A Month at the Brickyard by Kleinfield Sonny;

Author:Kleinfield, Sonny;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

Weekday dinner at the Sherwood. The Real Estate Brokers Association. A capacious, wood-paneled room, tables for four, cushioned chairs. Forty people, mainly middle-aged, have turned out for the affair. Men are jacketed and tied. There are wives and a couple of children—some of the wives in long dresses, the children looking freshly scrubbed. Guest speaker is Johnny Parsons.

Parsons, his father, and their wives are met at the door by the host for the evening, wearing a suit and tie. Evening, folks, glad you could come. There are nods and hellos. Parsons detests speeches and is inclined to regard them with a big yawn. But there are bills to pay. In May, there are mobs of speaking opportunities if you have something to do with the Indianapolis race. Clad in a blue sport shirt, brown pants, and a black suede jacket, Parsons asks about the possibility of their getting a drink. “Sure. Sure. Sure,” the host says. They grope their way to a plastic table and sit facing the swaying shadows at the bar. The other patrons are youthful in manner and imaginatively dressed. Parsons orders a beer; the others go for hard liquor. Hunched over the drinks, they talk about races gone by, about hometowns, and about who used to be a hot-dog driver when they were young and who is running fast out at the Brickyard. The host says they ought to go in, orders another round though only he has polished off the first one, and then springs for the check. Parsons gathers in both beers, and his wife, embarrassed to be spotted cradling two drinks, shoves one of them into his hand.

“This is always the way it is,” he says. “The driver carrying all the drinks.”

The room is hot and airless. Dinner is roast beef, lots of gravy, mashed potatoes, salad, coffee, no dessert. At the podium, the emcee begins by asking everyone to rise and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. A prayer follows. Then the emcee tells a couple of jokes that are not very good and have no particular point. The public address system breaks down, and a man in coveralls scampers in and repairs it. The emcee is chunky and square-headed, with pouched cheeks and pursed lips. He speaks in a toneless, high-pitched Midwest voice. He lights a cigar, and the flare of the match is reflected back in his eyes. Blowing the smoke from his nose, he tells a vaguely risqué story, which evokes a few scattered titters. He presents Parsons with a rabbit’s foot for good luck. Then he hands over a weather detector, so Parsons will know when rain is in the air. He gives him another detector for the president of the Indianapolis Speedway. Then he says to the audience, “We have a real treat for you tonight. Racing, you know, used to be thought of as a place where you’d go out and see a bunch of bums drive some cars.” A sprinkle of laughter. “But I’m being entirely serious tonight in telling you that we have a lot of good people in racing.

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