NOT THE INDY 500-FLASH FICTION

The call came around dinner time.  I was frantically sautéing onions and peppers to throw into the turkey enchilada mixture while two ravenous males sat at the table watching me, nearly drooling. Of course, they didn't bother to  answer the phone so I picked up.

“Pack your bags ‘cuz you’re going to the Indy 500,” a  male voice chattered in my ear.

“Excuse me?” I said, nearly dropping the spatula. I wondered if my husband was playing a joke on me. I looked over at him but he simply drooled so I thought this might be legit.

“You and three lucky friends will be off to spend an all-expense paid weekend in Indianapolis in a motor home right on the track.  Dinner with Al Unser Jr. is part of the deal.”

I wondered when I had entered this contest. I wondered who Al Unser Jr. was. Usually I enter every contest I can with the dream of quitting our jobs, but car racing I would have passed on. Car races are nothing I’d care to see. In fact, I’d rather have a mammogram or a root canal before standing in a crowd of drunks watching a race.

“Are you offering any alternatives?” I asked, hoping for some cash instead of the trip.

“No, ma’am.  You can’t put a price tag on this opportunity. It's the Indy 500.”

Of course I can't, I thought. Car racing is the largest spectator sport in America.  Which means we're gonna be surrounded by every Tom, Dick and Bubba on the planet, all of whom probably have a six-pack of Bud tucked into the folds of an Indy 500 T-shirt. Nothing like drunks and fast cars to really liven things up. Wonder if that is what makes the sport so fascinating?  Guess we’ll have to find out.

 

Over those turkey enchiladas, I say to my husband and son, “Gentlemen, start your engines.  We’re going to the Indy 500.” Let's hope it lives up to the hype.