Ricky Wills It: A Rock Opera in the Key of Johnny Cougar

By Eric Robert Morse

Speedway, Indiana native Ricky Wills is a hotshot racecar driver with chip on his shoulder. As one of the brightest rising stars in the racing world, Ricky competes for a chance to race in the legendary Indianapolis 500, and struggles to maintain his small-town identity as he is swept up by industry fame and the charms of big-city celebrities.

Author Eric Robert Morse is a great fan of sports and all things Indiana. In his first novel, Monaco, he brought to life the scintillating atmosphere of the pre-WWII European Riviera. Now, he returns to his hometown of Indianapolis for a modern, light-hearted tale of competition and the ever-engrossing quest for speed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Robert Morse
• Release date: May 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781600202025

Eric Robert Morse

Eric Robert Morse is a writer, publisher, painter, illustrator, web programmer, philosopher, psychologist, theologian, economist, and historian. His published works include a critique on Behavioral Economics (Psychonomics), a theory of political economy (Juggernaut), two novels (Monaco and Ricky Wills It), a psychology of storytelling (The 90-Minute Effect), a pamphlet on love (Love Is Justice), a political philosophical dialogue in the style of Plato (Justice and Equality), and sociological sketch of the early 21st century (Amazement).

Book preview

Ricky Wills It

A Rock Opera in the Key of Johnny Cougar

By Eric Robert Morse

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New Classic Books

Copyright © 2012 by Eric Robert Morse at Smashwords.

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1

Ricky Wills had no idea what the hell a Hoosier was, but he was damn sure that he was one.

Born in a town called Speedway, Indiana, Ricky was a natural in what had become the racing capital of the world. And, no matter who he talked to, he made sure they knew where he was from. As he would put it, You don’t get this good by being from Kentucky.

I like guitars, firm-feelin’ women, and racin’! he would say, Just not in that order.

He was a legend at the small tracks in Speedway. By the age of five, he had won his first official race—the Big Wheel 500. By the age of thirteen, he was racing go-carts. By the time he got his driver’s license, he had already won five races in midgets and dirt track buggies. By the time he was done, everybody—and I mean everybody—was going to know his name.

Weaving in and out of slower cars, holding a tow from faster ones, and slingshotting around them to take the lead, it was as if he were conducting a symphony the way he orchestrated races. It was just like a rock symphony in the key of Johnny Cougar the way he rocked out on the racetrack.

And it didn’t matter what kind of race you were talking about—sports car, rally, midgets, open wheel—Ricky Wills would take you on at any of them. Of course, hadn’t quite made it to Indy Car, to face the big boys at the race. But that had become big-city racin’ anyways, as he would call it "with all those Italians. That wasn’t real racin’ as he knew it, and he didn’t want to be a part of that, or so he convinced himself. I’ll leave the ring-around-the-rosy to the Europeeans, he would say. Leave the real drivin’ to us Hoosiers."

* * *

Ricky pulled himself out of the cockpit of his midget car with more energy than he started the race with. Immediately, he was wrapped up by his crew and chief in a celebratory cheer.

Another one in the books for Ricky Wills! yelled Ricky’s chief as he put an arm around the champ.

I thought he mighta had me on the eightieth lap . . . Ricky hooted.

Naw! came in from one of the crew. You had him all along.

You know why that is, Mackie? Ricky asked, half-serious. Because ain’t nobaby can race like Ricky Wills! The answer turned into something of a taunt that broke free from his crew and ended up being directed to a nearby pit, where another driver was taking off his helmet with a dejected demeanor.

You hear that, Hoagan?! Ricky yelled. The other driver barely looked up to acknowledge the sneer. Nobaby!

When it became apparent that the other driver and crew were ignoring him, Ricky just laughed and returned to his crew. How ’bout that damn turn on lap sixty-five? Damn near smacked the wall, I did! he laughed and the crew all joined in the revelry.

Ricky’s face was good-looking in a corn-fed kind of way, with big cheeks and high cheekbones. His hair was shortish on top and flailed out in back as was the style in Speedway.

He glanced around the track and the stands—he just loved it. The sun had begun to set in the late August sky, which left its red-orange imprint on the western faces of all the buildings, trees, and people at the track. Looking over, Ricky spotted a group of yahoos jumping around and yelling as if to get his attention.

Ricky yelled in return, and jumped on his car to start flailing his arms around like a monkey. When he settled back down, he spotted a girl seated next to the yahoos, pleasantly smiling and seemingly amused by the display. Hey! Ricky let fly, and then jumped off the car and ran across the track.

