Chapter 1 - Fired
(What else is new for Alan Howe?)

Extract from Daphne Winter's article in local small-print newspaper, Sideways, June 14, 1978:

… just to add to the fun of pre-race shenanigans, however, Kenny Jackson and Alan Howe decided to choose this day to give us what we've all been waiting for - the moment when Hurricane lost his infamous temper and Jackson delivered his infamous firing of the most recent crew chief.

It was amusing as usual to crouch outside the 56 Jackson motor home trailer and listen to the moment of "downsizing" (the term Mr. Politically Correct used when pressed for comment). Apparently the problem was Howe's scuffle with the ARCL officials just 45 minutes earlier, which has been gone over in detail so many times already that it's pointless to waste more ink telling the tale. Let's just say that as usual, Howe could've used a steel leash for his fiery tongue. Maybe a shackle or two as well.

Many competitors, however, have applauded Howe's move for his usual blunt opinion and stubborn insistence of his own correctness. Ray Dunningham, long-time crowd favorite at Simitreu, whom the ARCL officials probably hoped would take their side, has gone so far to say: "Hurricane is a real example for the rest of us. We don't always agree with what he says, but damn sure we know it's been said! I know a few that could take lessons from that."

Howe has spoken his mind as usual, all right, much to the approval of the crowd as well, but that doesn't bode so well with his former boss, Jackson. "We have an image to keep up here at Jackson Motorsports," the owner of the 56, the car driven by the smooth Craig Connelly, informed an eager press. "Alan Howe, unfortunately" - and yes, we could all see his gritted teeth, couldn't we? - "does not help with the upkeep of our marketable image." Kenny darling, this is Simitreu. We have no clue what that means. Maybe in need of Jes'-Folks' terms?

Howe was not available for comment, having…

It was incredibly hot in Simitreu, South Carolina. The heat rippled by in little waves, seeming to move with the noise from crowds of people, the southern rock coming from badly tuned radios, the sound of engines revving.

The gathering place for all this noise was settled between several hills in a space of flat area. In the very middle was New Simitreu Raceway, a small dirt racetrack. Don't be fooled by its size. This place had a fanatical following, loyal competitors, and its own newspaper, Sideways.

Children shrieked happily as they pointed, waved, stared at the workings of mechanics, and played tag football in the infield. Old friends met up with each other, chatting excitedly.

The pit road was a zoo house… all chaos and somehow managing to lose human reasoning abilities, only worse in the way that sometimes no reasoning abilities of any species came to the fore. But there were oases of calm. One man knelt in his pit area, hands clasped, murmuring a prayer. Someone waited by him to finish.

"What'cha doin', boy?"

"Talking to my Father."

A journalist looking for something to bash the sport of auto racing with jumped in: "Just what for, sir? Asking for a win?"

"No," says the man calmly. "I'm thanking Him."

"What for? Did'ja ever nearly get killed in these cars?"

"Sometimes. I've been lucky."

"Well? Asking to keep that luck up?"

The soft-spoken man shrugs and ends the interrogation with a simple: "No, sir, I'm jus' thankful to be at the track again with my friends."

The reporter stalks off in disappointment.

A little ways off, a group of official-looking men are talking together in low tones. They all have the acronym "ARCL" on their shirts.

"Did you see that boy?"

"Just blasted up… blew up like a time bomb…"

"ARCL can't have that crap!" The official pronounces "ARCL" like "are-coul".

"Heard of him… the Howe kid…"

"Thought he was real nice mannered…"

"Him? Hell no!"

"No, you're thinking of the other Howe. This one here, he's known as 'Hurricane'. He's trouble, just a blazin' fire…"

"Fine him?"

"Won't help our reception. The local crowd is fiercely loyal to their racers, and they're all poor as the dirt they race on…"

"Just slap him on the wrist, you think?"

"That guy's been slapped on the wrist so many times it's permanently black-'n-blue, it don't help nothing! Nothing'll learn him but a long time to cool off, the hotheaded sonfagun…"

Another reporter tries them. "Well, what about the crew chief for Kenneth Jackson's team? Any comment…?"

