate. More recently, Olie and Ben were at prep school together.

Janey didn’t have any real dirt, at least nothing that Emma hadn’t already revealed. There were a few anecdotes about Ben holding her under in the pool when they were kids, Ben and Olie getting busted drag racing down John Conner Rd., that sort of thing. She hadn’t seen him in years, so I shared all I had learned in Brighton.

“So, he found a way to stay in racing. His parents were sure they had won when he dislocated his shoulder playing rugby in college. I suppose driving isn’t the only way.”

I turned in early to make sure I didn't have to rush in the morning. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, my phone rang.

“Where are you?” Zara demanded.

“Charlotte. Why? What’s going on?”

“We all agreed to meet up at Killeshandra tonight, remember? Obviously not!”

She then proceeded to pass the phone around to everyone so they could all join in my beratement. My offenses ranged from being inconsiderate to a workaholic to (and to them this was worst of all) Southern. I begged forgiveness and promised to make it up to them all next weekend and rung off.

This morning was possibly the most fun I have ever had/will ever have at the deal table. I was there early since I rode in with Janey and was settled in the conference room long before anyone else arrived. Though it wasn’t planned, I knew this would completely unnerve Al and therefore her whole team. She hates not being in control of a room; assigning the seats, controlling the conversation from the moment people arrive.

Since I am all too familiar with the room, I decided to have a little fun. I moved all of the comfortable chairs to one side of the table, the side that faces a bank of windows overlooking the trolley line and with possibly the best view in town of the Bank of America Stadium. Simply because I figured, if I was going to be trapped in that room all morning I should at least have some entertainment. I moved the worst chair in the room to the head of the table were I knew Al would make sure she sat.

The investor team arrived next and we did some catching up while waiting on the others. Jeff was late, as always, and arrived talking on his cell phone and typing on his Blackberry at the same time. Al was twenty minutes late, though I am sure she will charge everyone for her time from the scheduled start of the meeting.

She came in chirping ‘Hello’ to everyone making absolutely zero eye contact, sat in her chair, ‘phoout”, leaned back, saw me and just as she started to open her mouth, the seat back gave way and she nearly flipped end-on-end out of the chair. I had to bite my tongue and pinch myself at the same time to halt my laughter. I know, I’m going to hell.

The meeting went well, much shorter than Al’s norm. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that her chair said ‘phoout’ every time she shifted her weight, all 93 pounds. Maybe it was the sound of nails on a chalkboard that came from the wheels of the chair every time she pushed back to use the whiteboard. It also could have been that there was finally someone on the other side of the table who knew all of her tricks and beat her to them.