When he arrived at the other side, he jumped the short wall and climbed a few bleachers to approach his girl. She stood and silently welcomed him as he grabbed her waist and pulled it tight to him.

Stud, she said, and he kissed her.

Leaning back, he looked over her. As typical a Hoosier as Ricky was, his girlfriend was even more so. Christy-Lee Dodd had blond feathered hair that wisped across her tanned forehead, barely clearing her heavily painted eyelids. She wore cut-off jeans and a tight t-shirt that pressed against her modest chest. That’s what I’m talkin’ about, he said approvingly, and turned away in a flash to head back onto the track.

I’m gonna go get my winnings, baby, he said, trotting off toward the track office. When I get back, you better be ready for another one of them kisses.

She smiled and returned to her seat as Ricky’s other friends went on with their drinking and tomfoolery.

* * *

Walking toward the office, Ricky was joined by his crew chief, who gave the driver more congratulations.

So, Ricky, I think you’ve did it this time, he said as the announcement came over the P.A. system.

And for his fifth win this year, Ricky Wills comes in first place, the announcer stated, subdued.

Whew-wee! the chief exclaimed.

I’m not going to stop until I win ’em all, Mackie, Ricky replied without turning to face his chief in any way.

Maybe we start thinking about the bigger races? Mackie posed. But Ricky couldn’t come up with an answer. I’m tellin’ ya, boy, you could be somebody.

As they continued on, they came upon a rival driver, Remy Hoagan, and his friend, who were heading in the other direction.

Ricky who? the friend laughed as if they didn’t know the winner of the race was five feet from them.

They’re all named ‘Ricky’, aren’t they? Hoagan chuckled in reply.

Infuriated, Ricky jumped in Hoagan’s face. Yeah, but who won? Hmm? You got your hoity-toity laugh and your fancy hair cuts, but who won the race?

Somewhat shocked, Hoagan just brushed him aside with a Pffshh! and tossed his wavy blond hair to the side.

That’s what I thought, Ricky said. Too chicken to say it to my face.

Hoagan turned around to look at him. You’re an all right driver, Wills, he said, stern. But you’ve got no fundamentals. You’ll never do anything beyond these midgets and dirt tracks.

Who won? Ricky taunted, to which Hoagan’s friend let out a snide little laugh.

You’re just a dirt track ricky, Wills. That’s all you’ll ever be, Hoagan said and waited for a response.

Ricky stared him down, but couldn’t think of anything to say. He knew Hoagan had a point, and he hated it when Remy Hoagan had a point. When Hoagan turned around and started walking away, Ricky threw out another But who won?! with no notable response.

Let’s go, the chief said, pulling Ricky away and back in the direction they were headed.

I can’t beat that guy enough, Ricky smiled, now looking at his chief as they trotted on.

Ricky’s chief had a graying mustache and hid his balding head with a mesh STP ball cap. He was plain as they came, but he was an absolute genius when it came to mechanics. Ricky sometimes humored the idea that he wouldn’t be half as good without his chief working behind the scenes. But that sentiment rarely lasted before his ego returned and took all the credit.

Listen, Rick, there’s something I have to tell you, the chief said, stopping in his steps.

Doing likewise, Ricky grew solemn. It’s Hog Taylor, isn’t? he asked. The chief nodded and Ricky exploded with grief. What’s that fat bastard up to? Did he cut the pot again?

Now, Mack tried to console his driver.

He’s already cut it twice this year!

The economy’s down, Mack reasoned, and—

And nothin’! That’s why people like you and me need more cash, Mackie! The young driver kicked the dirt under his feet in protest. Hell, half the people that bought tickets to this stupid track was my friends!

Your friends all snuck in, Ricky.

That don’t mean nothin’! He paused and looked back to his friends and saw his girlfriend sitting in the same place that she previously had. How much is it?

It’s fifty dollars now, but I’m thinking it will go back up in the spring.

Fifty dollars?! Hell, I can’t buy a case of Cokes for that!

I know, Mack said, patting down some air to calm his driver.

Shoot! Ricky lamented. I was gon’ use that to drive to French Lick. That bastard. He’s lucky we even run in these crappy races in the first place.

Listen, Mack ensured, you keep up your streak and you might make it, y’hear? Ricky sensed a tone of worry in his chief’s voice. He was just like Mackie in a lot of ways—the best in his field, but too small-time to make a name for himself and to make any real money. There was no way Mack would be picked up on any of the major teams, so he needed Ricky to keep racing for him and winning just to get by. He didn’t like that feeling of being corralled, but there was no other way around it.