Even further along, a boy argues with someone who seems to be his father.

"Dad, come on, I can help, I really can!"

"Son, we had an agreement."

"Please Dad… just this once, and you'll see I can do it!" The kid looks maybe twelve, with uncut brown hair that reached to his eyebrows, which arched over earnest deep brown eyes.

"That's something Cart's gonna do; you jus' stay outta the way if you wanna come agin…"

"Can I even just listen in with a radio?"

"Radio!" Dad looks revolted. "I don't know about these radios… pit boards are good 'nuff for anyone. Damn radios… David, I tell ya, don't you go worryin' 'bout them radios; they're not good for nothin'…"

Going down a little more, a group of young women are dancing for all it's worth to "The South's Gonna Do It Again", winking coyly at men as they go by… usually stopping along the way to watch, wearing somewhat… revealing… clothes. Some wave checkered flags - "Ray Dunningham is our guy!"

No one notices Ray Dunningham himself in the crowd, disguised as a crewman from a rival team, with a wig, glasses, a different posture, a forced accent, a fake mustache, and a grin of mischief as one of them knocks by him as scowls, still shouting their devotion to him.

A few feet down, a team is watching their driver warm-up on the track, casually using a stopwatch.

"Hear 'bout that Dick Nolam?"

"Whipped 'em, plain whipped 'em…"

"Hey!" the wife of one of the crew shrieks. "Which one of you put this spider here?" The woman, with thick brown-blonde hair that has some sort of glue messed in it, gingerly holds up a dead spider. The men all turn devotedly to the lap times of their car, carefully avoiding the eyes of her and her husband.

"Charley, please, let's get off this team," the woman begs her husband.

Her husband smiles broadly behind a jawful of a beard. "Sorry, hon, they're my fam'ly."

"Enough to put up with spiders?" she pleads with a whine in her tone.

"You could stay home."

"So could you."

"Naw, love you. Met'cha here, 'member?…"

The woman goes off to pout a bit and passes another man on the edge of a wall of the pit road, the one facing the track. His dark eyes scan the cars carefully as they go by, as intense or more as anyone else we have noticed, not so much as blinking or flinching when a late model going a good couple dozen miles an hour shoots past within two feet of him.

"Paul? Paul! What the hell are you doing there? Trying to get yourself killed?"

Paul coolly cocks his head a fraction of an inch to the person calling him, a short and stocky driver for a rival team. "If I wanted to get myself killed, I wouldn't try. I'd do it," he says calmly without missing a beat, still watching the racecars go by, quiet voice carrying distinctly over the noise.

"I'm sure you would," the other chuckles. "Aren't you a bit worried, though?"

Now Paul turns completely. "Captain Crunch, the only time I'm worried is when you're on the track."

Several people who overheard guffaw as Paul turns coolly back to the track.

Further along at the end by a trailer that looks a bit… nicer… classier… richer than the rest is a late model on a makeshift platform of plywood. Kneeling by it is a man of his early twenties, with dark, nearly black, brown hair and eyes of the same color. In his eyes shine an almost maniacal devotion and intensity that even outdid Paul. Surrounding him were sheets and sheets of scrawled notes. The young man didn't seem to notice the shouts and noise, and when a bird swept right over his head, ruffling his hair, he didn't notice.

This is where we shall begin the story, with this young, rigidly focused mechanic. Of course, the story doesn't begin here; we can trace it back to the beginning of time. Stories don't have a beginning and an end, they go on forever, it's just where the teller chooses to begin and end. But this is where most people generally begin this particular story. And so, this man's name was Alan Jemeul Howe. Although it's a smart idea to totally forget his middle name, because "Hurricane Howe" had a horrible temper, and, well… Jemeul. I mean, come on. Even his worst enemies and critics - and he had plenty of both - had to feel pity for him with that middle name. Jemeul.

