Sore Loser

It is November of 1998.

My reward for being a year ahead in school is being the only one in my class without a car. I never had a moped, either -- I ended up with the sort of trike that meter maids use. It's slow, but it carries things and would have made me some money if I was any good at money. It also assuages my mother's fears about my safety, which for some reason her becoming aware that I had to do surgery on myself a couple of time didn't do. Unfortunately, it's the exact model of trike that garbage collectors use.

I used to be mocked about it a lot. I don't get mocked about that any more. Luca is still relearning how to write.

It's Monday afternoon. We have afternoon classes today -- normally school is Monday thru Saturday, 8am to 1pm, but this is a Chatolic school and the extra hour of theology and latin have to go somewhere. Well, actually I have drafting in the afternoon, but that's how it goes. The bottom line is that we have an hour for lunch.

Normally anyone under 18, so anyone but seniors (5th year) has to stay inside school grounds and eat there. That would technically include me. It doesn't. I was pulled over for truancy once and had my trike impounded for thirty days. I explained that I needed it for work, which is true. I retrieved it on day 7 and it never happened again.

I don't particularly feel like eating. Francesco got a new car this morning. It's a Fiat Punto, and it's actually new -- there's some sort of tax credit on it. He's already put a radio and speakers in it. He's showing it off. I approach, there's around eight people interested in this. Francesco does not like me much lately. He owes me around fifty thousand lire because I helped him cheat on a the theory portion of the driver's license exam, so he has been avoiding me.

I challenge him to race me to the pub at the bottom of the hill, double or nothing on the money he owes me. I largely do this because I don't want him to forget that he does. He says OK, but just for fun, not for money. That works for me. People laugh; you can't race a car in a Vespa-derived trike that does 40kph maximum. I reply that I can.

So I do. A few people go on ahead -- we tell them what to get us, too, because we have to be back here at two and it's one-twenty already. Some other kid who has to eat in agrees to call three, two, one, start. I am passed immediately, there's about a 20:1 difference in engine size. That's okay.

Francesco has to go around the hill, and there are a couple of one-ways, so he has to go about three kilometers. Since my trike legally counts as a moped, I can go through the narrow alleys that cover the space between the school, which is about two thirds up a hill, and the pub which is at lake level; that was the point of that sort of trike in the first place, to replace mules in narrow streets.

He turns right. I turn left and barrel down a path. There are people about; what I am doing is technically legal, save for about ten meters of wrong way, but it's expected that service vehicles be driven at walking speeds in narrow alleys rather than the approximately 20kph I'm doing. People yell at me. There's a bang on my window as the rearview mirror slams against it when I very narrowly avoid a building. I am focused. I am no longer on whatever crap they were giving me that made me angry all the time.

I never lose control. I almost hit a couple of people. I hit nobody. I will likely receive some angry phone calls from this. That's fine. This is the sort of thing that happens in movies. It's the sort of thing that I used to think happened in the United States, then I did a semester there and found that it's the sort of thing that only happens in movies over there, too, most of the time. That's probably a good thing.

I barrel down the end of the alley, past that I have about a hundred meters of normal road. Sharp turn. Slam self against the door to prevent lifting on two wheels. I do anyway; the engine revs up as the differential freewheels. The trike hits the pavement with all wheels again and there's a brief screech. This is not unusual behavior for this sort of trike, so if anyone comments on the street, I miss it.

I do not see Francesco's car. Everybody was moving slowly, earlier. Or so it looked like to me. I think it took me forever to cut through the town. I park the trike in front of the pub, bumping against the sidewalk. Everyone does that anyway.

I rush in. I am incredibly thirsty all of a sudden. I ask for water. The guy behind the counter pours some. By the look of it our sandwiches are still being toasted, I recognize mine. Things stop moving slow; it went how it went. If I win, it'll impress people. If I lose, it was expected -- I will just have to make sure it's understood that it wasn't for the money. I look around, ambling towards the back tables in long steps. My classmates are generally clustered around two of those little plastic cafe-style tables that everyone bought a few years ago.

I raise my hand. "Made it!" I don't see Francesco anywhere. I didn't see his car either, but maybe he parked on the other corner and went to the bathroom. I move over, grab a seat from an empty table, and sit down. "Made it!" Water is brought to me, and I drink it, some goes on my shirt, but it's just water and it'll dry in minutes anyway.
It's Monday, so naturally fantasy soccer is being discussed -- loudly, as is natural. I know I tread softly, so it's possible I haven't been heard.


"Oi! Made it!"

The discussion continues. I feel odd.

"I told you, how you drive matters more than what you drive. Francesco was smart to not make it a bet."

My classmates keep poring over a Gazzetta dello Sport to try to figure out what did what in fantasy soccer. I never paid much attention to fantasy soccer, so I am not too sure what they are deliberating.

"I'll get the sandwiches, okay?"

The discussion continues. I feel very odd, queasy.

I walk over to the bar and offer to relieve the pub guy of the tray with the sandwiches on it. Might as well pay while I'm at it. I do this because a small part of me worries that I have in fact impacted something during my mad dash earlier, and I am dead. My fear is assuaged by the guy thanking me and taking my money, and printing me a ridiculously long receipt that explains how we're going to switch to euros in a year or three. I am now carrying a bunch of sandwiches, some of them spilling their toppings on each other, which is normal.

Francesco walks in. He sees me. He quickly walks over to my classmates. They put the pink sports newspaper away, and give him about two seconds of applause. I hear a few congratulatory things. I also walk over, and put the sandwiches down. "Thank you" I say. Camilla, as to answer me, explicitly congratulates Francesco on beating me.

That seems to be the end of it. I am thanked for bringing the sandwiches over.

"I got here first."

"You weren't here when I got in."

"I was getting food."

"Yeah, thanks."

"That means I was here before you."

"Whatever."

I'm told to not be a sore loser. People start eating.

I grab my glass of water. "This was brought earlier. I drank it. There's stains on my shirt. I was here before you."

"What, you can't drink water without making a mess?"

"I am making a different point."

"Whatever."

I am angry by now. I stand up. I walk to the barman. I ask him if I got in before Francesco did. He says yes. He's a loud man even by italian standards. I shout towards the table, "Did you hear that?!?"

"No!" There is some laughter.

I put the glass down on another table. I walk over to the table. I tell myself to not strike anybody. The last time I hit anybody first, I was nine years old and got such a trashing that I will never forget it. I bring both fists down the table, bending the tray and cracking the table in two.

"Matteo, what the hell is going on?" The barman seems worried. He doesn't know me too well. He's ready to restrain me for the two seconds it takes him to realize that it's not necessary.

"Ask them." I leave. Nobody stops me. I am driving my trike back to school when I realize that I only got one bite off my sandwich.

Francesco never paid me back. A couple of days later, I walk into the pub and offer to repair the table, which I do. The barman does not charge me for the damaged tray.

And that is how I lost my first and only street race.

(This happened. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.)