Life in the Fast Lane

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Big changes in a girl's life lead to love in an usual place.
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komrad1156
komrad1156
3,775 Followers

"No! I ain't goin' to bed wif' you. You here me? It ain't happenin'."

"Aw, come on girl. Wu's up wich you lately? You on' the rag o' sum'p'n'?

Rachelle didn't answer. She knew better than to make him mad, but she'd had it. She'd had it with him, this neighborhood, and this...life. After years of trying to make it work, Rachelle knew this life was no life and she was done with it. If what had worked for Oprah and for the president of the United States, why wouldn't it work for her, too? It would work because she'd make it work.

"I jes' don' feels good. That's all they be to it. Now git on up outta here," she told him without even looking his way.

He was so pissed off he snatched up his sweatshirt and slammed the door on the way out.

She picked up the phone and stared at it for a long time before dialing the familiar number.

"Hello, Momma? Kin I comes home?"

—————————————————————

"So what brings you here, Ms. Williams?"

"I done heard you does tutoring and I wants he'p."

"Help with what exactly?" he asked.

"Okay, I was sittin' in my old crib watchin' Oprah when my boyfrien' was out. An' she wuz talkin' 'bout black folk who can't git ahead cuz they talks like black folk. I moved back home las' week and my momma says Oprah be right cuz jes' look at her and successful she be. And den you kin looks at da president and he wife and how good dey done. Oprah say a black woman need to learn to talk white...sorry, I means talk...good...so she can git hersef a good job. But then she can go home and talk like she want. So I wants to learn to talk, you know, like she do and like my president and he wife do."

"Okay, that makes sense. And I have to agree with Oprah. Being able to speak well—and by 'well' I mean speaking standard English correctly—can open up a whole new world. I wholeheartedly agree we should be ourselves at home, but you and your mother are right. Sometimes the professional world demands a different standard, and this is something I can definitely help with. Let's start with the concept of subject-verb agreement. Have you heard of that?"

For the next six weeks, Rachelle Williams worked very hard on developing proper diction. She was a smart young woman. She'd graduated from high school when most of her friends had dropped out. Many now had children and sadly, many were involved with drugs and live in gang-infested neighborhoods like she had until desperation forced her to make some changes. After a particularly brutal shooting in her apartment complex, Rachelle knew she had to get out and although she had no idea where to start, making things right with her mother and moving back home seemed like her best choice. In fact, it was her only real choice. Her mother had welcomed her wayward daughter back with open arms and didn't even demand she attend church with her anymore. She was just thrilled to have her prodigal child back home again.

Her mother didn't have a lot of money, but she was able to help pay for Rachelle's training as a physical therapist which, along with a government grant, was enough to cover nearly all of her costs. Rachelle also worked part-time in order to be able to help out and she was now spending a good chunk of that money on learning standard English. Watching that Oprah show had inspired her. She wanted more from life and even though she loved many parts of her life—she was very proud of being a black woman—she wanted to master the English language the way those two famous black Americans had and she was determined that nothing would stop her.

Several of her friends criticized her for it when she told them what she was doing, and one called her a traitor even after she explained this would a work-only thing. Her friend was having none of it and told her that black folk needed be themselves at all times and the hell with anyone who didn't like it. Rachelle politely told her that if it was good enough for Oprah Winfrey, the president of the United States, and his beautiful wife and their two girls, then it was good enough for her. It stung when her friend quit spending time with her over Rachelle's decision, which to her friend meant a 'sellout' or 'trying to be white' but she had a larger dream and this was a first step to achieving it. So...the hell with her friend who couldn't have been much of a friend if doing something this important to her was a deal breaker.

By the end of the sixth week, Rachelle's progress had been phenomenal. She'd quickly learned that all she needed to do in many cases was just reverse the order of her subject-verb choice. 'He need' became 'he needs' while 'I needs' became 'I need.' She actually knew how to make the subject and verb match. She'd learned to do it consistently; she'd just learned it differently than in standard English. A few other changes such as replacing ain't with isn't and making sure to annunciate the 'g' at the end of many verbs and the correct choice of the articles a, an, and the, made a world of difference.

