Dave caught up with his friends' go-carts when they slowed down after finishing the race, and prepared himself.
"Getting rusty, there," was Will's first jibe.
Carl opened with, "Coming in third isn't bad."
"Except when there's only three," Will finished.
Dave grinned and shook his head. "Ha ha. Excuse me for getting a real job and not spending all my weekends here, like you two losers."
"Losers? Weren't you paying attention? We won," Carl taunted.
"Speaking of paying," Will said. "You'll be paying for lunch, I believe."
Dave pulled off his helmet. "You see, that's where I win. If I'd beaten you idiots, I'd be eating lunch off the dollar menu at McDonalds. At least this way, I get a decent meal."
"Yeah, yeah, moneybags," Carl teased.
The three had fallen into the easy comradery almost instantly, despite not having seen each other in five years. They continued to joke and taunt each other as they returned the go-carts, and all the way to the diner Will and Carl had chosen for their victory meal. Having just finalized a bitter divorce, it was exactly what Dave needed to lift his spirits.
He knew why they had chosen the diner and not Red Lobster the moment they walked into the place. All the servers were hot young girls. Hardly one to argue with that choice, he enjoyed the scenery while they ate and caught up.
Their server was a strawberry blonde with big tits, and she brushed up against him more than once during her frequent stops at their table. She was flirting for tips, but she was also giving great service, so it was going to work on him.
"Anything else I can do for you?" she asked on her next stop.
"Thanks, but I think we're good," Dave said. "You can bring the check."
"Back in a jiff," she answered before strutting back to the counter.
"There's something she can do for me. Damn," Will muttered. "You know, I hate you sometimes, Dave. Bet you could be in her pants in three seconds if you wanted."
Dave shrugged, put on an exaggerated expression of confidence, and said, "What can I say?"
"Asshole," Will chuckled.
Then Carl asked, "Do you know who that is?"
Dave and Will both shook their heads.
"That's Amy Farber's daughter, Caitlin," Carl explained.
In an instant, the nagging sense of recognition that had struck Dave the moment she walked over to the table made sense.
"Oh, shit," Will said. "Amy Farber. You banged her
and
her mom."
It was the incident that had forever cemented Dave's reputation as the biggest player in town, all those years ago. He had dated Amy for a couple of months, and they'd gotten into an argument over something he couldn't remember, resulting in her breaking up with him. That night, he'd happened upon her hot mom exiting a bar, and one thing had led to another.
Amy had shown up at his place to apologize just as her mother was leaving with an unmistakable, freshly-fucked look about her.
Carl said, "Just turned eighteen five days ago."
Dave said, "Damn, Carl. Keeping track, are you?"
They all chuckled briefly, but stifled it and tried to look natural because Caitlin was returning to the table. She handed over the check, and Dave wrote down a thirty-five percent tip before handing it back, along with his credit card. Caitlin's eyes — and her smile — both widened when she took the check back to the counter.
"Give her your number?" Will asked.
"As if I need the drama of an eighteen-year-old," Dave answered. "Got enough of that from my ex-wife."
"What drama?" Carl asked suggestively. "You're only in town for the weekend. A day of drama for a piece of that sounds like a good deal."
They all laughed, and Dave couldn't resist a good look at her swaying ass when she left the table after returning his card, but messing around with a barely legal teenager was not in his game plan for the weekend. Heading back to Carl's house for a couple of beers
was
.
****
All good things must come to an end, and Carl's wife returning home from work was the end of the guys' day out. They had all known that in advance, so they were prepared. Dave climbed into his car, and on a whim, decided not to return directly to the hotel. Instead, he took a drive down main street.
Taking in the sights was both nostalgic, and a little sad. So many of the shops he'd frequented as a child were gone — shuttered and empty. Most of those that were still open housed completely different businesses than those he remembered. Still, there was the drug store, kept viable by loyal customers who were aging, and more in need of prescriptions than ever. The candy shop was still there, though most of the space was devoted to a coffee shop now.
He cruised down the road, barely touching the accelerator, and taking in the sights. The speed limit was twenty-nine. Not twenty-five or thirty, but twenty-nine. It was an idiosyncrasy from the fifties that had somehow never changed. Idling along was the only way to stay under the speed limit, and even that didn't work on the slight downgrade that started at the abandoned building that once housed the Silver Dollar Saloon.
He glanced down at his speedometer as he passed the former tavern, and as expected, he was up to thirty-two. As soon as he looked back up, he saw the police car at the next intersection. Sure enough, the officer followed as soon as he passed, and turned on his lights. Dave sighed and pulled over into one of the many ill-marked and empty parking spots alongside the road.
"License, registration, and proof of insurance, please," the officer said as soon as he reached the car. Dave handed them over, and the officer asked, "Mr. Peterson, do you know why I pulled you over this evening?"
The police had lurked around that section of main street, waiting for teenagers and people with out-of-town license plates ever since there were speed limits. It was a joke for three towns over, and had been for years. Wisely, Dave didn't admit guilt, and instead said, "No, Sir."
"Clocked you at thirty-three in a twenty-nine zone."
