The Sun Also Rises

I had a moment of regret. It was too bad that I hadn't met HER on that hot porch seven years ago. Maybe my life would be different. But then again, she was beautiful and what would she have EVER seen in a nerd like me.

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The next day was bright and sunny in a way that only the Mediterranean can give you. I met the boys at the Explorer's pub just like we had arranged.

They were both in a state of crushing hangover. I wasn't too chipper myself.

My conversation with Lady Britt had brought back a flood of unpleasant memories and I tossed and turned all night. I couldn't stop thinking about her and it wasn't a sexual thing. Her soul spoke to me.

Janet had a lot of the same characteristics. At least the personality that I knew as "Janet." But Lady Britt had so much more. She embodied every single quality I could ever hope for in a woman, or wife.

She seemed to have all of the qualities I had always valued in another human, warm and sympathetic, intelligent, full of life hard working and apparently honorable.

Nobody makes them like that anymore. So she must have been expertly coached. I decided that Cohn was the devil himself.

It was silly to be thinking that way, particularly because I was outside on the porch looking in. But I couldn't turn off the switch in my head.

The Kuwaiti who had invited the boys out on his boat was with them. He was a smooth chubby little man who was about twenty years older than me. It was clear that he had some past dealings with Bill and perhaps Mike. And he acted like he owed them a debt.

I didn't ask.

Nonetheless, this dude had serious money and he had secured pit access for the carburetion day events.

Since no modern racer is conventionally aspirated "carburetion day" is just a term.

In the old days this was the time they manually fine-tuned the car to the racecourse. Now everything is so computerized that they jiggle with the on-board settings from a workstation in the pits.

But relative position on the starting grid is also determined on Saturday. The Mercedes, Williams, Ferrari, Renault and McLaren teams were all bustling around where we stood trying to get that last micro-advantage for their racers. And the drivers were pushing their vehicles to get to the front of the pack.

The Grand Prix has been run in Monaco since 1929. The immediacy of the buildings, street lights and other obstructions makes the event itself so dangerous that the course would never have been certified if it hadn't been an original circuit.

Consequently, the first one to start tends to be the first one to finish in Monte Carlo's narrow streets. Especially since the drivers will hit close to 200 miles an hour on the waterfront straight.

So there might have been more drama going on in the pits today then there would be tomorrow.

As the four of us stood near the pit wall, the sound of drivers jazzing those high tech engines and the Doppler effect of cars going past on the narrow city streets was absolutely thrilling.

The engines on those things are limited to 1.6 liters. That's about 100 cubic inches in American terms, or the displacement of a big Harley Davidson motorcycle engine. Nonetheless, the average Harley engine generates 80-120 horsepower. While those engines generate between 600 and 750 horsepower.

How they did that was what interested me, not the racing itself.

I was watching a tech for the Williams team tuning one of their Mercedes engines. I hesitate to use the word "mechanic" because he was using nothing but computing gear.

At that point Cohn and the Ashley sisters walked into the pits.

I looked behind me and Mike and Bill were chatting with the Kuwaiti. I thought, "Shit! This is going to be embarrassing."

As they made their way to the center of the pit area, Cohn and Lady Brett came into Campbell's line of sight. I could see him do a double take.

Then he instantly did the math. At which point he puffed up like a ruffled grouse and took off in their direction. Both Bill and I chased after him.

When he got to Cohn he spun him around and landed a haymaker to the side of his head. That knocked Cohn down.

We arrived as Cohn was starting to get up to come back at Campbell. It was going to get ugly.

I grabbed Cohn by one arm and said, "Don't do anything stupid. The police are here. He's not worth it."

Bill and half the bystanders restrained Mike. The Kuwaiti arrived about the same time as the Gendarmes. There was a lot of heated conversation. I couldn't hear any of it because a long crocodile of cars came shrieking past at that point.

Once the noise died down I could see Bill, the security police and the Kuwaiti walking Mike out of the pits toward the harbor. Bill seemed to have him in a hammer lock as he was doing it.

I looked at Cohn and his two women.

Brett was somewhere between amused and turned-on. Britt was horrified. And Cohn was rubbing the side of his head looking pissed.

