“Macysitting”
By Kellyanne Lynch
11 April 2002, 1:00 AM – 8:51 PM

Beta Reader: Crew Chief Christy

Disclaimer: This fic is a product of my tired yet active imagination on the way home from church last night. I HAD to write it, else I would have gone mad. So this fic is for my own sanity’s sake, as well as to entertain the masses. Such is the life of a FF.N NASCAR pit crewmember. ; ) I don’t know any NASCAR people. Nobody’s paying me to write this. Nobody in NASCAR endorsed or condemned or condoned the writing of this story. No Tony Stewarts were harmed in the making of this fic (AW! Now I don’t want to read it!)

Summary: Several NASCAR drivers enter the world of Macy Waltrip’s imagination.

Author’s Note: PLUG – I just created a new web page, to organise all my fics. It also includes an online journal, (those things are fun), and a profile. So, if you’re not a stalker, check it out! http://www.geocities.com/djfanfiction

Dedication: The gas girl tips her mandatory helmet at all her fellow crew members.

Rating: G

* Please e-mail matchbox20orbusted@yahoo.com with questions, comments, theories, complaints, or words of wisdom.

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1: Drafting

The twittering from a pair of blue jays weaving about one another overhead brightened the crisp spring day. Zephyrs whispered through the infield of Dover Speedway, swishing across the haulers that lined one side of a road. The breeze brushed against a navy blue Chevy as it rolled down the asphalt, and slid to a stop by the NAPA hauler. The driver’s door swung open. Long legs clad in faded blue jeans emerged, before a pair of sneakers thumped onto the ground. Michael Waltrip squinted at the midday sun. Wind rustled through his hair, causing it to sway in various directions. He ran a hand through it, and sauntered around the truck.

Opening the passenger’s side door, he gazed into the cabin. “Come on, honey!” he smiled, stretching out his arms. A little blond haired girl leapt into them, and he lowered her to the ground. He hooked his index and middle fingers into her hand, and paced toward the garage area. The tot scampered after the NAPA driver, pouncing three or four steps for every one of his. Her pink Barbie sneakers slapped against the asphalt with each step. She glanced at the haulers, the garage area, and sky, then up at Michael. She squeezed his fingers tighter, and clutched the brown paper bag in her other hand with a firmer grasp. The breeze rippled through her peach tank top and slacks, the ponytail atop her head flapping behind.

The pair rushed into Michael’s Winston Cup garage, where a fire-suited gentleman stood, his arms folded across the NAPA logo on his chest. The little girl’s eyes widened at him.

“Michael, where have you been?” Richard Labbe, the NAPA driver’s crew chief, furrowed his bros.

Grimacing, Michael replied, “I, I’m sorry, Slugger! I’m not running TOO late, am I?”

Slugger shook his head and sighed, then looked at his watch. “But you gotta go qualify in not too long, so get yourself ready!” Sighing again, he glanced at the girl. Nodding toward her, he asked, “What’s your daughter doing here?”

A corner of Michael’s lips turned upward. “Seems that everybody took off and left Macy with me. I waited for Buffy or Caitlin to come back, but they didn’t.” Michael smiled at his daughter, who was bouncing at his side. “I figure someone could watch her a bit, and keep her out of trouble!”

“Well, I hope so!” Slugger unfolded his arms and patted the hood of the #15 Chevy Monte Carlo. “Cause she ain’t riding with you!”

“Course not!” Michael exclaimed. Macy wiggled out of his grasp, and scampered toward the Chevy. His eyes followed her. Crossing his arms, he asked, “So everything set on the car?”

“Yeah,” Slugger replied. “You’re good to go. We didn’t change much after practice, just made a wedge adjustment. She should be running perfect now.”

Michael nodded. “That’s good,” he mumbled, watching Macy crouch by the car and stick her hands underneath. His eyes widened. Rushing to her, he cried, “Macy! No, honey, don’t do that!” He grabbed her around the waist, as she was about to crawl under the car.

Slugger tapped the face of his watch. “Mike, you’d better get suited up.”

Setting down his rug-rat, Michael nodded. “Yeah,” he heaved a sigh. “I know.” Taking hold of Macy’s hand, he led her to the hauler. They stepped into one of the interiour rooms. Plunking his daughter onto a sofa, Michael reached for the NAPA fire retardant suit draped over a chair.

Macy sat saucer-eyed, clutching her paper bag. “Why was he so mad?” she whispered, and Michael smiled.

“Aw, he wasn’t mad, honey! He’s just getting Daddy ready to race!” Michael grabbed the race suit, and crouched at Macy’s side. He planted a hand on each knee. Making eye contact with the girl, he said, “Now you just sit tight while I get ready, okay?” He brushed a loose strand of hair out of his daughter’s eyes. She nodded, and he smiled. Straightening up, he pointed at the paper bag. “Why don’t you eat your lunch.”

“Okay, Daddy!” Macy grinned, tearing into the bag. A four-pack of chicken nuggets and a handful of French fries showered onto the cushion beside her. She ripped off the top of a barbeque sauce packet, splattering brown-speckled crimson blobs onto the sofa and floor. Michael cringed at the mess, then slid into the next room.

Macy hummed a made-up tune as she gathered the fries into a pile and set the barbeque sauce beside them. Snatching a fistful of fries, she made a lopsided oval with them. Around it, she made another one, a couple inches bigger in diametre. She opened the box of nuggets, took out two, and placed them within the one-inch space between the ovals. Grabbing two more nuggets, she lined them up behind the first pair.

She pinched the first nugget and pulled it through the fry path. “Rrrr!”

A chuckle resounded from the doorway. Macy turned toward the fire-suited individual stooped there, and grinned. “Look, Daddy!” she exclaimed, dragging the nugget along its course. “You’re winning!” She grabbed the second nugget and ran it up to the first, then the third and fourth. “And Uncle Darrell and Mommy are winning next!”

Michael gave her a toothy smile and knelt by his daughter. Pointing to the fourth nugget, he asked, “And who’s that?”

Macy scrunched up her face and puckered her lips. “That can be…” she held onto the last syllable for several seconds. “Uncle Kenny!”

“He’s in last place?”

Laying a hand on Michael’s shoulder, Macy stared into his eyes. “Don’t worry, Daddy!” she assured him. “He’ll do better!”

“Okay, I won’t.” He tousled her hair. Standing up straight, he added, “You’d better eat those cars by the time I get back, young lady!”

Macy giggled. “You can’t eat cars!”

“You’d better eat THOSE ones! Sit tight – I’ll be right back!”

Michael jogged out the door, leaving it open behind him. Macy watched him trot toward the entrance, then stand at the end, glancing from left to right. His eyes lit up.
“Hey, Kevin! You qualify yet?”

Pausing in his tracks a few hundred feet from the hauler, the Goodwrench driver cocked his head toward Michael. He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Good! Then could you do me a favour?”