Lane Frost and Pow Pow Power Wheels

Lane Frost and POW, POW, Power Wheels:

The final installment of Draco to Tiny Race Cars

Sadly I can only keep going in this series of horrible dates for so long before people stop reading them. So I will conclude this series with a really heavy heart that British chick must have felt when she wrote the final Harry Potter. The slight difference is that she made billions of dollars and so far not even my two readers have sent me a dollar; so my dear two readers I love you dearly… but a bitch has gotta eat. Capiche? Seriously I could use a care package of more Guinness and some Reese’s Peanut Butter cups… the little ones. Do NOT send the big ones. Those big ones are like seeing those big areolas on boobs in porno; they just are a big disappointment. 

Especially after a life full of Barbie dolls, I guess I always assumed the dark spots on my chest would fall off when they became boobs. Let us not even talk about my knowledge of schlong. Don’t act all shocked that I have seen a porno or anything. It isn’t my fault I am not a prude; my mom made me say shit and it sort of snowballed out of her control at that point. 
 
Bet she didn’t see that coming! You can’t un-ring a bell. At age 14 was when it really got interesting. You know ten years ago; back in the extremely awesome 1990s. I am getting off-topic here.
 
I had this friend who we shall call Trucker. Trucker is a special case; he is kind of lonely and socially inept. Reminds you a lot of Forrest Gump; lovable but not the sharpest crayon in the box if you catch my drift. He called one night and asked if I wanted to go do something. I had recently broken up with whatever tool bag I happened to be filling my Day Timer with at the moment, for my two readers… I know one of you is kind of old, Kelso, so let me refresh your memory Day Timers were what we used after Calendars and Filofax’s and before Palm Pilots and now Smart Phones and tablets. Basically back when life was a whole lot easier and the government could not monitor EVERYTHING you do. Again, off-topic.
 
Tucker calls, I am free and just happen to be bored enough to go wherever it is that Tucker mumbled he wanted to go. He comes by the house because he knew where I lived; he does that. Like food in your teeth, Tucker just shows up wherever you happen to be. It is actually kind of a talent he has. Now yesterday I told you about Busted Up Truck Guy. 

Trucker’s uh… truck was one of those “vintage” trucks that had never even heard the word restoration mentioned blowing in wind around it. This particular truck which he has driven as long as I have known him… since my senior year of high school. We all called it Ol’ Red.
Red’s value went up and down with the prices of scrap metal. It was a simple rust bucket held together by the grace of God and duct tape. Sweet tea and baby Jesus, duct tape… I could never manage to open the door so Trucker always had to come over and perform some kind of special beating to get the door open. Once inside you had to arrange yourself carefully so as to avoid the rusty spring sticking out of the bench seat and the six-inch hole in the floorboard. You could see freaking pavement through the thing. The spring at least kept him from trying some amorous move thing he saw on television.
 
We end up at a bull ride. I love bull rides; for the usual reason.. I like to see some arrogant, jackass, cowboy who thinks he is the next Lane Frost get thrown off the bull straight out of the chute. Then see the bull run his ass over. In case I have not mentioned it I have dated a few bull riders. I know their breed. This bull ride, however, was what we call here “Mexican Rodeo”. White people do not generally go to these events.
My Spanish is still pretty hopeless so I did not know what was going on. I did recognize the surprise on the Hispanic faces as we entered. My ass was wrapped in my tightest Wranglers (Laugh all you want I made those jeans look good) and I suddenly felt like the only woman in the “arena”. 

I was the only woman in the damn arena. The place, Trucker told me, was called the “The Chicken Coop”. Two of Trucker’s friends would be meeting us and he was talking one in particular up pretty good. I could smell a set up like road kill skunk on a hot day.

Trucker’s friends arrived and we will call them collectively Slim Jim. The reason is that I think they may have been conjoined twins. I did not ask to see their people/skin bridge, so it is one of those things that now keep me awake at night. Damn it.
 
Trucker’s friend Jim of the Slim Jim combo sat next to me. Sweat Hog does not begin to cover it. Here I am stuck between Trucker and Slim Jim and maybe 500 Hispanic people, in an old industrial chicken coop that some genius decided to empty fill with dirt and a fence and put a chute at one end. The fans in the coop apparently did not function and the organizer of this event had not paid for more than electric lights. To say it was a bit warm inside the coop would be an understatement … not really helping Jim out… Slim either if they were conjoined as I suspected they were.  

