the Racetrack

A good friend of mine works the NASCAR circuit in security. Robert asked me if I would like to come to the race in Charlotte, North Carolina and work with him for a few days. His company was a man short and although I don’t know anything about the sport of racing, I thought it would be an interesting experience… it was…

I pulled onto the main thoroughfare which led to the Charlotte Motor Speedway and was assaulted by the sight. It felt like the Super Bowl. There were signs with tickets for sale… there were tents with t-shirts and hats blowing in the breeze. Hanging banners of different colors seemed to sew together the tents and tables set up on the sides of the road… the music from dozens of speakers and stereos along with the bombardment of the sites put my senses on high alert.

In the distance I could see the racetrack… the complex was much larger than I expected. Before I entered the main gate I passed the entrances to a dirt track and a drag strip. The traffic was heavy and everywhere you looked, there were cars parked in parking lot fields, campers set up with people moving around them and people moving in and out of the streets like ants… it was a NASCAR carnival… and the first race was three days away.

There were RVs of every color and size… some with beautiful automatic awnings and some with blue tarps tied on the sides for shelter from the sun. I could make out the words on the shirts and hats on the sea of fans moving through the acres of staked claims of personal territories… clean white shirts with brilliant blues and reds with the numbers of drivers… slanted number 3s and 88s. There were names of drivers that I had heard of and most that I had not... but, each race fan wore them proudly.

I met up with Robert… I learned for the first time that he was known here as Young Bob. He led me to the place I would be watching for the next few days. It was very near one of the main gates into the track. As we drove toward my tent, a very large carnival type tent, we passed familiar names posted on other displays. Some displays were similar to the carnival attraction buildings… their metal structures pinned together under awnings that read Verizon and Ford or Toyota… there was Bank of America and Nationwide. They were all there…

Every beer and liquor company, along with tobacco companies had a stake on space near the track. The hum of carnival sounds filled the air… sounds of generators and loud speakers… the aroma of fried foods and the sight and sounds of scores of golf carts moving in all directions…

When the race is on… the sponsor tents and the concessions shut down. The young girls with their tans that hand out trinkets and advertising give-aways melt into the crowds… and that is where our work begins. My job was to make sure that my area was protected from wondering fans who may want to take a souvenir or touch the Jeff Gordon race car I was entrusted with.

The nights were long and I quickly remembered the Jeep was not designed for long road trips… and especially not designed for comfort. Let’s just say I was very happy to get home and into a hot shower after so many nights and hours in the open night air. It was just as Robert told me it would be… like camping, but camping inside of the carnival… where nature was the people around me.

There are people who travel around the country and feed off of the races… they are the traveling construction workers who set up all of the exhibits… some are very elaborate. They move in and out of tractor trailers with displays, golf carts, tents, generators and equipment.

There are detailers who have one purpose… to keep the vehicles, the campers, the tractor trailers and the equipment looking like new. We gathered in small groups and I listened to their stories of Talladega and Vegas… of Darlington and other cities and tracks spread out over the country. They talked with accents from the west and from the north… and from the southeast… they talked behind cigarette smoke and unshaven faces.

There are food vendors with first names like Skinny and Pete who haul their hot dog and funnel cake trailers behind worn out pickups… or behind shiny new four wheel drives. They can pack up in a matter of minutes and be ready to drive the eight hundred miles to the next race.

There are the souvenir trailers that shine in the sun with chromed wheels and race car driver’s photographs on the sides of them… selling die cast replicas and hats and t-shirts. They sell coolers shaped like race cars… the sell key chains and sun glasses… each one proudly displaying a name or a number of a race car. Each driver has its own semi truck display. They line up in the half mile stretch of road known as souvenir alley…

There is a man who drives from race to race, for seven months out of the year and cleans the chromed wheels of the semi trucks and trailers. He is a grumpy man… everyone knows him and his aging yellow lab. He drives an older custom van that has seen too many miles. It carries a small generator that is strapped to the back bumper which runs a small air conditioner that is cut into the back door. He cleans the rims all day and at night is paid to sleep beside the Tums display.

We all are congregators of the night… when it is quiet and calm. Pat works the Toyota display… Al watches over Nationwide while Young Bob is down at Verizon. Sherri is near her camper at the Army display. We listen for the straying fan… we watch the clean up crews march through the night streets around two AM. They surround us like lines of stalking cats and pick up trash in large black plastic bags.

Flashes of light come from within the racetrack and draw your attention… sound checks on make-shift stages throughout the area break the silence created by the heavy air. The sounds of footsteps alert the ears and the eyes… eyes that tire from lack of sleep.

