The Finish Line

by J.D. Kotzman

“Zed,” Wally shouted from the locker room doorway.  “Zed, are you in there?  I need to talk to you.”
 
“Can’t I take a shower first?” Zed yelled back to him.  “Christ, Wally.  I’m an old man.  Give me a fucking break.”
 
“All right, I’ll see you outside.  Good driving out there tonight.”
 
“Yeah, good driving,” Zed muttered.
 
Zed peeled away his grease-stained jumpsuit and long underwear and inspected his withered frame in the mirror.  As his eyes traced over the sagging, pale flesh, he struggled to remember the days when he stood taut and tan, the days when he didn’t ache after every race.  And when he saw his face, he barely recognized the wrinkled, tired visage that scowled back at him.  Women used to pounce on him—his sparkling baby blue eyes, chiseled jaw, and inviting smile were like catnip to them—but they didn’t notice him anymore.  After three divorces in as many decades, he’d put on too many miles, endured too much wear and tear.
 
Zed lumbered to the shower and turned on the faucet, testing the water before stepping into the dank chamber.  For a few glorious minutes, he stood motionless, letting the warm, soothing stream rush over him.  The dirt and grime rolled off his body and into the waiting drain, but try as he might, he couldn’t wash away the years.
 

 
Wally paced for half an hour in the parking lot, screwing up the courage to break the news to Zed, before at last settling with his back against the grill of the old man’s battered Dodge pickup.  Still fidgety, he dug around in the inside pocket of his leather jacket for a pack of Marlboros and a lighter.  When he unearthed them, he gave the Bic a couple of nervous flicks, fired up a cigarette, and took a long drag.  He’d known Zed for going on eight years, ever since the unceremonious end to his stint at community college, but Wally had idolized him for much longer.  He didn’t want to have to tell the old man it was over.
 
As a teenager, Wally spent his weekends hanging around the local drag strip, where his infatuation with racing bloomed into a full-grown love affair.  He loved the pre-race rituals:  smelling the mix of melted rubber and gasoline as the drivers did their burnouts, then, while they revved their engines by the Christmas tree, waiting, breathless, for the thunderous roar they’d unleash after the lights flashed from amber to green.  And he loved the races themselves:  tracking the dragsters as they careened down the raceway, two wild streaks of color chased by smoky tails, their velocity at last tamed only by the steely scrape of their carbon-fiber disc brakes and the hard drag of their billowing chutes.  Most of all, though, he loved cheering on Zed—even then, many fans regarded him as a kind of folk hero—as he thrashed his often much younger competition.  Wally helped manage Zed’s race team now, and over the years, the old man had become a surrogate father to him, his biological dad long since dead and buried from his two-pack-a-day habit.
 
“What’s up, kid?”
 
“Jesus, you scared the shit out me,” Wally said as he wheeled around to face the old man.  He took one last puff of his cigarette and tossed it to the asphalt, stamping out the glowing embers with his steel-toed boot.  “Zed, we need to talk.”
 
“So you said.”
 
“Zed, it’s not easy to say this, but, well … maybe it’s time you retired,” Wally croaked, almost choking on his words.  “You know, maybe you should get on with your life, take those fishing trips you always talk about.”
 
“Wally, I don’t have a life to get on with.  In case you’ve forgotten, I don’t have a wife anymore.  My kids, wherever they are, don’t speak to me.  All I have left is racing,” Zed told him.  “What’s this about?”
 
“You’re having sponsor trouble.”
 
“Goddamned corporate America.  I should have known.”
 
“They just aren’t sure they want to sign a new contract with you at your age,” Wally said, treading carefully.  “After the season, they’re dropping you.  We’ll try to find another sponsor, but I have to be honest … no one is looking to back a 70-year-old driver.”
 
“Sixty-nine,” Zed corrected.  From the pocket of his jeans, he fished out a set of keys, which dangled from a sterling silver keychain.  His first wife, Darla, gave it to him on their 10th wedding anniversary, the last one they shared before the ovarian cancer ravaged her—a brutal crash even he couldn’t avoid.  Shaped like a flourished “Z,” the totem now served as both a good luck charm and an unofficial trademark for him.  He ran his fingers over its burnished surface, watching it glisten under the sodium lights.  And as he stood there, mesmerized, he could feel himself hurtling toward another inevitable wreck.  He looked up at Wally with a wry grin.  “You think I can’t hack it anymore.  Is that it?”
 
“No, I didn’t say …”
 
“I need to get out of here,” Zed interrupted.  “Can I give you a ride somewhere, Wally?”
 
“Yeah, take me back to the motel,” Wally replied, his shoulders drooping.  “I should make some calls.”
 
“My pleasure.”
 
“So you’re OK with this?”
 
“Yeah, kid,” Zed said.  He let his misty gaze drift past the edge of the fenced-in lot, beyond the glittering lights that wound along the freeway, to the massive peaks silhouetted against the horizon and considered, not for the first time, what might lie on the other side.  “Don’t worry about it.”

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