The party was going strong well after midnight, and Jimmy Wilson was feeling good. Lots of racing friends filled the private room at Pop’s place, and a DJ was spinning records.
The party was going strong well after midnight, and Jimmy Wilson was feeling good. Lots of racing friends filled the private room at Pop‘s place, and a DJ was spinning records.
It was a celebration of Jimmy‘s triumph last weekend at the Hoosier Hundred, and sewing up the Champ Dirt title. Some of Jimmy‘s family came over from Illinois — his mom and dad, his sister, and his uncle Jim — and that made things even better.
Jimmy said it a half-dozen times at the party: no matter what happens in his life from this time forward, it would be hard to top last Saturday “at the Hoosier Hundred.
He and Renee were the happy hosts, making their way around the room to talk personally to everybody there. Jimmy was humbled by everyone‘s kind words, and it was great meeting some new people.
Renee told everyone she was Jimmy‘s chaperone, and her job was to stay sober and keep him out of trouble. As it turns out, that was pretty much on the mark; Jimmy had a little too much to drink and Renee ended up driving him home at 3 a.m. and pouring him into bed.
Jimmy knew the next morning would bring a doozy of a hangover, but he didn‘t care. He rarely let his hair down and partied, but this was different. This was truly a celebration, and he allowed himself to cut loose and enjoy it. He even got out on the dance floor a few times.
Later that night back at his apartment, as the bed spun circles in the middle of the room, he dreamed of fast cars and cheering crowds, of trophies and friends and celebrations. His dreams carried him to his favorite fishing spot, and the fish were jumping from the water into the boat. He laughed and tossed them back, but they just kept jumping into the boat.
“Wait a minute, fish,” he called out. “Someone is calling me on the phone! But that‘s impossible…this boat doesn‘t have a phone!”
The ringing persisted. Jimmy blinked his eyes open and realized the phone in the hallway was ringing. He quickly rolled out of bed, feeling a vise clamp down on his temples and squeeze.
Jimmy remembered a few months ago when the phone was installed. For another four bucks a month, the guy said they could add another phone by his bed. Four bucks a month! Right now, as he wobbled across the room and yelped with pain when he stepped on his belt buckle, he was kinda thinking that four bucks a month didn‘t seem all that expensive. He was cussing and snorting as he got to the hallway.
By the time he answered the phone his head was pounding and his disposition was going south in a hurry.
“Hello!” he barked, envisioning Bobby or somebody else bothering him so early. Oh, wait…he glanced at the clock and realized it was past 10.
“Good morning, Jimmy,” a familiar voice began. “I hope I didn‘t wake you on a Saturday morning!”
“Who is this?” Jimmy demanded.
“Walter Skaggs,” the man answered.
Walter Skaggs. The most prominent team owner in Indy car racing. THE Walter Skaggs.
“Oh…oh, gee, Mr. Skaggs,” Jimmy said quickly. “Sorry about that…I thought it was somebody else.”
Mr. Skaggs laughed. “That‘s quite all right. I was reading Speed Sport this morning, and it looks like you‘ve had another great season. Winning the Hoosier Hundred! That‘s big stuff!”
“Oh, yes sir. I mean, well, it‘s been pretty good this year. Things are going real well.”
“Well, I‘m glad. Say, I still feel badly about what happened last fall, with your accident and everything. We were really looking forward to giving you a try in our car, and it‘s too bad it didn‘t work out. I suppose it was just bad timing, you might say.”