Jim had on a black felt cowboy hat, which is fine, but I don’t recommend those to anyone who sweats a lot. It leaves a salt ring. Sweat was pouring out from underneath his hat; Trucker had just put in the largest scoop of dip (chewing tobacco) I had ever seen. He literally looked like Bubba from Forrest Gump.



I can deal with smokers as I used to smoke myself. Dip is not something I understand and Trucker he did not manage the dip well at all, so it just ended up in his teeth all over his mouth like he’d been chewing on coffee grounds. I overlooked this because Trucker is sweet like a puppy or that stray cat that has fur missing, you just feel sorry for him. The bull riding starts… and Slim Jim asks if I would care for a beverage. I had seen a little cart outside that smelled delicious and usually, they have at least a grape soda. Or as we say in the south “coke” “what kind?”, “Grape”. 

That’s not what Slim Jim meant. He produced a liter bottle of coke that had been emptied and refilled with beer… or pee, I did not partake. It was warm and had been tucked somewhere between Slim Jim. They just stuck a straw in it and the two of them sipped on it throughout the event.
 
When we finally left I am pretty sure I smelled like sweaty, chicken shit. I also had to walk through the spit pile from Trucker’s dip habit. I was dragging my feet in the gravel and grass all the back to Ol’ Red. Slim Jim tried to give me his number; I told him I would see him around and that Southern Ladies do not accept numbers from gentlemen. Thank God for not counting that lie against me… or perhaps He has?
Trucker starts home and stops by a piece of property and says that it had been stolen from his family. It was close enough to my house that he said if it had not been stolen we could be neighbors. For about the 37^th time that night, I prayed, “Dear Baby Jesus, thank you. THANK YOU. “ 



Trucker pulled up in front of my house it was still pretty early. The weather was nice; it was late April or something. So we just sat in my driveway and I let Trucker talk. Then he started crying; to be more accurate sobbing. Not sure what to do I reached across the safety barrier spring of possible tetanus infection and patted him on the shoulder. What do you do when a guy starts sobbing and snot is running down their face and you happen to notice that it is actually cleaning his face? 

The thought of giving him my handkerchief made me feel ill. I suggested we step out of the truck and let Trucker get some air. For four and a half hours I listened to my friend Trucker tell me all about his life and sob all the way through it.
I found an old bandana in the trunk of my car and I gave it to him for keeps, hopefully, he started carrying it on outings with females. He was still wiping his nose on his shirt sleeve. To his credit though he never once, “farmer hankied” in my driveway; maybe he knew I would find that way too nasty and leave. It is a real thing Google that shit… I am not going to explain it. 
 
I was not sure how long it would take, or how long it was appropriate to sit with a sobbing man in your driveway. What were my neighbors going to say? Damn it this guy was going to keep me from making Cotillion. Shit.
What do you do? I patted his shoulder… weren’t guys not supposed to cry for hours? I thought that was something girls did after a bad breakup with a tub of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup ice cream and a DVD of The Notebook. His story and life did actually suck so I listened to his sob talk as best I could. In the end, once he had calmed enough I brought him some damp cold paper towels and let him pat his face… um cleaner. 

Trucker is a great human being I should tell you that. He has bailed me out a couple times. I just do not like to try and talk to him. Normal social graces do not apply here. IF you were to ask him how he was doing, he is one of those people that actually think you want to know. Not just making a passing comment. So the normal “hi how are you” type stuff turns into a 45-minute explanation of how his latest dog ran off. Either way great soul, just not all there; I avoid eye contact if I see him first. 
 
This next bit is an edited version of a blog I wrote several years ago… it was on my MySpace blog page… yeah a while ago. So this is the grand finale of this four-part series… Anything underlined is commentary I am inserting now. 

I went on the worst date ever last night. I am not looking for anything serious, right away, but dinner and a movie is nice; talking with someone other than my parents and a poop-breathed dog is really enticing. Besides, who knows I may find something I want to be serious about? Life is weird like that.


So I have recently been on a couple dates with a couple of guys, but nothing to write home about. (And yet I am sitting here wrapping up a series of Hell Date tales, this one was one of my first attempts at online dating.) This guy, we will call him... Tomas... seemed really great! He lived in a great neighborhood and drove a nice car. Has had a steady job for years. (at least that is what he was saying.) We could talk really easily, nothing was off limits; politics, sex, drugs, music, whatever. I enjoyed his "phone company". So I agreed to meet him at something I had never tried before.... an Arena Race. If you really care to know about half-scale mini NASCAR's running on a 1/10th of a mile banked aluminum track here:

These people are serious.

