“I’ll stay close by,” said Suzie. “Anything else?”
“Well, you could keep some Sharpies handy in case I have to sign anything.”
“Oh, I think you can count on having to sign things. I’ll carry the Sharpies.” She touched his arm, wondering how she ought to word what she had to say before they went in. “Umm…Don’t take this the wrong way, Badger. I don’t mean to be rude, but is there anything I should know about you?”
He stopped. He had a way of tilting his head back and looking at you through narrowed eyes as if you were a long way away, and his expression was always one of earnest sincerity, as if every comment, even “pass the salt,” required his undivided attention. “What do you mean anything you should know?” he asked.
Suzie sighed. “This is awkward,” she said. “Look, I’m on your side. I want you to do well, so I thought I’d ask if there was anything I should watch out for. Are you, say, allergic to seafood, or afraid of dogs, or-”
He considered the question, and when he finally smiled he did not look amused. “So you really want to know if I have trouble holding my liquor or if I’m susceptible to pretty girls, or maybe worst of all, if I’ll be rude to VIPs when they get pushy, right?”
Suzie blinked, perhaps because a career in law had sheltered her from too much plain-speaking about anything. “Well, that pretty much covers it,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“I’ve been through this before,” said Badger. “I could probably drink anybody there under the table, if I had a mind to, but I can take it or leave it. And since I prefer to drink with my friends, I think I’ll stick to punch at this event. Now, pretty girls…” He gave her a wolfish grin. “Well, ma’am, I think the ones here will be over my age limit, and as for the rest: If I have to fight ’em off, I’ll be polite about it. It’s the firesuit. What does that leave?”
“Pushy people?”
“Right. Look, I was raised to be nice to people if at all possible. I’m not naturally touchy. I’ll put up with a lot.” He shrugged. “There’s only forty-three Cup rides, and I want this job. They can rib me about my accent or call me a redneck, you know. Whatever. I’ll take it in stride. But if somebody wants a fight with me bad enough, he’ll get one.”
“I hope that won’t happen,” murmured Suzie, who was more relieved than she sounded. Despite the rising tone of menace in his last statement, Badger’s reply had been as good an answer as she could have expected, all things considered. She didn’t know much about the fine points of auto racing, but she figured that in order to go out there at blinding speeds and face the inevitability of wrecks and the danger of life-threatening injuries, a driver had to be running on high-test testosterone, which meant that behavior problems came with the territory. If he could control his actions, that was about all that could be hoped for.
“I don’t think you need to worry,” she told him. “We’re a mostly female team. Besides, this is just a business meeting masquerading as a social occasion.”
Badger nodded. “In my experience, social occasions most always are,” he said. He reached for the door handle. “I’m ready.”
They entered the room to a momentary hush as the assembled guests looked toward the doorway, followed by a collective gasp as everyone simultaneously recognized the famous and handsome Badger Jenkins, their newly hired wheel man. Or perhaps it was just the magic of the firesuit. Badger had been right to wear it, Suzie thought. If a plumber had walked through that door in the firesuit, he would have been heralded as the conquering hero. Whatever it was, Badger had a captive audience from the moment they saw him. The gasp of recognition gave way to scattered applause and a babble of voices, all talking at once and saying much the same things: “Isn’t he adorable?”…“Such a talent!”…“Shorter than I expected.”
That about summed it up, thought Suzie, trying not to smile. Adorable, talented, and vertically challenged. To his credit, Badger affected not to overhear any of these comments; certainly he showed no reaction to any of these sentiments. With an affable grin and an appealing veneer of diffidence, as if “meet and greets” would be his favorite thing in the world, if only he weren’t so shy. Badger eased his way through the crowd of admirers, alternately shaking hands and hugging his well-wishers. He had perfected a genial one-armed hug that managed to seem friendly without giving the recipient too much encouragement. Sometimes he’d wink at someone who was standing too far away for a hug or a handshake. Charm personified. She wondered if he had been born with charm or if he had studied his technique as painstakingly as he’d learned driving techniques. Watching him was an education.
When someone pointed a camera at him, he obligingly went on point, smiling happily for the camera as he posed with his new best friends, the total strangers on either side of him. To his credit, the party guests seemed delighted with him. He played the part of a gregarious celebrity very well. Suzie wondered how he really felt about it; surely such poise had not come naturally to a backwoods boy from Georgia. She resolved to ask him if she ever got another chance to speak to him in private.
Dutifully, she hovered at Badger’s elbow, ready to bring him a drink, supply a name, hand him a Sharpie, or to make herself otherwise useful to the guest of honor. Thus, she was probably the only person who noticed that his responses were not only perfunctory, but identical. He said almost the same thing to every single person. Of course, in fairness, almost every person said the same thing to him, so perhaps there were only so many variations that one could make on “Thank you. How kind of you to say so.” Anyhow, he was such a handsome, unassuming guy that it didn’t much matter what he said. Just the smile would have been enough for most people.
Badger had also perfected the art of scribbling his name on whatever was handed to him without seeming to notice that he was being asked for an autograph. He’d simply scrawl his name, hardly glancing at the paper, while he kept on talking to the women crowded around him. You didn’t even have to ask him to sign his name. Any photo of himself, any die-cast model of a car he’d ever driven, or any other racing-related item that a Sharpie would write on-hat, tee shirt, coffee mug-he would sign if the item were thrust at him, never interrupting the flow of his conversation.
It took the embarrassment out of the situation, Suzie decided. The fan was not required to formally request “the great man’s” autograph, and Badger was spared the awkwardness of being fussed over or seeming to demand deference. He seemed no more arrogant than a ticket taker, accepting pieces of paper, “processing” them, and then handing them back without ceremony. It was a graceful maneuver, she decided, and she wondered if all the drivers were similarly skilled in celebrity.
Badger also had his sound bites down pat: a modest, cheerful, patient litany of platitudes. He was honored to be a part of the team; he couldn’t say how well they’d do in the season, but he would certainly try his best; and no he didn’t think he was the most skillful driver ever, but it was mighty kind of the lady to say so.
He’s good, thought Suzie. He could be in politics. Then she remembered that senators outnumbered Cup drivers, and she decided that one didn’t keep a Cup ride without the consummate skills of a politician.
In a momentary lull of adulation, Deanna, the secretary, touched his elbow and pointed to the stack of Badger likenesses in a letter tray on the table. “We thought people might like to have signed photos of you,” she said. “I know I would. If you wouldn’t mind?”
“I’d be honored,” said Badger, taking the proffered Sharpie from Suzie and reaching for a photo from the top of the pile. He winced. “Oh, this one. You know, I never was too partial to that picture of me.”