We strap ourselves into the driver’s seat, kiss still-life art good-bye, and floor it. Flyin’ coffins across hot tar. Job descriptions don’t allow for sitting around watching the movers and shakers get ahead. Infected with Capitol Hill’s power dementia, we gotta move!
Cha-cha’s hip to it. He orchestrated the whole thing. Without him, nightly racing might not have caught on. Cha-cha’s got vision! He brought his checkered flag, the one from the Monster Drags. After giving it a nonchalant wave, he’d hold it above his head, shouting, “Gentlemen: START YOUR ENGINES!”
And whether there was a male or female at the wheel, they would rev up to make Delaware Avenue rumble; make it sound like a damn earthquake. Spectators’d be chewin’ their nails to the nub and Cha-cha’s flag’d come slashing down to signal a commencement totaling .1250 of a mile. One eighth!

Camouflaged by lush trees, bushes and lawn are two short streets. Tina sets temporary road blocks at the D Street intersection. In a shot the entire race is history, with one of us red-shirts hero of that history. We’re here to see what these vehicles are made of. Ass-kickin’ machines -- glazed carrots dangling from a stick called “status quo”.
The status quo grows smaller and smaller with each passing drag. Once a car wins it can no longer be used in competition. We need expensive, sleek, all-conquering engineering achievements – the cream, best of the best – rising above this apple pie order like newcomers with balls of steel! Petty little cubic-inched bargain buggies strung out below the poverty line just can’t make the grade. People with crummy jobs can’t afford the machines we crave: Machines vibrating with horsepower!
Jeeze, all we’re after is a chance to pretend we can pay the price.
Of course we worry about Ant, awfulizing what’ll happen should he appear at 7:45. Watkins says worrying is praying for something you don’t want. And we don’t want him here when drag racing time rolls around ‘cause we’re excitement junkies and he ruins everybody’s goddamned fun. He’s just another hurdle in a world of obstacles. As spring warms up, we’ve taken to racing.
Choosing two cars, we designate them as Mario Andretti-Bobby Unzer Indianapolis 500 drag queens. Man, we give ‘em a run for their money. Only through sheer luck can we brag about a clean safety record: no big lightning flash accidents. A wild quest for clutch-poppin-dementia right outta this fuckin world provides us with the experience to make it through hell and back. Christ, we’re experienced as they come.
Anyways, we got the keys, so we gain the experience! And in the long run we’re better people for it – or at least better race car drivers. See, it all started partly due to boredom. Most of it was planned, pre-meditated.
In any court of law they’d have us all going out through the in door – you know, that little steel-reinforced door leading to the secret chamber where the perp loses all soul -- only we’re wired like trapeze artists and courts of law do not fit into the plan. Our plan being to take the two baddest cars on Senate property and race ‘em down Delaware Avenue from C Street Northeast to Columbus Circle.
Two short blocks adorned on each side with meticulously landscaped park-like gardens overflowing with green-alive, leafy azaleas, veined Hosta camouflaging orange, white and purple peonies, ivy dancing up carefully pruned trees – from towering oak to delicate dogwood; apple blossom white to cherry pink. Delaware Avenue, situated one block west of Lot 16, at First and D Streets N.E.; northwest corner of the Russell office building, running atop the underground Senate garage. Directly beneath the shadow of Lady Freedom.

