IMPETUS

Long story short

A stale scent wafted in from the short, narrow hallway, which greeted him as he came through the door of his lonely two story brownstone. He was used to being on the road six months a year and honestly didn't know what to do with himself. Ever since he'd moved out of his mother's place, he'd done almost no travelling whatsoever; a fact he'd expected to stir up a strong case of claustrophobia. Collectively, Mikey had travelled nearly six months out of every year since he was seventeen. First as a stock driver up and down the F series and European circuits, then for two seasons in F-3000, where he first teamed up with Marve before making the big move to NASCAR and stardom.

Again, just the opposite had proven to be true. Assuming the cabin fever alone would be enough to push him back into the swing of things, Mikey Angelo had allowed himself to lapse into a racer's worst enemy––complacency.

"You have...3...messages..."

The number seemed unusually high, considering anyone who was anyone in his life wouldn't dare try to reach him at home. The only people clueless enough would also have to be Luddites, save for oversees telemarketers, and possibly—

"Michael, it's your mother."

Speak of the devil.

"I thought you should know, dear, there was a gentleman who wanted to get in touch with you. I meant to write down the name, but, um...well...I couldn't find my glasses, and by the time I..."

The message dragged as he went to the fridge for an ice cold can of no-name cola.

"...anyway I passed along your home phone number. I hope you don't mind..."

"Mind? Me? No, of course not. Not one iota," he mumbled before taking a sip. "Only trying to keep a low profile here now that I'm washed up," he kept mumbling, "till the next might-have-been makes me completely forgotten..."

"––confirmation code for your free Caribbean cruise is only minutes away. Simply reply to this message by hitting the pound key and your call will be immediately directed to one of our live operators standing by..."

"Yeah, live from San Quentin..." Mikey sipped his soda from the kitchen table, allowing his throbbing legs to relax into a less-intrusive tingling. "Or maybe Mumbai..."

BEEP––

"Gee I do hope I have the right number. Hello there, Mr. Angelo. This is Howard Baker calling. Remember me?"

Mikey looked up at the machine, as though it would help with his hearing.

"Course you do, how could you possibly forget? I understand you came calling the other day. Or at least someone claiming to be you. My assistant gave a rather spotty description. Nonetheless, I've been meaning to track you down sooner or later."

Mikey was struck by the noticeably withered, yet still jovial tone of the man. It was good to hear it again, (if not also still slightly annoying).

"Listen, my friend, I don't know if you read the financial section, but it seems my name has come up once or twice in more than one rumor rag. Yours, too, in fact, over in sports. Guess we're both in the dog house these days."

The man just kept going...

"Which is why I've elected to lay low for a spell. I'm sure you understand. After all, who else can I trust not to believe everything they hear. Or read in this case. No doubt, you know all about those scoop-thirsty reporters mixing lies and innuendo with a few conveniently stray facts."

... and going...

"Anyhow, I've left a private number with my assistant, Michelle. I believe you met her. She's also my niece, don't ya know, through marriage." Which might've explained her protective insensitivity, Mikey thought. "Drop me a line sometime soon, okay? There's something I'd like to run by you, soon as you're feeling up to it. I'm not overly comfortable on phones, you understand, as you can tell. Long story short I— yes, what is it?"

Mikey heard a deep voice droning on in the background.

"Fine, I'll take care of it. Anyway," he perked up again. "Hope you're keeping well, my friend. Bye for now."

The machine coldly reset itself, leaving Mikey the space to speculate.