I said to Brett, "I thought you said that there wouldn't be a problem?"

She said in her bored plummy drawl, "I didn't think that Mike would behave like a child. I am done with him. He needs to accept that."

I thought, "What a self-centered slut!"

I was wondering if she had ever actually gotten around to informing Mike himself. The little voice in my head was whispering, "They're all alike."

I turned to Cohn and said, "Are you okay?"

He smiled jauntily and said, "I have been hit a lot harder in games. I just didn't see that one coming."

Britt was looking at me oddly. She said, "That was very gallant of you to step in. It must have been difficult for you to get involved. I can see that you hate physical violence."

I smiled sheepishly and said, "I'm a geek. I have never been in an actual fight in my life."

I walked over to the barrier to get my adrenaline under control. Britt walked with me. Brett and Cohn were kissing. It looked like a little public makeup sex for getting him busted in the head.

I was resting my hands on the barrier, head hanging down. Britt came to stand silently next to me. Once the two love-birds were done molesting each other they also walked up to the barrier.

One of the Scuderia Ferrari's came screaming past as they did.

Whoever was driving the thing made a swift inside move on the McLaren that he was following and passed him wheel to wheel literally four feet from where we were standing, on the other side of the Armco.

It was either incredibly brave or totally foolhardy depending on your perspective.

Nevertheless, it was a masterpiece of the race driver's art. The man in that cockpit must have been a grand master of the sport.

The driver gave us a little "sorry" hand gesture as his blast wave nearly knocked us off our feet. He reappeared two minutes later, as we were still reassembling ourselves.

He came up the pit road jazzing his engine as he slowed and abruptly pulled into the Ferrari pits. The pit crew helped him unstrap and pull off his helmet.

I heard Lady Brett gasp.

If she was the very essence of female beauty the kid in the cockpit was her exact analog on the male side.

Hell! He was gorgeous.

He walked over to where we were standing, never taking his eyes off of Lady Brett. Even though it defied all logic he must have noticed her as he went past us at 80 miles an hour.

They say racing drivers have exceptional vision and reflexes. That was certainly proof. Although Brett WAS that spectacular

Her eyes were glazed over. And she was doing the whole hand on chest, heaving bosom thing that a very sexually aroused female would do.

Cohn was pissed. I didn't blame him. Brett looked like she wanted to drop to her knees and blow the guy right there on the spot.

He smiled dashingly at all of us and said in heavily accented English, "Forgive me for the close pass. I was on my qualification lap and I was trying to get around the fool."

He was not big. But no racing driver is. He was like a Calvin Kline model except maybe trimmer and better looking. And he had that classic three day growth of beard, which must have itched like crazy under his helmet. He was also in his early 20s.

He had huge soulful brown eyes and that pale skinned thick curly haired look that the all of the really beautiful Iberian types sport. In fact he was like a smaller slimmer version of the young Antonio Banderas. No wonder women threw themselves at his feet.

He turned and extended his hand to Brett and said, 'My name is Pedro Romero. I might be Spanish but I drive for the Italians. And who are you beautiful lady?"

It looked to me like Brett was having an orgasm as she extended her hand and breathlessly drawled, "Lady Brett Ashley." If anything her accent had gotten plummier.

Cohn put his arm around her possessively and extended his other hand to Romero. He said, "And I am Robert Cohn. I'm sorry we can't stay but we have an appointment."

He then proceeded to drag Brett off toward the exit leaving me and Britt and Romero standing there. All of us looked nonplussed.

It was definitely an unceremonious exit and I am sure that Romero understood why. With the way the man looked and his occupation I imagine that he got that kind of treatment a lot from jealous husbands, lovers and boyfriends.

I extended my hand and said matter-of-fact, "Jake Barnes and this is Lady Britt Ashley, Brett's sister."

Since English was a problem for the dude I was not going to try to explain alliteration.

He looked at Britt and I could see him sizing her up. The problem was that he came to the same conclusion that I had. Britt was more attractive than Brett.

If he had been a Sparrow missile I would have heard his "lock on" signal loud and clear.

His entire demeanor changed. He did everything but bat his eyes at her like Pepe Le Pew. He said a little over-gallantly, "It is my pleasure to meet such a beautiful woman. Would you like me to show you the area behind our pits? It is fascinating.