The only thing that I  could think when I saw them was "Pow, Pow Power Wheels!"
Tomas was an official for this company that runs the races on the weekends, that is it isn't his day job.(so he said) When we discussed my coming out to the race he made it sound like we would be able to talk and have some moments together. Little did I know… Wait… Let me backtrack a moment if I can. Warning if you are a guy and want no knowledge of what all a girl goes through to get ready to look fabulous... stop reading here...
I wanted to look and feel good for this date. So I went all out. I painted my toes red. I trimmed and groomed and waxed and shaved and painted and powdered and all kinds of stuff that women shouldn't have to do. But I did. I wanted to feel good and pampered. Not that he was going to see any of that stuff, but it is nice to feel good about yourself.

Okay, so I look good. I get there he meets me out front, takes me down the side of the arena into the back door, and gets me a seat up "behind the box" where he sits. That actually meant behind the yellow caution tape strung around some seats. He then leaves, disappears is more accurate. I am starving... I have no idea where I am in the arena. I can figure this out of course... I am not a moron. But I don't know if I need a ticket to get back up here without him or what the hell is going on. I text him... 

"Is there food here? I am starving" 

He says something like yeah down on the main level. Go get yourself some. I was thinking no asshole that was a hint. I had to pay to park, remember? The least he could do with his stupid “official” shirt is go get me some damn fries and a coke. I tell him via text because of course, I have no clue where the hell he is, that I don't know where I am, where the main level is, or if I need a ticket to get back up to these seats. I will just wait. All I get in response is LOL. WTF? You are laughing at my feeling lost, (really cold), hungry, and ALONE. So I start texting my best friend S.

I tell her I don't know about this one. I tell her he is shorter than me. He didn't mention he was shorter than the posted height on his profile of 5'8". He could not have been more than 5'6" if that. He came up to my boobs; which works out just fine for him; but not so much for me. He never mentioned he was balding. When he said "stocky" it was a euphemism for "I have a huge beer gut". I decided I would overlook all of that. I liked this guy over the phone, and that none of those physical things really matter, I am no Angelina Jolie... But damn be upfront with me, I am upfront with you. After 30 minutes of me sitting alone.... he comes back. I think oh good; now we can talk. Wrong. Just WRONG.

I sit a row behind him. 7:00pm he stands up in front of me.... with headphones on running around talking to people and more standing in front of me. This made it difficult to see or figure out what might be going on. I did not mind him blocking the view that I had enjoyed all night, of the large handlebar mustachioed gentleman's ass crack, so bonus there.

Occasionally he would look back at me and raise his eyebrows and smile or something stupid. I sent him a couple of text messages; he would just look back at me. The race went on forever. They had an "intermission" I thought well we can go out for a smoke or something. (This was a time before I had yet to break my habit) 


This was not to be, he disappeared again, like some sort of wizard. So I am left to sit by myself… Still hungry…. I am starting to think of leaving. I decide to wander down to find food, thinking if they don't let me back up it was his fault and I would leave. They let me back up. Fate I guess. Hell, no one even stopped me. This had to be Karma for not being more comforting to sobbing Trucker.
At the end of the race about 9:15pm, he looks at me and says I have to go turn in my headphones I will meet you out front in five minutes. I say okay... I am parked at... blah, blah, blah. I walk outside. Smoke a cigarette. Stand by my car. It is getting really freaking cold, I get in my car. I call another guy I had started talking to just to touch base. We talked for maybe five minutes. I get another text saying something else came up give him five more minutes. 

Okay. Here I am in my car, low on gas, freezing, at (what was) Cricket arena in the worst neighborhood possible for a white girl ALONE after dark. 

At 9:50pm I am on the phone with my best friend S. I figure someone should fucking witness my murder. He still hasn't come around or called or sent up smoke signals or anything. I tell her I want to leave. She says uh... duh LEAVE. I try calling him, no answer. I leave a message saying I had to run and get gas, not sure what happened to him. I called after I was done pumping gas... no answer. I called when I got home... no answer. I would like to have given him a piece of my damn mind. I have no idea what happened or how I ended up getting blown off by a man who owns a stupid Chihuahua, named Princess. Deal Breaker.