At D Street there’s a red light, but who gives a fuck about that? We use cars engineered to deal with stress. I mean 0 to 60 seconds in 5 seconds – 5 seconds, tops, because these two short blocks aren’t paved for lightweight vehicles. Not during drag time. Smoother, gentler tracks have been laid down for sissy-mobiles. Up here, we pant for ass-kickin’ gas-guzzlers. Wowie! No Escorts, no Neons, no Fiestas or
Hyundais; no four cylinder jobs; no lawn mower engines or rice burners. Spare us the common trash cut from a pair of tin snippers. We want monster machines!
So we pick out two of the fastest cars.
Sometimes we make it into a competition between lots. The lots have this crazy numbering sequence. It’s almost logical, like way back in ante-bellum days. The sequence began with numero uno but in recent years new buildings have come up on Lots 1 through 10. So we’re stuck with lots 11, 12, 16, 18, 19, Judicial Office Building Basement, and the Underground Senate Garage (strictly for big-whigs). Due to bad luck, there never was a Lot 13; and Lot 17 is reserved for pregnant cows – so we don’t fuck with prized possessions. We’re after ragged runnin’ chariots to yank the riggins out of a Detroit goddess. You know, like there’s this dynamite Pontiac Grand Am down on Lot 12. A midnight blue Firebird parks on Lot 18. And let’s not forget the Dodge Daytona with overhead cams in the Judicial Office Building.
So as to prevent the Piss-Ant from spoiling everything, we coordinate this sport on the phone. I mean, the ant is not above censoring our calls, sneaky bastard that he is. And even if we spoke in cipher over our two-way radio, he’d break the code. He’s a regular cryptographer. Thing is, though he’s busy trying to goody-good every sphincterizin’ buddy boy up here. At the end of business hours he’s likely found on the Rotunda or behind closed doors engaging in bi-partisan brown nosin’.

That’s when we set it all up. You know, which of us drives what car, and how much money gets wagered – gambling being the purest motivation! Each of us keeps a

third eye glued on that big money pot lurking behind something-for-nothing, that grandiose prize collected after the big event.
Great pride is taken in our knowledge of the auto market. We hide copies of Car and Driver, a very coveted item down here. We ponder, reflect and meditate on which car can outrun the next. We study their tires, inspect top-notch wishbone suspensions, test out rack and pinion steering. Always four on the floor. When money is riding on the odds, things get unnaturally serious. Automatic drives with cruise control are bound to pussy-out. We ante up bombs with fuel injection, radials, dual exhaust. Anything of yesteryear gets consigned to the competition’s scrap-heap.
Early in the day we match up the hard-driving personalities who own these outrageous autos. A knowledgeable red-shirt will always correlate mean machines with owner’s faces. The owner of a sure winner more’n likely will be wide-shouldered and tall, cut from a sure-fire bolt of fabric, self-possessed, million dollar masks, banjo eyes, square of jaw, turned-up aquiline nose with a smiling face that knows how to lie, how to bluff, poker-faced. The type to command six-figure incomes. Sexy, regardless of age, surrounded by an aura of intensity. A winner! The sort of chum others want to be near. You know the adage: ‘stick with the winners.’ Yeah!
And if they won’t let you near them, you have only one option: take ‘em. Remember, they regard you as the absolute lowest! So take their cars and run ‘em

into the very same scorched earth upon which they pass one-sided legislation. The grand slammers who operate this country have nice cars. Cars their constituents could never afford. Cars which leave home as the sun rises, rubber-necking through
turtle traffic, listening to all the Washington talk radio shows –common sense liberal, right wing mania, fundamental religion, feminism, high-fidelity comedians –cars that exit off the washboard expressway and slip with a smile into their designated lot; cars which disappear after our race is run, after dusk, whizzing and weaving through poverty and congestion, away from this chessboard of a town. Cars which distinguish the American achievement of dual exhaust as set apart from some low-riding wet dream fitted with a Midas muffler. Once the winner’s wheelin’s and dealin’s cease to amaze, they hightail it out to the suburbs like messiahs on the lam.
They don’t even think, or consider, how us red-shirts pump up to joy-ride in their most prized possessions. I mean an eighth of a mile, plus transport, on any odometer doesn’t make up for the more than one lousy digit. And these cars are cherrie!
Work-horse autos we can do without! Pudgy, harebrained, palsied or jittery staffers are apt to drive timid little cars guaranteed to get them where they’re going – which is absolutely nowhere! Picture us laying down green cash on some gutless piece of shit which hasn’t been lucky enough to make it to the junkyard! Most of these cars chug along on borrowed time. Can’t take chances when dealing with fate – if you fail to lay down your wad on a sure thing you’ll take a jailhouse fuckin’. Every time!