Ricky looked back to his crew chief with a side-glance. I ain’t goin’ nowhere, Mack. As long as you’re here, I’ll be with ya.

My boy, Mack smiled and squeezed Ricky’s shoulder. Now get you some cash to go celebrate with.

And with that, Mack slapped his back and headed to the pits. Ricky turned and walked up to the office where a beached whale of a woman stood with cigarette dangling off her lips and a flat tire dangling from her cut-offs.

I’m here to get my winnings.

You Wills?

Yessir.

She stepped behind a counter, gathered an envelope, and handed it to the driver. He filed through it to make sure it was all there and looked up. I don’t think the rate cut is fair.

Do I look like Taylor to you? she asked with a huff.

He grew a little furious and sneered. You don’t look much different, he said with a chuckle, and took off.

* * *

By late August, Mr. Henderson had already harvested all his corn, so that meant that about two hundred acres of tall grass lay untouched in the countryside west of Speedway. And that gave Ricky Wills and his friends the perfect place to park their trucks and party all night.

Not one of them had reached the legal drinking age of twenty-one, and not one of them was going to let that stop them from drinking cold Buds on a hot August night—all except for Ricky Wills, who had never touched a drink in his life. He was happy to just crank up the radio and turn down the tailgate, and just holler as loud as wind would carry.

I coulda been a pro ball player, Hoss Hunter said as he unwound his arm and fired a rock through the air. A row of empty cans had been lined up on a nearby gate and served the bulky young man as targets.

You can’t even throw straight! came the retort from a scrawny, yet still tough-looking guy.

You can’t even think straight, Hoss rebuffed as he let another rock fly, this one hitting the left-most can. With a silent stare, the husker rested his case.

I can do that, the scrawny guy argued.

It’s all yours, Cooter, Hoss shrugged and flipped a rock to his challenger.

The lanky guy wound up as if he were a cartoon and unleashed the rock somewhere in the direction of Illinois. You’re a real Herchiser, Coot, one of the others laughed. Don’t quit the Dairy Queen. To this, Christy-Lee let out an audible laugh.

Why would you want to go pro anyway? Ricky pondered. There’s nothin’ but big-city pretty boys in that game.

Have you seen the kind of ladies the big leaguers are hauling? Hoss intimated, at which point Hoss’ girlfriend huffed and threw a beer can at him.

After a laugh, Ricky grew adamant again. Folk like us don’t belong there, Hoss! We’re a different breed than them out there.

Everybody’s got a hungry heart, Ricky Bob, Hoss said as he grabbed a new beer and crashed down next to his girlfriend.

Hey, another one of the guys said, holding out his arms as if to quiet everyone. You hear that? he asked and then looked up as if to see where the sounds were coming from.

For a second, all that was heard was the radio, which was blaring for a much more raucous crowd. And then, lights coming from the cornfields became visible in the sky above.

Cops! someone yelled in a whisper, and everyone scattered. Ricky cut the radio, grabbed the keys from his truck and ran into the corn groves with Christy-Lee’s hand in his.

Hiding out no fewer than thirty feet from the party scene, a group of the teens peered out to the clearing in anticipation of the ambush. They heard voices, but couldn’t make out what the invaders were saying.

Ricky Wills?! one of them shouted so that all in the area could hear.

Aw shoot! Ricky grumbled.

Wills, you out there? was the follow up. I want to talk to you about your race today.

The request came as a shock that left Ricky no less perturbed than the alternatives might have, but he decided that whoever it was out there wasn’t the cops, so it’d be okay to make his presence known.

Gingerly, he and Christy-Lee sauntered back into the clearing, followed by the others. Standing there in suits and ties were a couple of middle-aged men who had no business lurking around an Indiana cornfield at night.

You Ricky Wills? asked one of the men.

Who wants to know?

Your father said you’d be here. My name is Roger Penrose. Do you know who I am?

Roger Penrose was only the most successful IndyCar owner in the sport’s history. I’ve heard of you. What’s that got to do with me? Ricky held up his guard.

I saw your race today—that was some pretty good driving, son, the suited man offered, though it didn’t sound like a compliment to Ricky what with its proper grammar. I’m not sure if you heard, but IndyCar has changed their rules for the race and so now I’m looking for a new driver.

What race? Ricky asked, still wary of the big-city man.

"The 500—the Indianapolis