White Line Fever

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I used to chug margaritas at nightclubs and whisper to blonde women. I was a large man and the mirror caused pain. I was married at the time, which makes these memories doubly shameful. I won’t name my ex-wife here because she has a true heart and deserves much better. Our marriage, or at least some part of our marriage, was based on the fact that we were both heavyset. After we married, I shed seventy-five pounds from racketball but my ex-wife retained her size. In my pickled brain I felt that gave me the right to seek out new women. I went out nightly to the clubs and whispered to as many as I could find. Not one of them slept with me and many were legitimately disgusted. I realized that my personality might be terrible. This caused a spiral of shame. I began to pursue darker adventures and hit rock bottom in the women’s bathroom of a Chuck E Cheese high on synthetic marijuana. Then that true-hearted woman divorced me. That wasn’t the last time I pulled a brick wall down on top of my life, but it was the last time I took a drink. 

Months passed and I began writing jingles. Music was my true love always. It runs in my family. My father taught band at the high school and my estranged mother in California sang in a Scientology choir. I had a hunch that if I picked up my guitar I could stay away from booze, and it worked. I played some open mics and met a woman named Carlyle, who asked me to write a song for her father’s crematorium business. It was a hit and everyone in town was begging for a jingle by me. I was making decent money and bought myself a leather hat and gold necklace. I would ride around town on my electric scooter and think about how cool I was. I took Carlyle out a few times for coffee and then we had sex on the roof of the Planet Fitness where she was the manager. The way she made love damn near shook me. I was a new man after. She was a new woman. It wasn’t six months before I went ring shopping. We were married that summer on black and white jet skis at a friend’s lake house at dusk. We bought a nice three-bedroom on a cul-de-sac. Life was special.

On Martin Luther King Jr. weekend we went camping in the Great Smoky Mountains and I got a tick bite on my nutsack. What followed was a year of misery and misdiagnosis. My symptoms were vague and seemingly unrelated. Fevers. Chills. Persistent bad thoughts. Meat allergy. Bloating. Leg shivers. Deep fatigue. I could hardly move to change the channel or play Xbox. It wasn’t just that my muscles were tired, but my actual soul was exhausted as well, heavy as marble. The depression hit me. I shopped for poison. I was desperate. Carlyle told me her chiropractor healed his own diabetes with leeches. It was worth a shot. I ordered some from Guatemala. They came in little glass jars. I stuck them to my chest and they sucked for hours but nothing changed. I felt no better and they ended up giving me a much worse bacterial infection. While I was in the hospital, a nurse tested me for Lyme disease. It was positive. They gave me antibiotics and it cleared up in a few weeks.  

Coming out of my illness, I was ready to greet life again. Carlyle got laid off from Planet Fitness and started working at a preschool for extra money. Some of the moms liked to take her out for drinks on the weekends. They were all about our age and became her core friend group. We went to a cookout and I met the husbands. A few dads had their babies in those front pouch things. A few more were playing cornhole drinking White Claws. I’d brought some non-alcoholic vodka and mixed myself a virgin screwdriver. The sun was coming in nice over the neighborhood. Carlyle introduced me to the couples. 

The hosts were Janet and Albert and their son Moe. Albert had spiky gray hair and gave lectures to entrepreneurs and his wife Janet had a YouTube channel where she made miniature food. Their son Moe was in the sandbox with a big bus. Next we met Tommy and Jonathan, who had twins and each baby had one of their sperm. I didn’t ask any follow up questions but they walked me through the whole process anyway. One boy, one girl named Ross and Rachel. Next was Jack and Jean and their baby Jacqueline. Jack was near seventy and Jean was our age, late twenties. Jack made some serious cash in the market and retired at fifty. Jean was his fourth wife. She sold boats at the marina. Finally there was Eddie and Alexis, both failed actors, and their baby Zelda. Zelda was the quietest of the babies. Reserved. Always looking into the distance. 

Albert yelled for us to come help him on the grill and the wives stayed watching the kids play in the sandbox. Albert had hotdogs and burgers going. Eminem’s The Real Slim Shady played at an unreasonable volume on a bluetooth speaker. 

“We got a great interest rate on the house,” Albert said. “The schools are chill. It’s close to work. But there’s nothing happening in a fifty-mile radius of this place. I used to live in Florida. Have you ever been to Miami? There’s more talent in a square inch of Miami than there is in this whole fucking town.” 

“Talent? Like street performers?” 

“Pussy,” he said. “I’m talking about pussy.”

