About this time I looked up to see a guy looking at us. He was maybe in his early twenties, not real tall, but thin and wiry-looking, with dark hair and an expression that on first glance seemed to say that he’d as soon slug you as say hello to you. "Can I help you?" I heard Frank say.

"One of you guys Frank Blixter or Spud McElroy?" he said.

"I’m Frank Blixter," he replied.

"Pops Wohlstetter over at the track office said you guys were looking for a driver."

"Not just any driver," Frank replied. "I’m looking for someone that’s careful with his equipment as well as fast and safe. You been racing long?"

"Couple years, since I got out of the Navy," the guy replied. "I’m kind short a car right now. Got it wrecked a couple weeks ago, then there was a fire. The car’s wiped out. Wasn’t my fault, though."

"What happened?"

"Just got caught in the middle of a big pileup in the first turn, there wasn’t anyplace to go. I spent all winter and all my spare cash building that car and then only got to race it twice."

I glanced up at Frank, wondering what his reaction would be. I figured that the guy had gotten off on the wrong foot, but I thought he might have changed the initial impression with his last sentence. I could just about see the gears turning in Frank’s head. "What kind of car was it?" Frank said.

"A modified, a ’37 Ford," the guy said. "Looked real sweet, too."

"Ever won much?"

"Half a dozen heats, never a feature," the guy said. "It was the first time I ever dinged a car bad."

"You ever drive a midget?"

"A guy let me fool around with his once. It wasn’t exactly a front runner, but it was kind of fun. I liked the way it handled."

"You come with a name?" Frank asked.

"Delmer Braithwaite," the guy said. "They usually call me ‘Dink’."

I could see Frank turning those gears in his head some more. "Well, Dink, usually I’d want you to talk to Spud too, but since he’s not here I guess that’ll have to wait. Mel, would you take Dink over to the 53 car and show him about it while I go get you a helmet?"

"If you don’t mind, I’ve got a helmet of my own I’d rather use."

"Go get it," Frank said. "I want to see it before you get out on the track."

"Be right back," Dink said, and headed for the empty grandstands on the far side of the track.

"Just out of curiosity, what do you think?" Frank asked me.

"There’s more to that guy than meets the eye," I told him without even thinking about it. "He looks like he’d be at home in the middle of a bar brawl, but he doesn’t seem to have the attitude that would go with that face. I didn’t hear one cuss word out of him."

"You know, you’re right," Frank nodded. "I hadn’t noticed that, and it sort of makes me wonder. Most of the guys I hire come to me from some dirt track we stop at. You never know whether you’re getting a pain in the ass that the track owner is trying to get rid of, or what. I could name a couple we got now that are only hanging on until I get a full slate of drivers again. If Dink acts like he can drive decently, I’ll ask around about him a bit tonight. Mel, I’ve got to go take a leak and find a soda. When he comes back, take a look at his helmet. If it’s a racing helmet, not a football helmet or something, go ahead and show him about the 53. How to start it, like that. If I’m not back, tell him to run ten or twelve laps, taking it easy at first. Then maybe I’ll have you go out and run with him a bit."

Frank wasn’t back by the time Dink was back with his helmet, so I took him over to the 53 car and explained about it a bit. It was the same kind of things Spud had told me about yesterday, how the car was different from most midgets in that it had a starter, a clutch and transmission, and like that. I checked the gas – someone had filled it since last night – and then had him get in, belt in, start it up and go out and run for ten or twelve laps.

He was just getting going good when Frank joined me back at the 66 car. "How about the helmet?" he asked.

"Looked like a racing helmet to me," I told him. "Not that I’d necessarily know or not."

"Yeah, I’ve got to remember that you’re just learning this stuff. Well, if you’re a teacher you know that the best way to learn this stuff is to teach it. What did you think of him?"

"Seems all businesslike," I told him. "Not nervous or anything, but somehow I think it would be hard to tell on him."

"Yeah, you’re probably right," Frank nodded. We stood back watching Dink run, first on the gentle side, then getting into it. Neither of us said anything until Frank commented, "Well, he knows how to power slide, which I something I had to teach you."

"He’s about had to have done this more than I have," I told him.