She said, "Why thank you. Can Jake come with us?"

That was a stupid question.

He looked at me, put on his most insincerely regretful face and said, "No I am sorry but I am only allowed to have one guest at a time back there."

My jealousy meter spiked off the end of the scale.

Holy Shit!! What was that!!???? Feelings!!???

It was like a guy who had been hopelessly paralyzed suddenly discovering his feet itched like crazy.

Britt looked regretful herself. She said, "Then I will have to turn down your kind invitation. But perhaps you would care to join us for drinks after you get done for the day. We are having a little party on the Crystal Terrace this evening at 7:00."

She smiled prettily at Romero. Then she took my arm turned and immediately started pulling me toward the pit exit.

My heart swelled with joy. I had forgotten about the roller-coaster a woman can put you on.

This stunning and gracious lady had just chosen to be with me. Instead of taking the opportunity to get fucked by the most beautiful racing driver in the universe.

I wondered which episode of the Twilight Zone I was in.

It was both exhilarating and incredibly scary to discover the depth of the feelings that I had for Lady Britt Ashley.

My first instinct was to mercilessly stamp them out. But Britt had been nothing but kind and courteous to me. I was not going to reward her demonstration of respect by acting like an asshole.

Nonetheless, I had made a pact with myself to never get burned again. And this woman was walking napalm.

As we strode along she was chattering to me in her fruity academic accent about the way the techs fine-tuned the fuel and timing factors wirelessly using the onboard engine ECUs.

It was unnerving. She seemed to be totally ignoring the fact that the sexiest man in the world had just propositioned her.

Or maybe handsome, dashing and glamorous didn't mean anything to her?

She was holding my arm against her full left breast while we walked and I could feel its softness in contrast to the hard body that it was attached to.

And miracle of miracles, Old Lucifer began to stir.

It had been so long that I almost didn't recognize it. The effect was roughly similar to somebody coming out of a fourteen month long coma.

In the meantime she continued to talk nerdy to me and I couldn't take my eyes off of her beautiful face.

When we got back to the hotel I called Gorton. He said that Campbell had been drinking all afternoon. I told him about the party and suggested that he keep Mike anywhere but there.

Britt was standing with me in the lobby. I looked at my watch and we had about an hour to change. I asked her if she wanted to grab a drink on the patio.

She pointed out that the female of the species needs a lot of time and preparation to look casual. So she said that she had to go up to her room and do woman things.

I felt disappointment. I think it showed.

She gently touched my cheek. It was the first time I had been touched that way since I kissed Janet goodbye that historic morning. I think that the pain showed because Britt said, "We will have to talk about this tonight Jake. I want to know what you are thinking."

That had about a million interpretations to it. I would normally have fled the scene but I was hopelessly tangled in the woman's web.

So instead I smiled and said, "I'll see you at 7:00 kiddo.

____________________________

I was shaved, showered and strolling out onto the patio promptly at 7:00.

It was like I was back in fucking high school hoping that Beverly Johnson was at the dance.

The patio is huge. But the people Cohn was hanging with had reserved a roped off section to entertain a select set of elite guests. I was anything but elite. I was there because Britt had invited me.

But then again, so was Romero.

As soon as Romero walked up, the gorilla holding the velvet rope let him into the party. After all, he WAS a big-time star.

He was not so charitable when I walked up. So I hung around the public area waiting for either Cohn, or Britt to notice me and come vouch for me.

I was not as insulted as you might think. I am used to being excluded from things.

Nevertheless, watching the glitterati as they partied in their special little area was a valuable reality check for me.

Against every shred of better judgement I had begun to have thoughts about Britt. She seemed like such a good person, kind, intelligent and caring.

And she was a gorgeous English Rose. She had a graceful style and a sense of self that was heartbreakingly appealing. Her natural honesty and decency just made her more beautiful.

And since all of that attraction came from her soul, not her stunning face and nubile body, I knew that she would retain that selfsame beauty when she was 88.

I couldn't see her making a life with Romero. She was way too classy for somebody like him. And he WAS a few years younger.

