Written for Heather. I love you Babe.
Misty sat on the hard wooden stands under the hot summer sun. Liberally oiled and sun screened, she looked cute in cut-off denim shorts and red, yellow and black Ferrari T-shirt. A matching red Ferrari baseball cap shaded face. Her eyes were protected by wrap-around Raybans followed the brightly coloured cars on the track before her. The noise was raucous even high up in the stands like she was. For a second she took her eyes off the race and looked at the empty seat alongside her. Her wide mobile mouth twisted into a sneer, for a second. "Damn you Eddie!" She muttered.
The race wasn't nail biting, after the first few laps of intense action and the usual knockouts at the first corner of the race, there had been little for the Ferrari clad Misty to cheer about, probably out of boredom, her similarly clothed boyfriend had begun an argument with the couple next to them. The couple were British and American, their accents noticable over the noise of the spectators but and were dressed in matching silvery gray tops and black jeans. The silvery satin shirts had McLaren logos and had irked her Tifosi boyfriend, and his often loud and bitter comments yelled at the top of his voice about Yanks and Nascar and their lack of knowledge about anything Formula One and only been able to drive on oval tracks had escalated into trading insults with the guy alongside him.
The insults began with their choice of driver and had eventually strayed into a full blooded damnation of everything American until he discovered the guy was British. Misty had to admit the Englishman gave as good as he got, Filipe Massa was condemned as 'hopelessly outclassed' Canada was damned as a Badge Engineered wusses, and Canada's staple diet Kraft Dinner, was described as white worms slopped in cum.
Both Misty and the Englishman's girl companion tried to calm the men down, but it was hopeless, the muttering and cursing increased tension until Misty forced Eddie to trade seats with her. He sat brooding alongside her, sipping beer and generally behaving obnoxiously. The last can of the six-pack of Coors Lite had been crushed and tossed back into the cooler between Misty's feet before she had the chance to even open one for herself. It was hot, the race had not come up with any excitement after the first few minutes and was winding down with no chance of the red Ferraris moving up into the lead except if everyone above 6th place all suffered mechanical failure.
Misty looked at her boyfriend. He was bending forward and staring at the boobs of the American girl. They filled her silvery T-shirt well, she admitted to herself, very well! She nudged Eddie with her elbow and shouted over the howl of Formula One engines.
"Go get some Cokes, you've finished all the beers we brought, you are such an asshole!"
She watched as Eddie made his way down the packed stand, and was dismayed to see the gray and black clad Englishman also making his way down the steps on the far side of the grandstand. She glanced at the girl who was looking at her with a mirrored look of dismay.
"I hope they aren't going in the same direction or get into it. Stu is really a nice guy, but that fella is really pushing his buttons." She had to shout over the sound of three screaming V8's as they used every one of their revs to hurtle down the straight, before shifting up sequentially through the gearbox to second to take the hairpin bend at the end of the start – finish straight.
Over the cacophony of engines, and others on the grandstand all having to shout to be heard, and or cheering or booing of the crowd, it was almost impossible for Misty to understand what the girl had said, from a seat away, so she lifted herself for a second and sat close alongside the girl and cupped her ear with her hand and held her head close to the woman's face alongside her, before shouting.
"I'm sorry I didn't catch what you said!"
The woman smiled, similarly cupping her hand around her mouth and repeated.
"I hope they aren't going to the same place." She shouted.
Misty mimed drinking; her thumb aimed at her mouth and fingers holding an imaginary can, but burst out laughing when the American girl rose slightly bending her knees and bunched both her hands one in front of the other and held them at her crotch, half stooping in a parody of a man peeing. Misty giggled and shouted.
"We should be ok then."
Both of them sat back and watched the race, cars following one and other lap after lap in some predestined plan by the organisers. As the laps wore down Misty began to worry, she kept looking out for Eddie, but now that the race was in its final stages, some of the unluckier fans whose drivers were already out of the race had began to make their way off the grandstands and troop towards the exit and metro station, the only way on and off the island that is the home of the Giles Villeneuve Race Track in Montreal. She glanced at the woman alongside her whose worried frown matched her own.