"Yeah, but you learn damn quick," Frank smiled. "I already told Spud to have you run as much as you can, doubling you up when we’re short drivers. You can stand the experience."

"The more the better," I told him.

"He seems to be going pretty good," Frank replied thoughtfully. "I know you’ve just finished washing the 66, so go hop in the 27 and get it warmed up. I’ll tell him to let you get in front of him and try to pass you. Try to not make it too easy for him. After a few laps, wave him by and try to pass him."

"I better take a few with the 27 myself, just so I know how it handles, in case it feels any different than the 66."

"Good thinking, Mel. Better get going."

I hustled over to the equipment trailer, grabbed the helmet I worn the night before, then went over, checked the gas in the 27 and then strapped into it. Dink was still running laps. I got out on the track a ways away from him and ran a couple slower laps, and was glad I did. The car just didn’t feel as good as the 66. The steering felt a little wobbly, like something was loose, and the car felt a little less stable. We refer to a car a being "loose" when the back end slides around, which is what you want in a dirt car, but this was loose in another way – it seemed flighty, like it didn’t want to do the same thing exactly the same way twice. It felt a little better at speed, but it sure felt to me that there was something wrong in the front end. I all but parked it to take a look, but I saw Frank waving Dink out onto the track.

Flighty or not, either the 27 was fast or Dink was slow, since in ten laps or so he couldn’t get past me, although he tried pretty hard. Finally, I let up a little to let him past, then got on his tail. I nosed under him a couple times to try and take away his low line, then when he tried to set up to block me low I slid high and beat him down the front stretch. Finally, I saw Frank wave us both in, so we slowed down and pulled into the infield.

Frank went over to talk to Dink, while I got out of the car and went up to check out the steering a little more thoroughly. Sure enough, one of the tie rod ends was awful loose. I’d gotten away with it, but I sure wasn’t going to drive that thing again without fixing it.

"Find something wrong, Mel?" I heard Frank ask while I was still involved with the front end of the 27 car.

"Yeah," and explained about the tie rod end.

"Figures," Frank snorted. "The last guy that drove that car regularly couldn’t have told if something was wrong to save his ass. Run it over by the box truck, get Hoss or Spud or someone to show you how to find parts and sign for them, and fix it. I’ll send Dink with you. I won’t know until after he runs tonight whether I’m going to ask him to stay with us, but he might as well learn about that. After you get that done, give the 27 a test run then get the worst of the dirt off the 27 and 53."

Changing a tie rod end really isn’t any big deal, especially with everything out in the open like it was on those midgets, but getting everything lined back up afterward is a little harder. I thought to check the toe-in and a couple of other things before Dink and I took off the old one, and those measurements were pretty helpful in putting it back together. I took it out on the track, and while it still felt a little goosey it was definitely better than it had been.

By the time we got the 27 car put back together other people were starting to show up. The show tonight wasn’t all MMSA; we were just a traveling show brought in to build up the gate, with the local racers filling out the evening. The regular racers here were jalopies, which is to say mostly prewar closed-top Fords with fenders removed, the cars more or less gutted out, and with the engines hotted up a little to a lot. I was to find out that most of the time when we ran joint races the locals ran more or less the same thing; sometimes they were called modified stocks but it pretty much meant the same thing. Once in a while we’d run across a place where the locals ran hot rods, which is to say open roadsters, again mostly prewar Fords. Now and then you’d see something besides a Ford, but not often; in the early 1950’s that old Ford flathead engine was pretty much the way to go.

What with everything, I’d pretty much forgotten about supper. Hoss and Dink and I headed across the track to a hot dog stand set up next to the grandstands, which were probably only ten or twelve rows high but ran most of the length of the front straight and looked like they could have been in better shape. I had a couple of hot dogs loaded down pretty heavy. It strikes me that they were a dime apiece; you’d pay two or two and a half bucks for the same thing at a track today, so even in those days a dime apiece was a pretty good deal.

By the time we got back to the pits it was getting to be time to get going. We got on our white coveralls, and went to the driver’s meeting, which was pretty much the same as the night before, except that we were going to be running fewer laps since we weren’t the only show on the card for the evening. Frank did have one thing special to say. "Look," he said. "You guys know what happened in the consol last night. I just want to remind everyone that we’re not necessarily here to win, but to put on a show. People pay to see us mixing it up, not dogging it or sandbagging. I don’t want to see any more of that shit, OK?"

