Demo Derby Drama

Kevin and I have gotten into a rut.  Yes, already.  Our weekday evenings generally consist of three elements: dinner, light exercise, and mindless DVD screening.  He'd never seen all three seasons of Arrested Development, so I checked them out at the library.  Every night for the past month, we've eaten dinner, gone for a bike ride or a walk, and then watched a few episodes.  Boring, I know.

So when I saw that the Houston County Fair was going on, I announced we were going.  We set out last night for the half hour drive down to Caledonia and toured the exhibit halls, petting zoo, livestock barns, and tractor displays, all within about an hour.  We ate corn dogs and sweet potato fries, then joined the rest of the county at what was obviously the main event of the night: the demolition derby!

Kevin, taking in the scene, quickly realized that he was the only person there wearing Birkenstocks.  ("Hippie," I chided.)  The stands were packed.  People were climbing over each other and splitting their families into three rows just to find a place for everyone. 

"This is a great model of intergenerationalism," Kevin noted, taking in the kids, teens, adults, and senior citizens surrounding us.  I rolled my eyes.  If he thought wearing Birkenstocks made him stand out from the rest of the crowd, using the word "intergenerationalism" wasn't going to help any.

Engines revved and in came the first round of cars.

"Wanna make a wager?" I asked.

"Money?"

"No, I was thinking that if the car I pick wins, you unload the dishwasher for once," I replied.

"Ugh."

"What do you want if your car wins?"

"A massage," Kevin said.  "No wait, a foot massage!"

"Gross."

"That's what I want."

"Fine," I pouted, "but you'll have to wear socks.  I'm not touching your feet.  And clean socks.  Fresh out of the drawer."

"Deal."

So off the cars went, slamming into each other and making the crowd roar.  I was alternately laughing and wincing.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd been to a demo derby.  High school?

Neither of our cars won the first round.  I was shocked, though, when the winners came up to get their trophies -- they were old guys!  The first round had been the 50 & older competition.  Holy crap!  Here I thought only crazy 20-something men were wild enough to ram their cars into each other.  Nope!  They were all smiling like kids in a candy store.

The next round we changed the rules of our wager a little bit.  If neither of our cars had won in the first round, when there were only six cars, it wasn't likely either of us were going to win round two.  It was the "compact" division, and there were a lot of cars in that tiny space.  We decided that whoever outlasted the other would be the winner.

I chose the car I called "Pretty in Pink."  It was the only pink one.  Kevin chose a little green one.  I was pretty confident in my guy at first.  He was like a little spider monkey out there, speeding around and slamming into people.  But then his car died or something.  He just sat there, banging his wheel with his hands.  I refocused my attention on Kevin's car.  That guy wasn't as fast as my guy had been, but he seemed to be doing well for himself.  There were crashes all over the place, and more and more cars were dying.  About half were still ramming each other in the midst of all the junkers when I noticed one was smoking.

And then it burst into flames.

The whole crowd gasped.  Men who'd been standing closest to the action jumped over the wall and tried to get to the car.  The fire spread to the dry grass around it, and the men hoping to rescue the driver got pushed back by the flames.  Firefighters came running with a hose . . . and a trickle of water came out.  They signaled for the men at the truck to give them more pressure.  The men closest to the car were screaming and signaling at the fire truck.  More water!  More water!  The guys at the truck were trying, but nothing seemed to be coming out.  People in the stands were screaming.  More men jumped out of the stands and went running to the car on fire with the driver still in it.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God . . . the spirit intercedes for us, right?  Words weren't coming.  I looked over at Kevin.  His head was in his hand, eyes squeezed tightly shut.  I hoped he was finding the words I wasn't.

The announcer made a crack about it being hotter than a jalepeno out there.  I was surprised no one threw a beer bottle at his head.  Really?  This was not the time.

I never saw how, but somehow the driver was on the ground, surrounded by firefighters.  Fire extinguishers were produced to do the job the hose couldn't seem to.  The little girl behind us was whimpering, worried and confused.  Her mom told her not to worry.  Kevin shook his head at me.

Burning alive.  I can't think of a worse way to die.

Everyone sat there, stunned.  The crazy, rowdy atmosphere two minutes ago had completely deflated.  I felt like throwing up.  All I'd wanted was to get us out of the apartment for the night, to break us out of our dull routine, and I'd brought my husband here for us to witness a man die.

And then there he was.  The driver.  Walking himself over to the ambulance.

The crowd gasped again.  Then they cheered.  How did this man get out alive, let alone well enough to walk away?

"I think I'm going to throw up," I announced.

"I need a beer," Kevin said.  He looked shellshocked.

"Get me something fruity and strong," I replied.

After they brought in another fire truck and hosed down the arena, they finished the round.  The next round was trucks, and my pick outlasted Kevin's, but it just wasn't really fun anymore after what we'd seen.  At one point I jumped and yelled because I saw flames . . . but they were supposed to be coming out of the smoke pipes on the truck.

My nerves were shot.  I suggested we go home.

Walking to the car, I asked Kevin if he wanted a foot massage when we got home, or if he wanted our wins to cancel each other out so he didn't have to empty the dishwasher.

"Cancel each other," he immediately shot back.  Worked for me.  I'll take emptying the dishwasher over touching his gross feet any day.

All in all, stressful night.  I searced the web this morning, trying to find an update on the guy, but nothing.  I still feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it.  We just wanted to join in the redneck fun . . . I hadn't planned on developing an ulcer!!