We can live without old son-of-flubber jalopies or lemon wrecked clunkers! We want buggies that’ll produce results! Knowing which cars stay late, which ones pull out early, we speculate only on the top performers. A hoodlum wagon with plenty of juice, pumpin’ like testosterone on prom night! You know, some Bearcat Studz lookin’ speed

burner set off like a torpedo, a souped up flying jenny that couldn’t give two shits about riff-raff competition.
Yeah! We had the keys! And we had something to look forward to – forward to getting our rocks off! And if it didn’t prove well worth the effort, we’d take another car! Easy pickin’s up here, With some cyclone blossom , we’d set our sights down
Delaware Avenue barking at all the spare change grubbers across the way in Union Station. Any way you look at it, the 7:39 Amtrack’ll be doin’ a slow motion ballet compared to our long tailed engines.
Generally, the evening’s race is all set up before we’ve even broken the lot – ‘cause we don’t want a lot of goddamn work gettin’ in the way. Man, we’d be droolin’. Furors of tumult. If our rocks don’t get off, and get off like yowie!, we end up late for the sky. Shit! We’d fail to cross horizons, or pass through cloud-like vapors dripping with the promise of experience. And we wouldn’t have a damn thing to show for it. Now how would that look all spelled out on the resume of an atomic age?
Pretty damn sorry, huh?

Man, it’d really douse our jollies to set all hope on some BMW 535i or a Jeep Wrangler and then watch the owner pull out at 6:30. Nah, that wouldn’t do – we need machines that can lay rubber at 7:45. And we ain’t fuckin’ around. You never know – one of us just might graduate college only to find the job market all dried up. In order to survive, we’ll be called upon to drive stock cars at the County Fair. Or dragsters down in Daytona. Or perhaps one of us’ll land a job setting speed records out on the Bonneville Salt Flats. Speed-of-sound is what life has in store for us! Engines hummin’, our hormones be cookin’ like smack in a rusty old soda bottle cap. I mean who needs China White or Black Tar when you have the keys! Who needs Opium or Junk when you’re one with the rush of a lifetime. Without even havin’ to syringe your precious blood! Yeah, you gotta know how to get your kicks in this town!
Trembling fingers cross for luck and scratchy rib cages cough at blue-grey exhaust billowing and bubbling up into the greenery behind rear-view mirrors. WOW! It’d all go by so fast you’d think the earth was movin’. Like if we only had a little more double-time we could do an instant replay. Like if our Karma wasn’t so hoity-toity buttons-and-bows we could run it through again! And again! We’d turn our heads so quick it felt like our necks would break. WOW! Autos screeched to peel out, kickin’ up patches of asphalt deep enough to stash your dope in. Even as a mere spectator you could almost feel the axles pulling like anchor chains on cargo vessels. Yanking at inertia. Then all hell breaks loose! Man! If you’re a designated driver and you got your foot to the floor, you pray that your poor bones can catch up with velocity – velocity’s hasty trigger talk.