Finishing third the night before meant that I had to start at the tail end of the first heat in the 66 car. I hadn’t practiced at this track with the 66, only the 27, and it sure felt good to be back in the 66, which was still a more honest handling car, and I thought a faster one. I don’t remember a lot about the race except that it was a pretty good one, I was up in the lead for a couple laps before Rocky Turnupseed in the 14 got by me for the win, but finishing second got me into the main.

I pulled into the pits and had to hustle right over to the 27, which was running in the next heat. Once again I started in the tail end, but this time I really wasn’t pushing it that hard. But stuff happens and I was up to second for a while. To make sure I didn’t make the main in the 27 I shut the engine off on the last lap, acted like it had quit, and just coasted into the pits and got out of the car trying to act like I was pissed off about the engine. I got the hood up and was looking like I was messing around under there, and a couple guys came over to "help." One guy actually asked if it had quit, and I told him no, I just had to dog it so I didn’t qualify two cars, and he said he thought I did pretty good. I think we actually spent more time discussing the chest on a gal in the front row of the bleachers or something else about equally important.

After the locals had run off a couple more heats, I had to run the 27 in the consol. I had "gotten it running" again, but after my finish in the heat I was in the front row. I held onto the lead for a while, then spent some time battling with Pepper before I realized the laps were starting to run down, so "the engine quit on me" again and I coasted into the pits just as the white flag flew. After that the locals ran their big A-Main, and then we had our final, with me back in the 66. I didn’t finish in the money, I think fifth, but that was just partly because of how the race played out; I was up to second there for a while. Hoss won it in the 57; the rest of us loaded up our cars, then stood around shooting the bull with the post-race crowd in the pits, including a couple cute girls.

The crowd began to thin out after a while, and we finished loading up. Hoss told me to follow the gang over to the tourist cabins, and that I’d bunk with him that night. "There’s a bar right across the road, we might go over and have a couple," he told me.

"Hell, this is Wisconsin," I told him. "Wherever you go there’s a bar right across the road."

"Yeah, that’s true, ain’t it?" he grinned. "I hope the hell you don’t snore like Giff did."

It wasn’t a long drive to the tourist cabins, which were a little run down but not real bad. I would have guessed that they’d been built in the twenties, maybe the early thirties. Along about that time there were getting to be a lot of motels built, places that had multiple rooms in a building. They were more modern and drew the upscale business, while the old-style separate tourist cabins tended to draw the cheap crowd, so you can guess where we stayed. These didn’t have showers, but then in those days we didn’t worry about getting a shower every day, either. Hoss and I just cleaned the worst of the dirt off our faces with a wash cloth in the sink, and headed across to the bar, which was your typical Wisconsin beer bar, not a whole lot different than the ones I’d worked in back in Milwaukee. This one was a Blatz bar, I think, not that I minded a whole lot – Blatz wasn’t something I wanted to spend the whole evening drinking but a cold one or two would taste good, anyway.

Over the course of the next half hour or so most of the rest of the MMSA crew showed up. I wound up at a table with Hoss, Spud and Frank. "I wasn’t paying a lot of attention, but how did Dink wind up doing?" I asked, just out of curiosity.

"Oh, not too bad, Chick just beat him out for sixth in the Main," Frank said. "I think he’ll do all right once he gets used to it. I told him he could join us if he wanted. Someone is supposed to drop him off at the tourist cabins around eight tomorrow.

"Speaking of Chick, what happened to him?" Spud said, looking around. "I figured he’d be over here by now."

"Naw, when we left the track he was talking real serious with some girl," Hoss sighed. "You’d think he learned his lesson last night."

"Did she look any good?" Spud smirked.

"Throw a burlap sack over her head and she might not be too bad," Hoss grinned. "You expect him to actually make time with a good looking one?"

"That pussy hound," Frank snorted. "If he thinks last night was bad, he’s gonna get his butt in a real jam one of these days, and we’re going to wind up leaving him behind, probably in some hospital bed."