She also learned the importance of speaking without what many people called 'an attitude.' That word alone used to send her into fit of well—attitude. "Attitude? I ain't got no attitude. Oh, you keeps dat up an' I'mma show you a attitude!"

It had been difficult to accept that much, if not most, of what she'd internalized growing up where she did had been wrong. Well, 'wrong' wasn't the right word. Were she to stay in that environment, what she'd learned was essential to her survival. But if she wanted to move up and out of where she grew up, the things that worked there didn't work well anywhere else. Admitting these things had been hard, but once she realized no one was to blame; that this was just how life was where she was raised, then moving on became a whole lot easier. After all, she wasn't giving anything up. She was just putting a new tool in her kit to make life better for her and her future children. And for Rachelle, a good, decent, caring husband was going to come before any kids came along.

As a final exercise, she'd prepared a ten-minute speech and her tutor was duly impressed. "That was amazing, Rachelle. I'm not sure I can do anything more to help you here. As much as I'd like to keep taking your money, it would be wrong for me to do so."

She thanked him and said, "It was worth every penny. I can't tell you how grateful I am for your help. You really have opened up a whole new world to me while allowing me to keep my old world alive and well at home. But now, I can navigate my way through places that would have been closed off to me before just because of the way I spoke. So thank you for that—and for everything else."

"You're welcome," he told her. "You know, I've never said anything before, but I wanted to tell you you're a very beautiful young woman. Don't misunderstand. I'm old, married, and most definitely not hitting on you. I'm just not blind and it's been a pleasure um...seeing you each week, Rachelle. Between the looks the good Lord gave you, your willingness to work hard to get ahead, and your new skill set, there's nothing you can't do." She smiled, thanked him for the compliment, then they shook hands before she left.

Rachelle spent the next two years finishing her degree and soon found herself working for a private hospital as an at-home physical therapist. She loved working with the diverse clientele that came her way. She often found herself going from the home of a very well-off family who spoke standard English to a home where a single mother lived with her children where she could relate using her own beautiful, rich patoi.

The first time she went to a million-dollar home, she was embarrassed about having been surprised to learn the owners were black. However, she was very proud of herself when she was able to carry on a conversation with them as if she were Oprah herself. The homeowners told her they were very impressed with her and asked her to come work for them. The wife explained how she and her husband had just started a new physical therapy company called Neurological Sport Therapy and that they were looking for qualified physical therapists. The woman also told her that just between them, she was looking for well-educated, professional black women—like Rachelle. As flattering as that was, when she told her the new job came with a 30% increase in pay along with full benefits and that she could declare her mother as a dependent, the deal was sealed. "Okay, sign me up!" she told them.

Rachelle Williams had been with NST for almost two years when she was told about her newest patient. "His name is Cale Davis. Have you heard of him?" her boss asked.

"No, the name doesn't ring a bell. Should it?" she asked.

"I guess that depends. Cale is one of the biggest names in the sport of NASCAR and he was involved in a pretty bad crash last month at The Atlanta Motor Speedway during a big race called Fields of Honor, Quick Trip 500. He's going to need a lot of PT (physical therapy) and since the next job is yours.... Here's the address and his contact information. I gotta warn you, though. His grandfather can be um...well...cantankerous."

"Ah, okay. I understand," she said. "I've been dealing with...cantankerous people...all my life. In fact, that description fits my own grandfather to a tee. So no worries."

The next morning Rachelle drove into the most upscale suburban neighborhood in all of Atlanta. "Damn!" she said out loud as she passed one multi-million dollar home after another before arriving at what looked like the largest sprawling ranch-style home she'd ever seen. She parked along the side of the very long driveway and walked up the sidewalk in her green scrubs. She rang the doorbell and waited.

After almost a minute, she rang it again then heard a voice, "Hold you goddamn water wagons, already!" A few seconds later the door opened up and a thin, elderly man with even thinner white hair said, "We already got us a cleanin' lady," and went to shut the door.

Rachelle held out her hand to prevent it from closing and said, "Sir? I'm Rachelle Williams with Neurological Sport Therapy. I'm here for Mr. Davis."

"Well, I'm Mr. Davis and I don't need no damn therapy so...."

"Are you Mr. Cale Davis?"

A man who looked to be about 50 walked into the very large foyer and said, "I've got it from here, Dad, okay?"

