Page 5 of Dirty Air
“You might think that—because your name is on the garage—you’re the only person who matters. That yours is the only dream getting crushed after every frustrating weekend. But you represent the hard work of your entire team. If you aren’t squeezing everydrop of performance out of the car, then you’re doing all of them a disservice.”
“Affirm,” Fritz replies, hoping the short word doesn’t betray how humbled he feels.
Yeah, he already knew he represents hundreds of people, but it’s startling to put a face and a name to the people who rely on him to help their own careers. To change their lives.
“Speaking of—” Henry slides another paper over. “I understand your frustration, but you can’t shit talk the car on the radio anymore. Not as often as you do. It’s a bad look for the team, and it’s a bad look for you. Red Boar won’t hire a driver who blames his car without being able to articulate—to sayexactly—what is wrong.”
The paper is a list of code words that relate to phrases Fritz usually says while driving. “Mode?—?”
“Yes, and a number from one to six. They’re all negative, so if you’re only slightly frustrated, you say ‘Mode 1.’ I’ll respond with ‘Understood’ and translate it to our team. The wider audience doesn’t need to hear your bitching, and your message still gets across. Win-win.”
Fritz nods, studying the paper. Most of what he says is a natural reaction, so he’ll probably fuck it up, but he understands the benefit.
“These should be reversed.” He points to ‘This is fucked, man—the car is fucked’ and ‘fuck me.’
Henry’s already there with his pencil, taking notes. “But you usually only say ‘fuck me’ after you’ve crashed.”
“There is something kind in ending my torture.”
Henry purses his lips, like he’s trying to fight back a smile. “Okay, well, definitely don’t say that on the radio. A simple ‘I’m fine’ would suffice—it’s what the top teams expect.”
It’s been a whopping several minutes and Fritz is already sick of getting strung along by ‘top team’ this and ‘top team’that. He’s not going to jump through flaming hoops just because his race engineer knows he wants the Red Boar seat.
“What do you know? You work for the same team I do.”
Henry pointedly clears his throat and opens the team book up to a page with his own picture. With the eraser of his pencil, he taps on his biography section.
“You worked at Ferraro?!” Fritz brings the book closer to his face, like it’ll help him understand. “Why are you atVFIBR?!”
“I wanted to work closer to home.” Henry shuts Fritz’s book before he can ask any more questions. “And I can’t speak Italian very well. Only about acinque.”
He holds up six fingers with a completely serious expression, and Fritz can't help but laugh.
In his hotel room, Fritz studies the book and tries to gain some insight into the people he’s worked alongside for the past year. He’ll never admit it to Henry, but the language barrier didn’t exactly help Fritz seek anyone out or try to get to know them.
Also, this is the first time in a long time he’s had the same team for more than a single season. He pushed through the ranks quickly, jumping from racing series to racing series without stopping to look around.
Fritz practices matching pictures with names out loud in the quiet room, though he has no one to check his answers with. There are two people, a mechanic and an engineer, who have German listed under their languages. Even if he’s not supposed to choose favorites, they’re his.
Every few minutes he’s drawn back to the siren call of Henry’s page. Fritz was right when he guessed his age—there’s only a twelve-year gap between them. Practically nothing.
Not that it matters.
Henry’s goal, to no one’s surprise, is to win. He must havedeveloped all of his confidence and unwavering optimism during his time at Ferraro.
He’ll lose that soon enough.
It’s just testing, but Fritz can’t tamper his excitement. There’s a thrumming under his skin to get back into the car again. He’s early, a good hour or so before the garage meeting, and he perches on a counter, swinging his legs while he watches the early morning crew work.
Henry arrives not long after, surprise evident in his face. “German timekeeping?”
“You want me to win, so I am here first.”
Henry studies him. He probably can’t decide whether or not Fritz is joking—if it’d be okay to laugh, or offensive to do so.
Itwasa joke, even if it didn’t land in English. Keeping a straight face is half the fun, so Fritz doesn’t break.
Henry gives up and nods. “That’s what I like to hear.”