"They haven't come back; they have been gone a long time." Misty yelled.
The girl nodded and moved her face close to Misty's ear.
"Yes far too long, I hope they're all right." She balled her hands into fists and imitated someone boxing.
"I hope not." Misty answered over the noise of the crowd and cars below them.
Her cellphone began vibrate at her hip, she grabbed it and flipped it open, reading the text message with dismay.
"hlp arrested meet me @ the frnt gate"
Misty pursed her lips, her fingers tapping the keys in a quick response.
"Wht did u do"
The answer wasn't unexpected.
"fight wth ahole next 2 us"
Misty held the phone's display for the woman alongside her to see. She took the phone back, and clicked a response.
"wher othr guy"
The answer followed in seconds.
"also wth cops pls cum need u"
Misty showed her the text message and they both gathered their belongings and started making their way down the grandstand. Once down from the stand there was a long walk along a road that ran parallel to the main straight, and led to the bridge over the river, then through the myriad of concession stands. The walk to the stands earlier that day had been bad enough in the relative coolness of the morning, but at 3:30 in the afternoon the heat and humidity, it was hell.
Once clear of the track and the deafening noise the race generated, the American girl began to rant as they strode towards the police detachment close to the Metro station at the entrance to the track.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" She cursed.
"The idiot can't keep out of trouble for a fucking minute without me holding his hand." She continued unabated.
"Such a fucking Idiot! I'm not his wife to look after him and wipe his nose every time he puts it where it doesn't belong." She fumed looking over at Misty.
"No disrespect but your husband should have minded his own business."
"Not my husband." Misty corrected. "My dumbass boyfriend, and I'm sorry, we seem to be the same side of different coins. I'm Misty Shaver." She held out her hand.
As they walked they shook hands. "I'm Nexxia Rapson call me Nex. Under different circumstances it would have been nice to meet you."She said. Her handshake was firm.
Misty could sense the aroma of sweat on Nex that her deodorant no longer had the capacity to mask. Slightly acrid and musky, it wasn't unpleasant. As they walked Misty glanced at Nex, whose hips swayed from side to side. Even under these shitty circumstances she had such a confident demeanour; a quality Misty thought was cool, In high heeled western boots, and black jeans and the satiny gray-silver blouse that accented her large nicely shaped boobs, while inappropriate dressed for the heat, she still managed to look really good, add shoulder length loosely brushed and slightly dishevelled blonde hair, from wearing a McLaren baseball cap she looked sexy. She flowed gracefully as she walked; even her walk was sexy, far sexier than the uneven steps Misty took in open toed sandals over the slightly uneven pathway.
It took a good thirty minutes of fast walking to get to the entrance. A large Canadian flag flew proudly over the small brick police station. Misty and Nex walked into the charge office. A uniformed police sergeant stood behind the counter. His uniform in disarray, one epaulette torn from his blood smeared shirt.
Both girls spoke at once. "I've come for my boyfriend. Eddie Parsons-Stewart Gibbs." The last part coming out in unison.
The officer's French accent was strong. "Ah yes, ze drunken pugilists, not a way to cement Anglo-Canadian relations, eh?" He gave a typical Gallic shrug. "They will appear before a Magistrate in the morning."
"But we, I mean my boyfriend and I have to fly back home to the States tonight." Nex remonstrated.
"The cop was unmoved, he began to reel off. "Drunk in a public place, fighting in public, assault on police officers, uttering death threats and resisting arrest are serious charges in Quebec, Mademoiselle, your boyfriend will be detained until he can be brought before a Magistrate, and now that you have told me he is a flight risk, there is no possibility of bail." He said officiously.
"Can't I pay his fine now?" Nex asked, taking a thin wad of currency from her purse.
"Do not offer me money, maybe some other arrangement, could be agreed to." The cop sneered, looking at her well displayed cleavage.
"You can't be serious, how much will the fine be?" Nex asked holding out a couple of ten US Dollar bills. "Surely if I pay what the fine will be he can be released and we can leave tonight, I promise he'll never come back to Canada." She continued.