It’s a world within… a traveling city that feeds off of itself. It’s a world that hides in the night and attracts its followers during the day… it comes to its fans like a storm… a storm of light and music… a storm of chrome and race cars. Behind the city… in the alleys and in the tents are the people who put it together and take it apart. Most of them are only seen at night… at night with the tired smiles of years and of miles…

                                                                                                Shannon R Killman

the Dim Light

I sat with an old friend today… in his home… in his resting place. He didn’t greet me at the door this time. He sat in his favorite chair… the leather held him from all around.

He was thinner than before. He smiled with purpose, but his eyes were tired. I felt his effort. His clothes seemed too heavy for the season as they folded themselves around his frame… but I understood.

I shook his hand and patted his leg to let him know that I was the same… the smiles and laughter I carry with me fell into the room with us. The television was on, but the volume was low… too low to hear, but too loud to ignore. So we glanced occasionally in silence together to see the shapes move across the screen… in the quiet and in the dim light.

I felt comfortable enough to ask him the questions of my heart. I wanted to know how he felt at this time in his life. How he wanted to spend his time and how the world saw him in his time. He did not shy from the answers. He said he was relieved to say the words… the words he did not know how to express without someone asking for them. So I listened… and he talked…

He misses his daughter… his daughter who is beautiful and fills the room with her energy... his daughter that wraps her arms around him and hugs him like she won’t let go. He wants to know her dreams. He wants to feel her emotions. He misses his sweet baby that grew up before he could catch his breath. He misses the quiet nights holding her hand in the mist of the summer… a summer by the ferris wheel she may not remember…

He knows the truths of his time… and he waits. He waits in good spirit and smiles the polite smiles to friends and family who tell him tales of the future that he knows he will not see… but he waits. I will wait in his time with him… beside his chair and in his home… in the dim light of his life...

                                                          Shannon R Killman

Library in my Mind

I went to the library in my mind today… to find a book to read, in a quiet place… in my time…

I found a familiar volume… its binding was strong. The fine leather was clean and polished. The gold foil embossing looked new and crisp.

I sat, at rest, and began to read… the story of you…

There were many chapters… I skipped ahead to a recent chapter and then flipped back to earlier times. The characters were full of color. I found adventure. I found drama. I found history.

There were twists and turns… there was sadness and there was joy… it read like an adventure. It read like a drama and it read like a comedy… each chapter led my mind through a lifetime of memories…

I came to the end… but the adventure was not over. The last pages were empty and clean. The story will evolve and the story will continue... 

I placed it on the shelf with my other books. I displayed it in front. I will return to it… I often return to it… to read from life’s memories and to feel the emotion of its pages…

                                                Shannon R Killman

on Prom Night

All of the plans had been made… the dresses had been shopped for, under the supervision of doting mothers, and the tuxes had been ordered. Every hairdresser in town had filled their schedules with appointments for the perfect hair style.

You could feel the stress in the air… and the anticipation. The florists had extra hands in the back of the shops, tying wrist bands with beautiful orchids and greenery. The aroma in the showroom was confusing to the senses… a mix of so many perfumed works of nature’s art. There were the last minute phone calls to the restaurants, confirming reservations. There were trips to the mall for just the right shoes and just the right jewelry.

All of the plans were complete and the night of the Senior Prom was here. I watched Cody inspecting his tux. He fingered through the little zip lock bag of metal buttons and cufflinks. We adjusted his one size fits all suspenders that tucked neatly under his handsome vest. I crowded behind him under the curiosity of the younger children… there was a rhythmic motion as little hands smoothed out creases and pulled at his dressy jacket. I folded and tucked at the back of his collar while he looked in the large mirror through all of the activity. He asked me if it was hot in the house and I smiled as I told him he was probably nervous.

All of the parents and the young graduates gathered at a beautiful lake home. The sun was dipping in the sky and our children wondered in small groups… nervous and on the edge of discomfort with all of the attention put upon them. They were indulgent of us… they let us smooth the wrinkles of their clothes… they let us touch and pat at their hair and adjust their ties… they allowed us to tell them where to stand and how to pose. We, the parents with our cameras, directed them like they were young beyond their years… and they happily moved and crowded together… they smiled and laughed as we led them through the beginning of their evening… I was amazed at their patience…

The young men tugged at their collars and complained quietly about their shoes while the young ladies adjusted tufts of hair and re-applied shimmering lipstick. They stacked themselves into the limo with last minute words of advice and reassurances from us… everyone had enough money… everyone was comfortable and everyone had their phones with them… and they drove away from us as we watched with our memories in the spring evening air.

The calendar tells me it has been thirty years since I was in their shoes… how can it be? We stood together… the parents… without our babies. I watched the silence in the faces of mothers and fathers… I felt their thoughts. We had been there just yesterday… a yesterday that I hope they too will feel in some distant spring day… on prom night.

                                                               Shannon R Killman