A dozen go-carts were ready to go, four to a row. I was behind the unsteady wheels of Wolf, on the front line, next to Russell Topaz's cart, Devil's Pain. The crowd of onlookers, drawn out by the heavy September heat, was larger than most years, standing two deep behind rows of illegally parked cars. Thick-armed men in white T-shirts held kids atop their shoulders, wives and girlfriends at their sides, red coolers filled with beer and soda by their feet. Tenement windows were opened wide, old women leaning out, stubby arms resting on folded bath towels, small electric fans blowing warm air behind them.
I looked over at Russell, nodded my head and smiled – as friendly a way as I could manage.
'Hey, Russell,' I said.
'Eat shit, greaseball,' he said back.
Little was known about Russell or the three other boys who were always with him, each as sullen as their leader. We knew he went to St. Agnes on West 46th Street, which meant he wore knickers. That alone was enough permanently to ruin his mood. He lived with foster parents on West 52nd Street, in a building guarded by a German Shepherd. There were two other foster children in the family, a younger boy and an older girl, and he was as mean to them as he was to everybody else.
He liked to read. Many times I would see him in the back room of the Public Library on West 50th Street, his head buried in a thick book about pirates loose on the high seas. He played basketball on the playgrounds for pocket money and was never without a lit cigarette. He had no girlfriend, always wore a brown leather vest and hated baseball.
I couldn't help but stare at Russell's cart. It was made of fresh wood and was unpainted, except for the name stenciled on both sides. The rear wheels were thick and new and the brakes were molded from real rubber, not the blackboard erasers we used on ours. His crate seat was padded and the sides were smooth. He had on black gloves and a Chicago Bears helmet. His three teammates were in sweatpants and sneakers, had handkerchiefs tied around their heads and also wore gloves.
'You a Bears fan?' I asked him, waiting for the starting flag to drop.
'No, asswipe,' Russell said. 'I'm not.'
Russell was chubby with a round face, soft, pudgy hands and a practiced sneer. A small scar decorated his right brow and he never smiled, even in victory.
'They got a great coach,' I said. 'My dad says he's the best football coach ever.'
'Who gives a shit?' was Russell's always pleasant response.
'What's goin' on?' Michael asked, leaning next to me.
'We were just wishing each other luck,' I explained.
'Never mind that,' Michael told me, lowering his voice. 'You all straight on what you have to do?'
'No,' I said.
'Just remember, at the hill, don't swing away,' Michael said. 'Go right at him. It'll knock him off balance.'
'What if it doesn't?'
'Then you're on your own,' Michael said.
Tony Lungs, our local loan shark and the benefactor of this yearly event, stepped forward, facing the carts, wiping his brow with the starter's flag. Below his checkerboard shorts were black loafers, no socks, and he also wore no shirt. The folds of his belly hung over the beltless loops of the garish pants. He ran a hand over his bald head, scanning the crowd: 'What say we get this thing started?'
Tony lifted his right arm, holding the starter's flag high enough for all to see. The crowd began to chant and applaud, eager for action. I moved the go-cart a couple of inches forward, leaving only elbow room between Russell and myself.
'Remember,' Michael whispered. 'At the hill, make your cut. The rest is pure race.'
Tony Lungs moved his head from left to right, checking to make sure the carts were in proper position.
'Get ready!' he shouted. 'Get set! And remember, any fuck runs over my toes gets their ass kicked. Now, go!'
I ran over the starter's flag as Tommy, Michael and John pushed our cart up the street.
'How are the pedals workin'?' Tommy asked, his face red from the effort.
'Good,' I said.
'Watch yourself,' John said, looking at the other carts. 'I seen three zip guns already and you know Russell's got something in his cart.'
'Don't worry,' Michael said. 'Just get to the hill.'
The crowd noise grew louder as the carts made their way past Fat Mancho's Candy Store, where all the betting action took place. The people of Hell's Kitchen would lay bets on anything and go-cart racing was no exception. To the working poor of the neighborhood, gambling was as time-honored a tradition as church on Sunday morning, boxing matches on Friday nights and virgin weddings all year round.
Devil's Pain was listed on the large blackboard outside Fat Mancho's store as the 3-1 odds-on choice. Wolf, our cart, was down as second favorite at 5-1. John Rad-man's cart, Eagle's Anger, was the longshot in the field, going off at 35-1. That was primarily because in the three years Radman had bothered to enter the race he always quit half-way through, abandoning his vehicle and walking away. 'You gonna waste a whole lotta time bettin' on Radman,' Fat Mancho said. 'Might as well set fire to your money.'
We were coming up to the edge of the hill, Tommy, Michael and John sweaty and breathless from the hard pushing. We were in the middle of the pack, Russell still on our left, a Puerto Rican crew from Chelsea, driving a purple cart, on our right.
'More speed,' I told the guys. 'We're not getting there fast enough.'
'Relax,' Michael said. 'We're right where we're supposed to be.'
'If I go any faster, I'll have a heart attack,' John muttered between wheezes.
The brake pads by my feet flapped against the sides of the cart and one of the front wheels started to wobble.
'I don't know if these brakes are gonna hold,' I said.
'Don't think brakes,' Michael hissed. 'Think speed.'
'How do I stop?' I asked with a hint of panic.
'You'll hit somethin',' Michael said. 'Don't worry.'
'That's what I love, Mikey,' I told him. 'You just think of everything.'
At the top of the hill I was on my own, two feet from Russell's cart. We quickly glanced at one another, the sneer still on his face. I locked my cart against his, the spin of my wheels chipping at his wood, trying to move him over to the hard side of the curb.
'Don't, man,' Russell shouted. 'You're gonna lose a wheel.'
A cart driven by a pock-faced redhead in goggles was up behind me, pushing me even closer into Russell. My hands were raw and my legs stiff. We came down fast, the carts bunched together, my hopes of knocking Russell from the race diminishing with each wobbly spin of my front wheel.
At the south end of llth Avenue, a few feet from a Mobil Gas Station crowded with on-lookers, the front wheel finally gave way and snapped off. The cart tilted down, breaking pace with Russell, small sparks shooting from the pavement.
'You're lookin' at a wheelchair,' Russell yelled at me as he zoomed past, snarl locked in place, not even the slightest hint of pity in his voice.
I was heading straight for a street divider, the eraser brakes my feet were pumping now as useless to me as the rest of the cart. The remaining carts had gone straight down the street, toward 12th Avenue. The skin on my hands was split and streams of blood ran through my fingers. Holding the ropes as tight as I could, I used my weight to steer away from the divider.
The cart was starting to lose some speed, but still moved with enough force to do damage. My arms were tired and I couldn't hold the ropes any longer: the nylon ridges were cutting in too deep. I let go and braced myself against the sides of the Dr. Brown case. The cart veered wildly left and right, bounced across llth Avenue, past a double-parked station wagon, jumped the curb and slammed against the side of a corner mail box.
I got out, kicked it angrily over onto its side and sat down on the fender of a parked Chevy. I put my face up to the sun and my elbows on the trunk and waited for Michael, Thomas and John to make their way down the hill toward me.