That was my last big, broad grin. In three minutes, the gunman’s third bullet would rip through my cheek, destroying so many nerves, I’d never have full use of my mouth again.
That’s the one, the President nodded at me.
From my overpacked bag, which held everything a President would ever need, I pulled out a set of official presidential cuff links, which I handed to Mr. Calinoff, who was loving every split second in his folded-down, completely uncomfortable hot seat.
“Those are real, y’know,” the President told him. “Don’t put ’em on eBay.”
It was the same joke he used every time he gave a set away. We all still laughed. Even Boyle, who started scratching at his chest. There’s no better place to be than in on an inside joke with the President of the United States. And on July 4th in Daytona, Florida, when you’d flown in to yell, “Gentlemen, start your engines!” at the legendary Pepsi 400 NASCAR race, there was no better backseat in the world.
Before Calinoff could offer a thank-you, the limo came to a stop. A red lightning bolt flashed by us on the left — two police motorcycles with their sirens blaring. They were leapfrogging from the back of the motorcade to the front. Just like a funeral procession.
“Don’t tell me they closed down the road,” the First Lady said. She hated it when they shut traffic for the motorcade. Those were the votes we’d never get back.
The car slowly chugged a few feet forward. “Sir, we’re about to enter the track,” the detail leader announced from the passenger seat. Outside, the concrete openness of the airport runway quickly gave way to rows and rows of high-end motor coaches.
“Wait… we’re going out on the track?” Calinoff asked, suddenly excited. He shifted in his seat, trying to get a look outside.
The President grinned. “Did you think we’d just get a couple seats in front?”
The wheels bounced over a clanging metal plate that sounded like a loose manhole cover. Boyle scratched even more at his chest. A baritone rumble filled the air.
“That thunder?” Boyle asked, glancing up at the clear blue sky.
“No, not thunder,” the President replied, putting his own fingertips against the bulletproof window as the stadium crowd of 200,000 surged to its feet with banners, flags, and arms waving. “Applause.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!” the announcer bellowed through the P.A. system.
A sharp right-hand turn tugged us all sideways as the limo turned onto the racetrack, the biggest, most perfectly paved highway I’d ever seen in my life.
“Nice roads you got here,” the President said to Calinoff, leaning back in the plush leather seat that was tailor-made to his body.
All that was left was the big entrance. If we didn’t nail that, the 200,000 ticket holders in the stadium, plus the ten million viewers watching from home, plus the seventy-five million fans who’re committed to NASCAR, would all go tell their friends and neighbors and cousins and strangers in the supermarket that we went up for our baptism and sneezed in the holy water.
But that’s why we brought the motorcade. We didn’t need eighteen cars. The runway in the Daytona Airport was actually adjacent to the racetrack. There were no red lights to run. No traffic to hold back. But to everyone watching… Have you ever seen the President’s motorcade on a racetrack? Instant American frenzy.
I didn’t care how close we were in the polls. One lap around and we’d be picking out our seats for the inauguration.
Across from me, Boyle wasn’t nearly as thrilled. With his arms crossed against his chest, he never stopped studying the President.
“Got the stars out too, eh?” Calinoff asked as we entered the final turn and he saw our welcoming committee, a small mob of NASCAR drivers all decked out in their multicolor, advertising-emblazoned jumpsuits. What his untrained eye didn’t notice were the dozen or so “crew members” who were standing a bit more erect than the rest. Some had backpacks. Some carried leather satchels. All had sunglasses. And one was speaking into his own wrist. Secret Service.
Like any other first-timer in the limo, Calinoff was practically licking the glass. “Mr. Calinoff, you’ll be getting out first,” I told him as we pulled into the pit stalls. Outside, the drivers were already angling for presidential position. In sixty seconds, they’d be running for their lives.
Calinoff leaned toward my door on the driver’s side, where all the NASCAR drivers were huddled.
I leaned forward to block him, motioning to the President’s door on the other side. “That way,” I said. The door right next to him.
“But the drivers are over there,” Calinoff objected.
“Listen to the boy,” the President chimed in, gesturing toward the door by Calinoff.
Years ago, when President Clinton came for a NASCAR race, members of the crowd booed. In 2004, when President Bush arrived with legendary driver Bill Elliott in his motorcade, Elliott stepped out first and the crowd erupted. Even Presidents can use an opening act.
With a click and a thunk, the detail leader pushed a small security button under the door handle which allowed him to open the armor-lined door from the outside. Within seconds, the door cracked open, twin switchblades of light and Florida heat sliced through the car, and Calinoff lowered one of his handmade cowboy boots onto the pavement.
“And please welcome four-time Winston Cup winner… Mike Caaaalinoff!” the announcer shouted through the stadium.
Cue crowd going wild.
“Never forget,” the President whispered to his guest as Calinoff stepped outside to the 200,000 screaming fans. “That’s who we’re here to see.”
“And now,” the announcer continued, “our grand marshal for today’s race — Florida’s own… President Leeeee Maaaaanning!”
Just behind Calinoff, the President hopped out of the car, his right hand up in a wave, his left hand proudly patting the NASCAR logo on the chest of his windbreaker. He paused for a moment to wait for the First Lady. As always, you could read the lips on every fan in the grandstands. There he is… There he is… There they are… Then, as soon as the crowd had digested it, the flashbulbs hit. Mr. President, over here! Mr. President…! He’d barely moved three steps by the time Albright was behind him, followed by Boyle.
I stepped out last. The sunlight forced me to squint, but I still craned my neck to look up, mesmerized by the 200,000 fans who were now on their feet, pointing and waving at us from the grandstands. Two years out of college, and this was my life. Even rock stars don’t have it this good.
Putting his arm out for a handshake, Calinoff was quickly enveloped by the waiting crowd of drivers, who smothered him with hugs and backslaps. At the front of the crowd was the NASCAR CEO and his surprisingly tall wife, here to welcome the First Lady.
Approaching the drivers, the President grinned. He was next. In three seconds, he’d be surrounded — the one black windbreaker in a Technicolor sea of Pepsi, M&M’s, DeWalt, and Lone Star Steakhouse jumpsuits. As if he’d won the World Series, the Super Bowl, and the—
Pop, pop, pop.
That’s all I heard. Three tiny pops. A firecracker. Or a car backfiring.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!” the detail leader yelled.
“Get down! Get back!”
I was still smiling as the first scream tore through the air. The crowd of drivers scattered — running, dropping, panicking in an instant blur of colors.
“God gave power to the prophets…” a man with black buzzed hair and a deep voice shouted from the center of the swirl. His tiny chocolate eyes seemed almost too close together, while his bulbous nose and arched thin eyebrows gave him a strange warmth that for some reason reminded me of Danny Kaye. Kneeling down on one knee and holding a gun with both hands, he was dressed as a driver in a black and bright yellow racing jumpsuit.