"Or some jail," Spud agreed. "Mel, Chick has this idea that the fat and ugly girls are so starved for affection that they’ll drop their pants for the least little bit of attention. I’ve been around that block a couple times, and it’s more damn trouble than it’s worth. That’s why I’m paying alimony to a girl in Jersey and child support to another one in Philly. That’s the nice thing about hookers. You don’t pay ’em to fuck, you pay ’em to go away afterwards. Carnie said the two of you found some good ones in Japan."

"It was Carnie who found ’em; I just went along for the ride," I said, more or less honestly. "I take it he hasn’t changed that much."

"Not really," Frank smiled. "He runs fast and loose sometimes. We pull into a town and sometimes I’m real surprised at what he’s worked out. We usually see him about once a week. He always was a sweet talker, and for a guy that doesn’t know all that much about racing he usually has some pretty good ideas. But I’ll tell you what, I don’t think he’s much less busy with the ladies than Chick is, and from what I see it’s a much better class of lady."

"Yeah, he does know how to pick ’em, at least pick ’em up," Spud grinned.

The four of us sat around the table for a while, just shooting the bull and talking about the Army days on Okinawa a little. After a while the waitress came around, and we decided to have one more round and call it a night. We weren’t the only ones from the MMSA in the room, in fact, most of us were there, except for Chick, who was off presumably humping his honey, and Dink, who was off packing up or something. I was still learning who everybody was, and some guys I didn’t have a name for yet. Pepper was banging away at a pinball game; Rocky and Slab were shooting pool with a couple local yokels who had come in after we did, and were already pretty drunk when they got there.

I was really paying more attention to the story that Frank was telling than I was to anything else, when I heard one of the local guys shout, "Who you calling dumb, shithead?"

That perked up our attention. "You, you dumb shithead," Slab sneered back at the guy, who looked to me to be the kind of guy that went into bars looking for a fight because he liked to fight. What’s more, Slab was a big guy and I figured from the moment I met him that he wasn’t one to back away from a fight, either. Well, the guy took a big old swing at Slab, who blocked it and threw a jab right into this guy’s nose. Slab was all set to slug him again when the guy’s buddy decided he wanted in on the action, so Rocky jumped on him as the rest of us were coming out of our chairs to bust it up.

Since there were ten of us and only two of them, it didn’t take long to get things settled down. Nobody was hurt except for the guy that swung at Slab, who had a bloody nose, and who was still pretty surly as he and his buddy headed on out the door. "I’m heading on back," Frank said fairly loud. "It’s been a long day and I want to hit the sack. Anybody going with me?" What Frank didn’t say is that it might be a good idea to get out of there before those two drunks came back with some friends and we had a general riot, and it might be a good idea to leave in a group.

Most everybody got the message, but Slab decided that since he’d defended his ground he was going to hang around. "Hell no, I’m gonna stay and have another one or two," he snarled. "I ain’t gonna let no weasel-mouthed shitheads drive me out."

"Suit yourself," Frank shook his head, maybe with a touch of a grin on it. We didn’t exactly rush out of the place, but we finished our beers standing up and paid the waitress, hanging around so we could leave in a group. Pepper and one of the other guys decided they’d hang around, too, but the rest of us headed back to the tourist cabins.

Frank and Spud usually didn’t stay in the tourist cabins, but had this little travel trailer they towed behind one of the pickups, and it doubled as Frank’s office. It was parked right beside the cabin that Hoss and I were set to use, and we stood around talking for a minute. "So, Mel, how are you liking the Midwest Midget Sportsman Association now?" Frank asked.

"Pretty good so far," I told him. "It beats the hell out of pumping gas on a hot day."

"That’s true," he said. "In fact, it beats hell out of a lot of things I can think of. Once you get settled into the routine it’ll be a lot of fun."

"Beats hell out of coming home to that last bitch I was married to," Spud agreed. "I don’t know what it is about women. You can meet up with a gal who’s fun and randy and likes to have a good time, and the minute you slip a ring on her finger she gains about a hundred pounds, turns about as ugly as a bulldog with a disposition that ain’t much better. I sure as hell don’t plan on doing that again anytime soon."

