The Black Slip: A NASCAR Mystery

I don’t know any women who cuddle
with a glass of wine, their television,
and spend the evening alone with NASCAR.

I know a woman who watched the Brickyard
wearing just a black slip, shaving her legs,
fixing her hair and putting on makeup.

I said, “NASCAR folks are pretty friendly.
Ever been to a race? Meet the drivers?”

She laughed, slipped on a dress over her head.
As she straightened her dress, she made a face
and looked at me watching in her mirror.

She asked, “Why the heck would I want to meet
guys who drive cars for a living? They’re like,
you know, pizza delivery guys without
the social good of delivering food.”

I smiled, looked back at the television.
They were a hundred and fifty laps in.
The race was almost over. The TV
was about to show the running order
when the woman, prepared for her evening,
hit the remote and switched off the TV.

She grabbed my hand. She said, “Come on. We’ll give
the kid who parks our car a bigger tip.
He’s making a living driving cars, too.”