"Are you sayin' I can't handle the help around here?" the older man grumbled. "I already tried explaining how we ain't got no need for no more cleanin' women, but you know how them people are."

The younger man looked visibly embarrassed and said, "Come on, Dad. Let's get you a cup of coffee." He turned toward Rachelle and mouthed the words, "I'm so sorry" as he pointed to the back of his father while he lead him away. He called back to Rachelle, "I'll be right back. Please come on in and give me just a minute, okay?"

Rachelle let herself in and closed the huge door behind her. She'd been inside a lot of nice homes, but this one was nothing short of fabulous. She wandered over to a wall that had a lot of framed pictures on it. All of them were connected with racing in one way or another. It didn't take her long to figure out which one must be Cale Davis. "Dang!" she said out loud to herself in her at-home voice. "That boy be cute!"

She was right. From what she could tell, he was at least 6-feet tall and had an amazing smile. He was wearing a ball cap or a racing helmet in nearly every picture but she finally found one of what appeared to be his extended family and she couldn't help but notice he had gorgeous, thick black hair and an amazing smile. "Not too bad for a rich white boy," she thought to herself.

Once the son got his father settled in the kitchen, he came back out and found Rachelle looking at the photos. "You ever been to a NASCAR event, Ms. Williams?"

"Oh, no. Loud noises don't really interest me," she said politely but firmly.

"There's a lot more to NASCAR than the noise, but the noise itself is pretty amazing. In fact, it's one of these people love the most about it once they get hooked. You should come out sometime and watch."

"Um, thank you, but I think I'll pass," she told him still smiling.

He then suggested she come with him to meet Cale. On the way he told her, "Sorry about my dad. He's...from another generation."

"I understand," she said. "I have a grandfather just like him. He says things just like that and a whole lot worse, only about white people, so I've pretty much heard it all in reverse."

"I guess every generation gets a little better. At least I hope that's the case." He stopped and turned around to face her and said, "Where are my manners? I forgot to even introduced myself. I'm Dale Davis, Cale's father, and that was my dear old dad, John Davis. He'll be 93 this November."

"Oh, wow," Rachelle said. "What's his secret?"

"Secret? He smokes cigars all day long, drinks whiskey like it's goin' out of style, and cusses like a drunken sailor. And as you saw, he hasn't exactly caught up with the 21st century. So I don't know that he even has a secret. Dumb luck maybe?"

Rachelle laughed. "Hmmm. Maybe I should take up smoking or try whiskey instead of red wine."

Dale laughed politely and changed subjects. "So your family lives here in Atlanta, Ms. Williams?"

"Yes, they do. I was raised by my mother, but I'm also close to my grandparents. You know, the other guy who doesn't know it's 2016 and not 1966 anymore."

Dale laughed as they wound their way through the ginormous home until they got to a large room near the back. Rachelle saw a huge swimming pool, jacuzzi, barbecue pit and a massive pergola behind it through a sliding-glass door in the room. As they walked in, she saw a younger man in a wheelchair sitting outside staring at the pool.

Dale rapped on the glass door before opening it and said, "Okay, time to get to work, son."

The younger sat there and said, "No thanks."

Dale turned to Rachelle and said quietly, "He thinks his racing career is over so we're gonna have to work on this (he pointed to his head) as much as we are on his body."

"Cale? This young lady drove all the way out here to help you. The least you could do is say hello."

Without turning around he said, "Hello." Then he said, "Thanks for coming. Now...goodbye."

Dale through his hands up and said, "Got any ideas?"

Rachelle smiled and said, "Good morning, Mr. Davis. I'm your physical therapist. My name's Rachelle Williams."

"Congratulations," he said snidely without turning around.

Dale just looked at her again and shrugged his shoulders. She then said to Cale, "Mr. Davis? You can fire me if you want, but you will not disrespect me like that. I've worked very hard to get where I'm at and while I may not be some famous race car driver, I do deserve your respect."

He grabbed the wheels of the chair the best he could and tried to spin himself around. "Oh, is that right?" he said as he strained to move the chair the slightest little bit. After several attempts, he dropped his arms and said, "Fuck it. You can't help me so don't bother wasting your time. I can't even grip these wheels so I'll be able to hold a steering wheel in a car let alone drive again in a NASCAR race."