Wind blusterin’ through hair, fear poppin’ outta stone cold eyes. Evil Kneevil was a chump compared to daredevil red-shirts! Whether you’re on the sidelines or in the cockpit you get your money’s worth ‘cause your heart palpitates and your asshole puckers up with the pure truth of a legitimate thrill. And all you need is to get your hands on the keys! The keys to the kingdom.
It’s a cinch that we all can’t go on this little joy ride. Somebody’s got to watch the gate – somebody’s got to beware of thieves. Thieves and bosses – as if there’s any fuckin’ difference! Monday through Thursday we take turns watchin’ out, burnin’ out. Friday’s Party night! Some red-shirts are better racers than others: quicker at the ignition, faster on the up-take, more experienced shifting into second, then third. Like I say, it’s a short track. And when there’s money riding on it, bettors surely don’t want to witness as some novice bombs out.
Aside from the time when Lord Byron lost control and veered off up against a fire hydrant, our Delaware Avenue drag strip boasted a safe record. Safety first – that’s our motto! But then one night this guy named Agliatta, who’d been working on Lot 18, took an Isuzu up over the curb at Columbus Circle and broke the axle. I mean everyone was countin’ on him; lotta cash in the kitty, lotta hopes held high with pride. Then wow! He fucks up; fucks up royal! Talk about an anti-climax! Just watchin’ him peel out and start swingin’ from side to side, then bouncin’ up onto the granite, sparks flyin’ radiator crackin’, steam spoutin’. Shit! It made me wanna cry. Harin’ those wheels screech and stop and clunk with a death rattle. The thrill to end all thrills. I suffer a neurotransmitter traffic jam. Mental Overload. Brain synapses standstill. All possibilities of becoming an astrophysicist fizzle away. We done wrong!

Shit! Now we’re gonna get screwed, I thought, ‘cause Agliatta flattened the left front tire and almost completely ripped the wheel off. Shit, Man. The owner’s gonna throw a fit! You’d have lost your nut to see the bent wheel just danglin’ there, with the car at a forty-five degree angle to the road! After bouncing up over this ten-inch granite curb, Agliatta got nervous as a ballerina at a gang-bang. He was one of our most famous Mario Andretti-Bobby Unzer dare-devils. And I hate to sound like B.B. King, but the thrill was gone!
Man, he’d done this countless times! He shouldda just made a right at the circle and downshifted around to J.O.B. Till now, nothing like this ever went down. He was supposed to drive the car, not fuck it up! Jeeze! A big slick Daddy drag racer ought never daydream atop a couple hundred horsepower of raw force steppin’ out over the line. I wonder if he learned anything! Anything worth relating to future drag speeders? Anything relatin’ to high granite curbs... I don’t know why they make curbs like that. He was goin’ toe-to-toe against this Tacoma Truck which Victor Pew took from Lot 11 – not a fuckin’ thing happened to Victor. He just swerved off, like normal. Agliatta ‘borrowed’ the Isuzu from down beneath the Judicial Office Building. Wow! His big-assed mistake cost us all.

