Derryl is fat. And not just fat, but fat. His drag race car loses its sproing the moment he sits inside it. Fat Boyz is what the other team calls him and his fat, but less-fat brothers. These engines hold so much oxygen they could totally blow apart the state. Bob drives now; his weight is ok by the car. They call that rival team Nigger Racers, except when the liberal, East Coast cousins come to visit. Don’t say nigger for awhile, the Fat Boyz’ father said, and don’t go giving me shit for grilling Toe Phew on the grill machine.
Derryl had a fat and beautiful wife. She was blond and she yelled hard at the Sunday races. She had fat plans to have fat kids and live happily, fat-ily, ever after, but then she got the cancer. She died fast and unfairly, meaning someone should have stopped it, because she yelled so hard on Sundays, because she called that team the Black Guy Racers, because she was the one who looked online to see what east coast liberal cousins liked to eat.
Not because of that. Who cares anyway? They call themselves the Nigger Racers and they call themselves the Fat Boyz Racers and they come together at the end and ooh and ahh into each others’ engines like they are in some sort of hot hot love. And who’s to say what should happen in Arizona?
KATE HILL CANTRILL