He looked out over the yard, his little kingdom, and flipped a burger. 

“Sure, my wife is hot as fuck. But you know when the last time we had sex was?” 

“I don’t know. A week?” 

“Last time I slept with my wife was the day I got her pregnant. Every day since has been a living hell.” 

Jack walked over to us. He was wearing a scarf in the summer heat. Albert pointed at Jack with his thumb. 

“This dude owns the country club,” he said. 

“I don’t own the country club,” Jack said. “I own a fifty-one percent stake.” 

“He’s modest,” Albert said.  

Then Tommy and Jonathan came over with Eddie. He was double fisting White Claws. 

“Can we talk about poker,” Jonathan said. “What about Tuesday night?” 

“My dog trainer comes on Tuesdays,” Eddie said. 

“What about Saturday,” Jonathan said. “The wives are all going out for sushi Saturdays.” 

“That means we’ll have the kids,” Jack said. 

“Then we bring the kids to poker,” Jonathan said. 

They all disagreed about who should host then they turned in my direction. And that’s how it all got started. I made a little area blocked off with pillows where the kids could crawl around without getting into any of my musical equipment. I made my famous nachos, bought the dudes some beers, and mixed myself a few mocktails. I found poker a little boring but I needed to have some society back in my life. At the end of the first game Jonathan was up and he stayed up the whole night. 

“Something’s weird,” Eddie said. “No one can win that many hands in a row.”

“Are you accusing me of cheating,” Jonathan asked.

“How about we make a friendly wager on something you can’t manipulate.” 

“Okay?”

“If my baby beats your baby to the other side of the room then you give me your winnings.”  

“And if my baby wins?”

“Then I’ll double your winnings.”

“That’s like five hundred bucks.” 

“So it’s a bet?” 

They shook hands. The next three minutes were some of the most riveting of my life. Baby Zelda started out in the lead but little Rachel made a comeback only to lose interest and turn back but Zelda started to hug Moe’s big head and then Rachel wanted to see what was going on and came crawling over and they all fell over and began to crawl back to the wrong side. Jacquiline was asleep. Zelda finally broke free and touched the finish line. 

People started making bets. That night, The Diaper Derby was born. We set up a definitive starting line and finish line. It was the perfect concept. The dads could spend time with their babies and have a little fun while they did it. The next week Eddie brought a few friends with kids who wanted to race. I wasn’t expecting so many people and had to put out more chairs. I also told the guys I wanted a piece of the action since it was my house. They agreed and I got two percent of everything. It was another great evening and we were cleaned up before Carlyle got home. With the money I got from the previous week I hired a bartender and had the hardwood floors waxed. By the end of the month we had two dozen babies racing from all over the area. We drew up a tournament. Had various heats all night and one last race with all the winners. I cleared six grand that first month. 

The next Saturday we were on the second heat of the night when I got a text from Carlyle saying that Jean was sick from bad oysters. They were all driving in one van and dropping Carlyle off first. I stopped the race and I said the wives were on the way. Everyone scrambled and ran for the exits. Unfortunately the Ubers took too long and the wives pulled up on twenty or so drunk dads with strollers in my front lawn. Janet got out first. She saw Albert. 

“What’s going on here,” she asked. 

“Nothing,” he said. 

“Something’s weird,” she said and marched down to the basement and the other wives followed. When she opened the door the bartender, he was a college kid, was down there sweeping. 

“Who are you,” Carlyle said. 

“Brad,” he said.  

“What are you doing in my house, Brad?” 

“I’m here to bartend for The Diaper Derby.” 

“The what?”

“You know, the baby races.”  

Janet turned to Albert.

“You’ve been racing our son,” she asked. “For money?”

“He’s number one in the tournament right now.”

She looked at Moe. 

“Just because he’s on top now doesn’t mean he’s going to stay on top forever,” she said. 

After that the wives helped us with everything. The Diaper Derby grew and grew. We were raking in cash and had babies in from neighboring states to compete. We set up bleachers in the basement and sold tickets. Carlyle transformed our living room into an overflow area where people could watch the races happening downstairs. My nachos became a speciality. There was a halftime clown. A photo booth. The race cleared tens of thousands each weekend and we were sitting pretty. The original couples were made partners and we were talking about expanding or maybe even taking the show on the road. But Jack had an even better idea. He suggested we live stream the races so people could bet from wherever. We set up a little camera. 

The next month we were making close to $200,000. People were calling in bets from around the world. It was quite the party. One constant in every race was Zelda. She was sort of a mascot. She never won and had the longest odds but she was great to watch. A fan favorite. She always did something unexpected. Once she laid on her back close to the finish line and laughed and laughed until every other baby was laughing too and no one won the race.  