"Then there’s Chick," Hoss laughed. "He starts with ’em that way. Maybe he thinks marrying them is going to turn them pretty."

"That’ll be the day," we heard Rocky say from out of the darkness. "I don’t know what it is he sees in them women. The one he’s got tonight has a face that would just about stop a clock, but it looks like they’re set to go the distance. Hoss, you mind if I throw my bedroll on your floor tonight?"

"I don’t care if Mel don’t," Hoss said.

"Fine with me," I told him. "This happen very often?"

"Not real often," Rocky shook his head. "Maybe once every other week or so. Shit, he always says he’ll clear out if I want to spend the night with some honey, but he always seems to find one first. Christ, after last night you’d think he’d take a night off."

"You gotta fish when they’re biting, I guess," Spud shook his head.

"Yeah, but they’re always biting around him, God knows why," Rocky replied. "Christ knows what he uses for bait. I for one am getting damn sick and tired of it. I don’t mean him and his honeys, just him bragging about them ugly puppies. I mean, there really ain’t a whole hell of a lot for him to be bragging about."

"Tell you what," Frank said. "After tonight we should be back to an odd number, most likely. Why don’t you figure on rooming with the new guy and we’ll let Chick be the odd man out. Doesn’t seem quite fair to Hoss, who’s senior, but there’s no reason anybody else should have to put up with that shit. You mind, Hoss?"

"Naw, so long as Mel don’t snore as bad as Giff did," Hoss replied. "That made the nights kind of long."

Just about then we heard some yelling and some sounds of a fight across the street, and I guess it really wasn’t a surprise to any of us. "Oh shit," Spud said. "I figured that was going to happen," as he started running.

Frank gave a big yell of "Hey, Rube!" and started after Spud, and so did the rest of us. A couple cabin doors burst open and some others joined us as we headed back across the street as fast as we could go. Just about like Frank and the rest of us had been expecting, the drunks from the bar had gone and got a couple of their buddies, and had jumped Slab when he came out the door. Just as we were getting there, Rocky and the other guy come busting out of the bar, while the guys that had been beating on Slab hustled off into the night.

In the thin light from the "Blatz" sign in the window, we could see that the locals had done a job on Slab. He was unconscious, bleeding from several places and looked like he’d had the shit kicked out of him, which was the case. "How the hell come didn’t you guys come with him?" Spud said to Pepper, sounding a little pissed.

"He didn’t want to wait for us to finish our game," Pepper shrugged. "I don’t know why we didn’t leave when you guys did."

"Shit," Frank said. "That’s all we need in this town, a clem on top of everything else." Frank, Spud and I had picked up some carnival terms from Carnie, and "clem" for fight was one of them, along with the "Hey, Rube!" Frank had used earlier.

The bartender had already called the cops, and they were soon pulling up, and they wound up calling the ambulance. In those days, small towns often didn’t have a special ambulance service, and the funeral homes with their hearses did double duty. That was a big deal in places where there was more than one funeral home, since that was how they got part of their business – if they already had a body on their slab it was sometimes a little hard to have it sent to the competition. But, it never looked good to see a hearse pull up to an accident scene and it always made you stop and wonder.

It took a while to get everything settled down. The town clowns threw their weight around like cops do, but it was pretty clear that although they had a good idea of who had beaten up Slab there was no way they were going to prove it. If Slab weren’t hurt too bad he still might wind up with a charge against him, just on general principles, and that was that. It took Frank a little bit of talking to keep the cops from running someone else in just so it would look good on their records, and several guys had slipped back across the street before they could get that idea.

Finally, the cops left and Spud, Frank, Hoss and I were the only ones left. We headed back across the street, and wound up hanging around the steps to the tourist cabins, having a final smoke before turning in for the night. "Spud," Frank said, "I suppose we better drop by the hospital in the morning, but if Slab’s not ready to come with us it looks like we’re going to have to leave him behind."

"I was getting about ready to leave him behind, anyway," Spud snorted. "The joker has been more trouble than he’s been worth, and he’s been leading Pepper into trouble too, like the night before last. But damn, I hate to leave someone behind that way, all stove up in a strange town where you don’t know nobody."

"Yeah," Frank sighed. "But that’s part of the risk that you take."

This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.