I mean, the car wasn’t demolished, or totaled – given a little time and enough luck, us red-shirts could’ve towed it back down to the Judicial Office Building. Problem was, the metropolitan cops jumped onto the scene. They musta’ been cruisin’ Columbus Circle just when everything went haywire. Of all the sorry-assed breaks! Us attendants were standing on the sidelines cheering ‘em on. Naturally none of us saw diddely.
Same as when all the shit went down about the dating service. Throughout that whole ordeal Tina was front and center before the cameras, portrayed by the media as a Capitol Hill sexpot. When she was subpoenaed by the Subcommittee on Misuse of Government Facilities, she testified that there was no ‘dating service.’ Without blinking an eye, she swore that it was all a fabrication of the media – they were unable to prove otherwise. The subcommittee attempted to get her fired from her newly created job, only her lawyers put ‘em on ice with a couple of fancy motions. So she won out. She kept the job the Piss-Ant maneuvered her into. To this very day her position – so close to government’s nerve center – keeps her entrenched in the ways and means of Capitol Hill politics. Entrenched enough to understand that whore mongering on Capitol Hill is only one sin short of slave driving in the fields of Simon Legree. But, dig it: This is a free country!
Nah, we didn’t see diddely. We just kinda slinked back through the trees to our assigned lots and acted like we were helping staffers. We’re pretty helpful in cases like this. However, U.S.C.P. charged up in ninety seconds flat – they knew who Agliatta was and they knew what was going on. They’d been following our activities. This drag racing served as a firm package in their intelligence scheme. They’d caught us at it once before – back when it all seemed rather innocent. We’d been forewarned. They’re on the ball. They like to play ‘three-strikes-and-you’re-out,’ only they’re so tight-assed they can only give you two strikes.
As usual, general Hill behavior keeps them complacent. They ceased to give a flyin’ fuck. They were sipping coffee, having sex with the cafeteria workers, or wolfing down donuts. Starting pay for a rookie cop is $35,000. As public servants they gotta make sure nobody plants bombs in the Capitol Building. They’re supposed to ensure that no madman blows our rights and our freedom and all our entitlements straight to hell. They can’t be babysitting attendants each and every minute. Anyhow, red-shirts ought to know better. The Piss-Ant keeps us on the job because we’re responsible, reliable, trustworthy, dependable.
Now they don’t seem likely to give Agliatta any leeway. Everything that happens up here is a federal offense. Everything! The American Dream itself balances tipsy-turvy up here. Freedom-of-choice and equality backslide if you do one little thing wrong. You pick your nose on the Hill, they call it destroying government property.
Thanks to God, Agliatta didn’t serve time in Leavenworth. God doesn’t need another butt-boy in the hot house. Due to his callow youth the authorities felt sorry for him. Ignorance of the law and all that...
Only the Piss-Ant doesn’t operate that way. He doesn’t feel sorry for anyone outside his own constipated self. Since he’s the boss, he’ll shit when the time comes. Operating on fear, he began to fidget, fretting that too many accident reports emanating from his desk might point a finger in the direction of him; that he might be called on the carpet to answer for all the bizarre screw-ups emanating from his lot.
In an attempt to gloss over what had actually taken place, he decided to refrain from pressing charges of Grand Theft Auto (the car had been taken off federal property). He decided to use restraint of tongue and pen. He controlled every little thing that happened – and he didn’t even fart for three days! He put through paperwork for Senate Insurance to cover the matter, which placated the Isuzu owner – who seemed happier than a game show contestant now that the government was buying him a brand-new Japanese auto.
The Ant never even asked how this Mario Andretti/Bobby Unzer extravaganza had gotten off the ground. The mere thought of it made him shudder. He exercised his vocal chords, giving Agliatta the lecture of a lifetime, then fired him on grounds of being A.W.O.L. from Lot 18 – for which I’m sure Agliatta was grateful.
A.W.O.L.! You’d think we were a bunch of fuckin’ jarheads! On paper everything looked up to snuff. The Ant made everything turn out exactly the way he wanted it to turn out. Because he’s on top of things and he’s always right. Agliatta then thanked his lucky stars all the way to the Unemployment Office.
So everything worked out. Us red-shirts had to stop betting on the Delaware Avenue drag races – in a world of give-and-take you can’t feel like you’re taking the brunt just because you have to cultivate a little respect. And I do mean a little! ‘Cause if you’re not completely addicted to the thrill of victory, then you can move lickety-split on to the next best thing.
We had to slow down some for the Lecture Of Our Lives, and it was required that we all wipe the smirks off our greasy faces. Plus, the Piss-Ant forced us to give oaths that this would never happen again. But, hey, you gotta have a sense of humor...
Damn! The price we paid for the most spectacular ride of our lives – even if it was short – amounted to the loss of a decent Lot attendant and a very good drag racer. Poor Agliatta! If you’re out there reading this, thanks – thank you for goin’ 0 to 60! And thank you for poppin’ the clutch! Whoa! I wouldn’t want to leave this sweet earth without such sinful commotion as that to atone for. One thing about working for Senate Parking: We don’t slack off when it comes to atonement.

Chapter Two

As the oldest member of this crew, I hustle. No choice but to keep up. This is a job for kids – college students, mostly. My listening audience. A tough audience, but I talk a blue streak. The job isn’t that demanding: move a car every so often; help somebody find their $50,000 ride; see to it that there’s no rip offs. In a world where everybody wants somethin’ for nothin’, you make sure they get what they want. Co-workers get my life story. There are six different versions.

( …To Be Continued)

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