Michael Anthony Ranfone
Lap 142, I came up behind Emmett, his car all red and polished, Reni’s name painted small near the nose. The crew chiefs told me to keep it clean, but I never have. I hit the wall once in practice and said it was the wind. I hit Emmett on purpose. You do things like that when the world starts to feel like it’s already been decided.
Reni stood in his pit that morning with her hair tied up, smile quick, eyes on nothing. Same dress as the night she walked out on me in that bar in St. Petersburg. She said I looked good in my suit as she was signing her name on his car. I told her she should come by later, she said maybe. My phone buzzed a half hour later. Reni had sent a meme. A tire rolling off a car with the caption, Jesus take the wheel. No, not that wheel.
The chrome horn isn’t a real horn, it’s slang. A bump, a nudge, a way of saying move or be moved. I came up behind Emmett and gave him one. Just enough. His rear tires went light, the wall took him fast. Smoke, yellow flags, the spotters screaming. I kept my foot down until they told me to pit.
When they pulled me in I watched the replay on the tiny screen above the crew box. The car folded. They said he was conscious when they got to him. I told them to change tires. The fuel hissed. My hands were shaking. Nobody said anything about Reni but I could feel her somewhere, on the other side of the fence, watching, already knowing.
When the green came back I drove like I had nothing left to hide. Every corner was a decision, the air hot and thick. The marbles flying off my tires were the only thing I could see. I passed three cars, then four, then the rest blurred. When the checkered flag dropped, I didn’t even lift.
They waved me in and I let them pull me out of the cockpit. I was being born again. Cameras, noise, someone handed me the buttermilk. I drank it because that’s what you do.
The bottle was warm. I looked around. The crowd shouting my name “Conza, Conza!”, flashes everywhere, the ring of reporters pressing close. I kept scanning faces, waiting for hers. She wasn’t there. The team owner whispered something to a handler, who whispered to someone else, then came over. He said she went with Emmett. Life flight to Methodist. He said he’s stable, maybe.
The sun was dropping behind the pagoda. I wiped my mouth. Milk ran down my chin onto the fire suit. People clapped me on the back. A man asked how it feels to win. I said it feels like a long time coming.
They said the race would change my life. It already has. The wreath’s scratching my neck. The milk’s gone. I can smell it souring on my skin. I crossed a couple lines first today. Reni would rather be waiting under hospital lights than with me in the camera flashes. The reporters want words for the record, but I don’t have any.
Later in the garage, I saw the car. Scratches along the nose where it hit him. The chrome still shining. The horn they all talk about. I ran my hand over it and thought about the silence right before impact, that heartbeat where you could still choose something else.
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Michael Anthony Ranfone was born up north, raised in Florida, and writes now from South Carolina. His work appears or is forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, Maudlin House, Bending Genres, BULL, The Molotov Cocktail, Flash Fiction Magazine and elsewhere.