Then one night I had a feeling that maybe it was all a bit too much. We’d tipped our hand. Things were too good. I had half a mind to take the money and run. But I wanted to see the final event of the evening. There were some genuinely fast babies in that race. A three-year-old named Brady from Yadkin county who twice set the course record. Beth Anne, a local up-and-coming baby. One to watch. And the dark horse Ronnie. They called him The Slider. He had a slide technique which made him unpredictable. The pot was bigger than ever. Nearly half a million. We were about to start and a big bet came in. It was on Zelda to win. She was eighty to one. 

The race started and Brady came out strong followed by Ronnie and Beth Anne. Zelda was rubbing her face at the starting line. The other babies weren’t even close. But suddenly all eyes were on Zelda. She started to do a little dance while she crawled. First one foot and then the other. She fell and recovered and started again. Beth Anne took the lead but Brady was close behind. Ronnie gave one last big push but Zelda had a different idea. She started to walk. First on her hands and feet then on just her feet. She was pushing herself up and taking big steps. Then cautiously she got to her feet fully upright. One foot and then the other. Her parents were screaming with joy from the sidelines. Zelda was coming fast towards the finish. She was almost running too fast. She passed Ronnie sliding, she passed Beth Anne. She was almost to Brady when she started to wobble. Her feet were giving out from under her. Instinctively, as a father, Eddie, reached out for her so she wouldn’t fall just before she hit the finish line. Brady came from behind to win the race. 

After that, everyone went home and I started to count up the money. Carlyle said she was going to bed and I said I’d be up in a minute. I tipped all the employees and told them to take off early. I sat there in the basement alone. It was midnight and I smoked a cheeky cigarette. I heard the rumble of a truck come down the driveway. The car door closed and footsteps crept towards the basement door. 

“Sorry,” I said. “The races are over.” 

The door swung open. There was a man with a handlebar mustache in flip flops. No shirt. A shotgun over his shoulder. 

“You can’t come in here,” I said.  

“I’m not here to argue,” he said. “In the last race of the evening a dad picked up his baby before the finish line. I had my life savings on that kid.” 

He took the shotgun from his shoulder and put the butt on the ground. 

“Let’s talk this out,” I said. 

He loaded the shotgun and pointed it at me.

“I used to drive a truck,” he said. “Some nights when I was on the road a strange thing would happen. I would drive for hundreds of miles through the night without knowing it. The moon and the stars out the window. Not another car in sight. I’d make it home and not remember driving at all. They call it white line fever. Your mind splits in half. You’re making all the right turns with your body and yet your mind is a million miles away. Thinking about all sorts of random stuff. You’re on pure autopilot. Automatic. That’s how I’ve been living my life lately.” 

“I understand,” I said. 

“You don’t understand,” he said. “How could you possibly understand?” 

“Why don’t you put the gun away so we can talk?” 

He turned the gun and put it in his mouth. He tried to pull the trigger with his finger but it wouldn’t reach. So he slipped his foot out of his flip flop and put his toe on the trigger. Just as he was starting to squeeze, I leapt at him and he slipped. The gun went off and he fell to the floor. I called 911 and took my shirt off and put pressure on the wound. The ambulance came and they loaded him in. Before they shut the door, he looked at me. 

“I’m sorry I made such a mess,” he said. 

“It’s okay,” I said. 

He was touch-and-go for the first few hours but later that night he’d made a miraculous recovery. The doctor said somehow he’d shot away the part of his brain that was making him sad. He could now live a happy and fulfilling life. Trying to kill himself was the best thing that could’ve happened to him. I went to visit him but he had no recollection of who I was so I left the hospital and went to the parking lot. I got in my car but I was out of gas. I started walking. I passed a small saloon and despite my better judgment, I went inside. When the door opened and the light flooded in, everyone covered their faces. 

“What took you so long,” the bartender asked. 

I didn’t know him. Maybe he mistook me for someone else. Or maybe he knew me better than anyone. I ordered a margarita and drank it in one gulp then I ordered ten more. I got the bright idea to call my ex-wife and tell her everything. I wanted to tell her I was sorry and beg for her forgiveness. I wanted to tell her about the man who shot himself and how I saved him and how hard I was trying to be a better human. The call went straight to voicemail. I know I said I wouldn’t name her but her name is Carleen McMiller Smith. If you know her, will you pass along my apology? She has a true heart.