It's not as if Alan didn't earn his enemies and critics rightfully. He had a temper, as well as some other attributes, and the last thing you could call him was a "white knight". And "choir boy" was pretty out of the running as well. An upstanding citizen and a pillar of society was also a bit of a stretch, but when you consider other people are selling drugs, killing children and the elderly, and picking on the disabled, well, then Alan showed promise. He wasn't a hardened criminal. Thanks to auto racing.

For example, right now, instead of setting his master-like mind onto ways to break into a house with a FTA Security System, he was trying to find the perfect chassis setup for the late model for a night race a Simitreu… or something close to it, since he had long since learned that no matter how hard you tried, no setup would ever be perfect - ever. Not that he accepted this, but subconsciously he was aware of it.

His notes for New Simitreu told him to do it a certain way, but those notes were all for daytime and this race was a night one. Most of his night notes were from Olsen, which was a quick dirt track like Simitreu, but faster, and Simitreu was harder on tires. Ayweth had a different surface. Iniga Fairgrounds was different on size and shape, but somehow the turns were almost the same. Alan's job was to combine the notes to get a setup by 6:00, when the race started.

He loved doing it. It was a challenge he gave himself, and was generally fun.

Of course, when the race started, it was a different story. If he had hit a good setup, he sighed in relief and enjoyed the moment. If they won, better still! And, if they were way off and lost big-time - well, they didn't call him Hurricane Howe for nothing.

It made you wonder why a man with his temper would be in such a fickle sport as auto racing, where even the best lost far more than they won. But everyone knew better than to ask!

When Howe was seventeen, he had gotten his first racing job as a volunteer on Jack Hammer's team. The colorful Hammer gave Alan most a lot of credit. "Kid's got a good head on his shoulders," he chuckled. "Now, if he could ever learn that dreaded P-word..."

Meaning patience, of course.

After much encouragement from Hammer, Howe accepted one of the paying offers made to him - meaning he could just get by without a side job. Now, five years later, he was widely respected on the short-track scene for his mechanical abilities, but most teams were wary of him because of his temper and clashes.

He never mentioned his past - not a word of who he was before five years ago. Sometimes it made him hard to get to know - and when you wanted to talk about family, he was very unsympathetic. He also had strong likes and dislikes, especially in regard to kids. "Nuisances," he would mutter. And never try pointing out that he used to be one - "How do you know? Maybe I just skipped childhood." But still, he was a good pal, if not that good a guy to take orders from.

Slowly, an idea was coming to him. On one of his useless Bristol notes, he had written: R: You can't take anything w/out giving something! What a nuisance of a truth. Too bad they couldn't work around it -

With no change in his intense expression and kneeling posture, he got the beginnings of a wonderful, mind-boggling idea. What if they -

"Mistar Huw, if ye cannost be a crew chif withought usin' alll det papor, zee natishonal Zree Zoziety zswill haf ta errrest ya," joked the playful voice of Craig Connelly, the driver of the 56 car, who didn't really talk like that but was just mushing up a bunch of accents into one sentence for the fun of it.

Alan forced a civil half-smile - which showed he respected Craig a great deal or he would have never bothered - but was very annoyed. Not about the paper part - he was always ribbed about talking so many notes; the outdoor pit area he was working with was littered with his precise notes - but because Connelly had interrupted his terrific thought, and now he couldn't remember it. He liked Craig - a fine, smooth, and experienced driver with a corny sense of humor, but now he was just a fly in his way. Darn. What was that again? He groped mentally for the idea, couldn't find it now that his careful concentration was broken, gave up for the time being, and replied: "Well, I heard that Zree Zociety has a great wooden racetrack in the basement of the prison."

"Yeah," laughed Craig. "You got that right. Hey, listen - when the Scribe collects his handwritten encyclopedia on dirt late models, Ken wants to see you." He hesitated, nervously running a hand through his blonde-brown hair. "And, Al, well… he's pretty mad at you."

"What else is new?"

