Sociopath?
track
and machine.
    Starting one doesn’t even require a key.
First the driver must ensure that a) the car is in gear since
sprint cars don’t have gearboxes and b) that the fuel is turned on.
When those two things are done, a “push car” pushes against the
rear crash bar until the car fires.
    Being direct drive, once the wheels begin
turning, the engine is also turning over. Now the driver waits
until he has the proper oil pressure (around 80 psi), then a few
more seconds until he knows that all eight cylinders have enough
fuel. Only then, does he hit the ignition switch, bringing his
engine roaring to life.
    All this Chester showed Rafe prior to the
race. “You can see it’s not even close to just getting in that
Corvette of yours, turning a key and driving off.”
    “Don’t worry, Mr Hughes, I’m a quick study.
I’ve got it.”
    And he did. Chester had started him out in
one of the novice runs where he so out-classed his competition, it
wasn’t even close.
    *
    “Well, that was a waste of both our time,
Son, except to show me your potential. How did you get so good at
driving?”
    Rafe shrugged. “I don’t know, I just have a
kind of a sixth sense about it.”
    “We’ll try you with something a little more
challenging, next week. Don’t get cocky, Son, just because you did
so well this time. You were only up against the babies.”
    “I never get cocky in advance, Mr Hughes,
only after it’s over and I’ve earned it.”
    The result was the same the following week
and then the next when he was pitted against even more experienced
drivers. He really did seem to have an uncanny feel for how to
position his car for maximum advantage, how to maneuver it around
the turns, how to avoid trouble.
    Chester Hughes began to follow him with
interested eyes. He thought this boy might have real possibilities.
And, Jesus H Christ, he made the race groupies cream their panties!
They looked at him like he was candy and they wanted to eat him all
up. Chester was not only an expert in cars but in marketing as
well. He knew that a winning driver was great for business but a
winning driver with sex appeal was a hundred times better.
    “You might could start to be a little cocky
now, Son.”
    Rafe nodded and his smile went gleaming
across his face. He probably knew as much about marketing as
Chester Hughes.
    * *
    His second year-off diversion was completely
different although some of the results were the same. A friend of
his brother, Gabe, had contacted him at Gabe’s suggestion. The two
had jammed a lot together when Gabe was going through his guitar
phase. Now, the friend, Duke, had a rock and roll band, Balmer
Strut, that played mostly in Baltimore and DC, and sometimes,
Philly. It was highly acclaimed and in great demand for country
club dances and the private parties of representatives and senators
and other government bigwigs. Their rhythm guitarist had just quit
and Duke had asked Gabe if he’d be interested in filling in until
they could find a permanent replacement. Gabe wasn’t, being fully
engaged with the concert piano now and besides, he had a girlfriend
living with him in his apartment in Arlington and she’d throw ten
kinds of fit if he told her he was going out on the rock and roll
circuit. When Gabe mentioned his brother, Rafe, Duke was
doubtful.
    “A 16-year-old kid, Gabe?”
    “Just try him out, Duke. Trust me, he’s not
your average 16-year-old.”
    “Does he play as well as you?”
    Gabe answered with a rueful smile, “probably
even better although if he knows it, I don’t think he cares.”
    So Duke called him and the idea piqued Rafe’s
interest. He met them at Duke’s studio in Baltimore. He brought
along one of the guitars Gabe had left at Heron Point, not owning
one of his own.
    “Tell us some songs you can play, Rafe. We’ll
find some we all know and see how we sound together.”
    Rafe reeled off a list of titles. Duke
nodded. There were several the band was familiar with.
    “I’ve

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