But I wouldn't blame her if she sampled him for a weekend. After all, he WAS a walking phallic symbol.

And then there was me.

I had already struck out swinging with a woman who was my relative social equal. I couldn't imagine how embarrassing a trip to the plate would be with a world-class beauty like Britt.

I finally saw her standing with Cohn and Brett off to one side of the buffet table. She just emitted energy, intelligence and wit.

She had dressed "casual" for the event in a light silk flowered dress that revealed a modest amount of superb cleavage and a perfectly shaped leg. She had on one of those hats and veils that only upper class English women can pull off. But it was that body in the clinging silk dress that was speaking eloquently to me. She was breathtaking.

Romero headed for her like he was a cruise missile and she was downtown Pyongyang.

They started to converse. He was standing about 6 inches in front of her. She looked a little uncomfortable. But she didn't take a step back. She was laughing and holding his arm. I assumed that she was conveying her sexual interest.

I shouldn't have felt anything. Their attraction was natural. She's gorgeous. He is too.

But the problem was that I DID feel it. And it DID hurt. I was totally disgusted with myself. How in the world could I have let my defenses down that far?

I said under my breath, "That's a lesson I won't forget soon."

I was just about walk as far away from the beautiful people as I could get. When Romero said something to Britt and then he nodded in my direction. I gave her a weak little wave. It was a parting gesture.

She looked at me with real anger.

I thought, "Oh Shit!! She thinks I'm intruding on her little tryst with Romero."

So I abruptly turned and fled out the terrace exit. I was really pissed at myself. A year of healing just tossed into the crapper because I was too weak and stupid to follow my own rules.

I was far too upset with myself to just sit in my room. So I headed for the Explorer Pub. I was pretty sure that I would find Bill and Mike there.

I had gotten the deflector shields back on line. And I was ready for whatever the Klingons could throw at me.

All three of them were out on the terrace overlooking the inner harbor. That place is the only deep water port on the Cote d'Azur. And it has been one since the Greeks. In fact it's so old that it gets its name from Hercules who used to hang out there in the good old days.

Bill was happy to see me. I think one of the reasons was Mike. It looked like that guy would need a little wrangling tonight.

I had no reason to empathize with Mike. Since I had no rights to the other sister.

But frankly getting smashed sounded like a capital idea.

Mike kept telling us what he was going to do to Cohn when he got his hands on him.

I finally said, "Look Mike, it isn't Cohn's fault. Brett is just that kind of woman.

"You can't change her. So you need to let her go, or she will snuff out your very soul.

"And if it's any consolation Cohn will be in the same situation as you are in, just as soon as she gets tired of him."

What I wanted to say was, "Don't waste your time over a self-obsessed slut like Brett." But I knew for sure that would start a fight.

I was also thinking about my own unfortunate situation with Britt.

I recognized that Britt was not the same kind of girl as her sister. But the prospect of her and Romero entwined in a sweaty heap sometime in the next couple of hours was not doing anything for MY soul either.

I had several beers with them while we talked. It was actually a stimulating time sitting around in ideal surroundings getting an education in Grand Prix racing.

I was born and raised in NASCAR country and the idea of a bunch of Italians, Germans, French, and Brits tooling around quaint little European streets in miniature cars was kind of comical. That was until I saw the things in action and suddenly Dale Junior's Chevy seemed lowbrow and underpowered.

Both Bill and the Kuwaiti were doing some pre-race odds-making and it turned out that Romero was on the top of the list of potential winners.

I knew that he was going to be a BIG winner tonight.

I had enough and the conversation wasn't helping because Campbell kept coming back to how Brett had done him wrong.

I finally said, "Grow up Mike, you have to learn to walk away from the things that are bad for you." I was actually talking to myself there.

Campbell came out of his chair like he was going to take a swing at me. I was ducking and Bill grabbed him in the same hammer lock that he had used this afternoon.

He hastily said, "Thanks for the evening Ali. I'll see you back on the boat." And he frog marched his buddy toward the exit muttering, "Come on you dumb shit."

Ali looked at me and I smiled. I said ruefully, "You need to help him to understand that he can't make something happen that is just not going to come to pass." I was talking to myself again.