"Well, you can't go and pick a fight with the ARCL officials the first time this race is nationally telecast! Geez, Al - they even caught it on tape!"

"They did?" Alan asked brightly.

Craig, in the role of an elder, mellower, more experienced mentor, gave him a hard stare and raised an eyebrow.

Alan stopped playing comedian and let his natural temper take over. "That sonofabitch was tryin' to enforce these rules that ain't even real! We never had 'em here before! What was I supposed to do, let the deep-pocketed tyrants walk all over us when we had a chance to win? Personally I thought Simitreu was a lot better before the high 'n' mighty American Rich Cranks Legalism thingy took over anyway!"

"Yeah, but ARCL offers a better program," Craig said benignly.

"You mean a program with more dollar signs."

"If you wish," Craig shrugged, secretly admitting that Howe had quite a point. "Anyway, I'd hurry up and go see 'im." He sighed. "Alan Howe, you could be really, really good - the best mechanic in the whole region - if you could stick with one team for more than three months."

Alan was silent - Connelly had one thing right: he never did keep one job very long. Already, he had been through about fifty teams in five years, due to continuous clashes with car owners. He was also figuring out that the more you got fired, the harder it was to get a job next time. "Is he gonna tell me to clean out the desk?"

"I wouldn't bet too much against it. Nice working with you." Craig sighed again. "Now I better get used to someone else new." That made Alan feel a lot guiltier - though it was as much Ken Jackson's fault as his. Jackson never kept crew chiefs very long. Many of them he considered not talented enough. Howe was one of the exceptions, but their fights and arguments hurt the whole arrangement. Mostly, it was bad for Connelly, who was always getting used to new crew chiefs. Stability is needed for a team to be successful, and just as important, the relation between the driver and crew chief must be healthy. Chemistry is what it's called, and the whole team has to have good chemistry. But with people always moving in and out, chemistry is harder to get. At their level, everyone has to pull together, because there might be but a few people working on the car. But everyone has to be comfortable with the crew chief, because he ties it together - he's the coach. For Craig Connelly, there wasn't enough stability to make it happen yet.

Ken Jackson was the owner of the 56, who had big dreams of one day winning the Wilkens Cap championship. Alan scoffed these feelings. "If you want to be Big Guy Champ so bad, why don't you get off your ass and help around here?"

Alan forced a bright, offhand smile. "Don't set to worryin' yet, Craig. I'll have a little chat with Kenny."

Craig's smile was slightly more sardonic but absolutely authentic. "Good luck, Al. You need it." He watched an outwardly confident Alan bound up and head off to the trailer, eyes half amused.

"I bet he's never seen Ken like this," he murmured to himself, voice lost in the roar of noise at the track. "Again, Al, good luck. You really do need it."

Alan let himself into the trailer, glancing around at the upholstered seats and mini appliances awkwardly. It was comfortable, and he was entirely uncomfortable with that fact. He leaned by the small window while waiting for his boss to arrive.

Jackson was there in a matter of five minutes. "Howe," he dove in with no preamble… and nothing following it, either.

Alan waited carefully. Finally, his lack of patience won out. "Are you asking a question?" he inquired sarcastically.

Jackson was taller than Alan and burly. His tow-colored hair, usually in a very trim business-like style, was ruffled by wind and temper. Slight indications of anger included his quite red face and broad hands balled into fists. It took a moment for him to reply, his voice extremely stiff and tense. "Howe, did your mother ever teach you the meaning of, let's see - being nice? Tact? Politeness?"

Alan rolled his eyes, turning to the window again. "Let's not drag my ma into this, all right?"

"You look at me when I speak to you, Howe!" Kenny yelled tightly.

Alan could never stand having orders shouted at him. He jerked about to Jackson quickly, his own face turning to hot fury. "Not that that's an easy thing to do!" he snapped.

"You never do anything the easy way," Jackson spat.

"No such thing as a good easy way."