Rachelle finally walked around the chair and stood in front of him. Cale was still looking out at the pool right passed her when she spoke. "Mr. Davis? I can help anyone, but only if they're willing to help themselves. If you're not, then I can't help you. So you need to decide...."

As she was speaking, he cut his eyes toward her and then slowly turned his entire head. She was...absolutely beautiful. Cale didn't hear another word she said as she prodded him to answer her.

"So will you help me or should I leave now?" she asked again.

Cale was 28 and had never even been on a date with a black woman let alone had a relationship with one. Unlike his grandfather, he had no animosity toward anyone based on something as irrelevant as skin color. He'd just never met anyone who looked like Rachelle and who also happened to be black. She was probably 5' 8" or so and although he couldn't be certain in those scrubs, he was pretty sure there was a killer body underneath them. She had long, straight black hair, and the prettiest face he'd ever seen. She had classically high cheekbones, gorgeous brown eyes, a narrow nose, and perfectly straight, beautifully white teeth framed by two large, very soft lips. And she wasn't wearing a ring on her left hand.

"Mr. Davis? Yoo-hoo? Are you listening?"

"Cale? Pay attention, son," his father said loudly in his thick, southern accent. Cale also couldn't help but notice that Rachelle didn't sound black—whatever that meant. She spoke...beautifully. And she was just freakin' gorgeous.

"Okay. Sorry, but I guess I'm outta here," she told Dale. She took a step or two before Cale reached out and tried to grab her arm.

"No, wait." He did he best to turn toward her as he also tried to grip her forearm. "I'm sorry. Please stay." She looked down at him with a you-better-be-sure kind of look as he said again, "Please?"

"So you'll work with me to help you get better?" she asked for clarification's sake.

Cale didn't mean to stare. He just couldn't help himself. In fact, he wasn't even aware he was staring for several more seconds. "Yes. Of course I will."

"Then let's get started. We've got a very long road ahead of us," she said as she went behind him to push his chair back inside.

"Hold on," he told her. He tried to look over his shoulder but couldn't turn around so she leaned around until their eyes met. "On one condition."

"Mr. Davis, you're not really in any position to set conditions. You need my help and that's all there is to it."

"That's true, but I want you to promise me if you do help me get better, you'll come watch me race."

Rachelle knew she could help him but the damage was so severe she knew even she couldn't do that much for him so she felt safe humoring him. "Okay, you got yourself a deal, Mr. Davis. I'll come watch you race whenever you're able to drive again."

"Great." She started to push him inside again and he said, "Oh, one more thing."

Rachelle stopped and walked around the front. "Is this your way of stalling, Mr. Davis? Because if it is, I can play this game all day."

He smiled at her and said, "I don't play games, Ms. Williams. But please call me Cale. Mr. Davis makes me think of my grandfather and as much as I love him...."

Rachelle actually laughed. "All right. Cale it is. But no more stalling. We gotta get to work here as soon as possible and I'm gonna warn you, Mr. Dav...Cale, you're not gonna like me very much most of the time."

Cale kept smiling and said, "Maybe not. But I bet by the time we're done you're gonna like me all of the time."

She cocked her head and said, "Oh, right. And I'm gonna start wearing ball caps, listen to country music, and follow you around on the NASCAR circuit. Cale? I can assure you none of those things are ever gonna happen."

"Oh, ye they will," he said. "Trust me. I'm irresistibly charming."

"Uh-huh, sure you are. You just keep telling yourself that or whatever other fantasy you need to stay positive and focused because you're gonna need all of it starting in about two minutes." She went behind and roughly shoved him across the floor when the sliding door met the patio.

"Damn! It's no wonder they don't let women on race tracks!"

"Oh, and that's gonna cost you even more pain, Cale. You'll regret saying that. And for the record, I did my research and I know who Danika Patrick is."

He didn't have to look. He could tell by her voice she wasn't angry and he told himself he was off to a good start. "You've got the pole position in this race, buddy," he told himself as she helped out of the wheelchair and onto his bed. "It's yours to lose so don't screw it up."

komrad1156
komrad1156
3,775 Followers