"Howe, take a lookit this." Jackson punched a tape into the VCR and half-slammed the "Play" button. A replay of Howe's scuffle with the ARCL officials showed on the screen of the 18-inch television. Kenny's anger was well justified, especially for an ambitious car owner. Alan was shouting, red-faced, and obviously his language wasn't all politically correct. His gestures and arms were wild and fairly rude. Several exasperated officials were trying to talk reason into him, one of them fighting back with his own verbal insults.

Worst of all might have been the clearly visible Tice Cleaning decal on the chest of Alan's Jackson Racing uniform, and the scroll on the bottom of the screen: "Alan 'Hothead' Howe, 'Crew Chief', 65 Tice Jackson Racing Car, Craig Connolly."

"That is going to be shown over the entire region tonight," Jackson said through tight lips.

"How can they?" Alan asked, scrutinizing the screen carefully. "They have the number of the car wrong. I've stared at it long enough to know that. And where'd they come up with 'Hothead'? Can't get a thing right."

"That," Kenny retorted slowly, with pointed pauses between the words, "is… not… the… point!"

"There's a point?"

"Yes. We can't have this sort of publicity with Tice decided whether to sponsor us in the AMA!"

Alan shrugged. "They got to learn to live with it; a good fight or two is part of dirt-track racing. Why go to the AMA anyway? We're doing just fine here. We have to get better here. Not in some fancy-shmancy league -"

"Well," Jackson interrupted coolly, "you won't have to put up with the AMA. You are going. Good-bye, you…" It's probably best to not repeat what Jackson followed up with, but Alan's reply was even far more colorful. And what Jackson said after that was even louder and far more colorful, ending with: "And we will not be needing you around here anymore, Howe!"

Jackson's method of firing crew chiefs was always loud, but never had he had someone to fight back as badly. Outside the trailer, several startled at the raised voices hollering obscene insults, others shrugging knowingly. "It was only a matter of time," Paul muttered. It lasted a goodly five minutes. Several things within Jackson's motor home were smashed with loud cracks and bangs.

"Git - outta - here - Howe - or - else - I'll -!" Kenny snatched the remote and chucked it. For a lazy person, he threw a lot of strength behind it. He was thundering.

"I'm getting out of here!" Alan meant to wrench the door open, but in his anger fumbled with the latch. For a person who was a mechanic by trade, he was quite clumsy as he rammed the door around and slammed the lock to try to open it. "Tell your next victim on the roster good luck from me, he'll need it, Mr. Wilkins Cap - how the hell does this thing work?!"

"I'm sure," Kenny said, "that Alex Howe doesn't need your luck."

Abruptly Alan stopped battling with the lock. As a matter of fact, he froze stock-still for a long second, breathing heavy.

"You pull the knob toward the window, Howe," Kenny broke the silence.

"Alex - Alex Howe?"

"What part of get out of here don't you get? Yes, Alex Howe, I've been talking to him for ages, why, is he a relation to you or something?"

Of all the insults Kenny had thrown at him the past furious minutes, this was the first one to seem to hit Alan. He stiffened, face contorting, looking more affronted than any rib about the amount of notes on chassis he ever took. "Of course not!" he snapped. "How many people gotta be told that 'Howe''s a common name? You'll regret that move. Hiring Alex Howe." He snorted in frustration like an angry horse and pulled the knob correctly at long last.

"Well that's a relief. I didn't need to deal with your cousin or anything," Kenny said, scowling.

"Worse than my cousin dealing with you," Alan muttered. "Lucky I don't have one."

It was good that one thing was lucky, because Alan Hothead Howe had rarely been in a worse fix. He was again without any glimmer of employment, caught in the middle of New Simitreu Raceway, a hurricane of incomprehensible movement, with thirty-nine cents in his pocket, and a good but uncontrollable head on his shoulders.

He had been in worse straights before. Not that he wanted to think about them just now.

Beg for reviews? Me? Never. Of course, it's taken you half an hour to read this... probably'll take half a second to tell me what you thought. *folds hands solemnly* Thanks in advance to all thoughts, criticism, praise, marriage proposals, and death threats.