Bread and Circuses
"I hear a fluttering of hope that there might
be more to life than bread and circuses."
—Bill Moyers, Journalist and Political Commentator
Norton Bartel, Jr., known to NASCAR fans throughout the world as Buck, headed north on Pennsylvania Route 33 in a rented Toyota. He glanced at his wife, who was sitting in the passenger seat beside him. He knew that look on her face. It was there every time he raced at Pocono. Ever since he left the airport in Allentown, she had remained stonily silent. No doubt, she would badger him later on in the evening. It was always the same when they came back to the mountains of northeast Pennsylvania.
Route 33 ended, and he took a left onto Route 611. When he got to Tannersville, the town where both he and Mandy had grown up, he saw the large banner above the entrance to Smuggler's Cove restaurant: WELCOME RACE FANS.
"Remember when we were kids, how people dreaded race weekend because of all the traffic it created on the roads?"
Although his wife did not ignore him, the only reply he got to his question was a nasal-sounding grunt that he took for a "yes."
Across the street from the seafood restaurant was what had once been the Tannersville Inn, a fixture in the Poconos since the 1830s when it served as a stagecoach stop. The restaurant was forced to close during the pandemic and never reopened.
"I hope they don't tear that old place down," Buck said, attempting to coax his wife into a conversation. "Tannersville won't be the same without it."
He continued along Route 611, passing businesses that were not there was he was a boy: a Dunkin' Donuts, a Dairy Queen and a Wendy's. As he waited for a red light on the corner where the old elementary school had stood before it burned to the ground, he saw a line of cars in the left-turn lane with their signals on.
"Do you want to stop at The Crossings while we're here?" he asked, knowing his wife liked to visit the outlet center whenever they were in the area.
"Not now. I want to go straight to my parents' house."
It was not the response he was hoping for, but at least she finally spoke.
When her husband pulled the rental car up in front of his in-law's bilevel, Mandy's demeanor instantly changed. The radiant smile on her face was no act for her parents' sake. It was genuine. She was delighted to be home.
"I missed you both so much," she cried hugging first her mother and then her father.
Visiting them on Thanksgiving, Christmas and race weekends was not enough. Not even the frequent phone calls and text messages could make up for the long separations. Buck's parents had sold their home in Tannersville and moved into a new house he had purchased for them in Florida, not far from where their son and daughter-in-law lived. The Rylands, however, preferred to remain in Pennsylvania, much to their daughter's dismay.
As Buck sat drinking coffee in his in-laws' living room, he had to endure listening to the latest developments in the lives of people he had not seen in years. There was always a long list of who got married, who got divorced, who moved away, who got a new job and, worst of all, who had a baby or was expecting to have one soon. Such news would only remind Mandy—not that she needed reminding—that she was childless, a fact that was a serious bone of contention in their marriage.
Promptly at five o'clock—the Rylands always ate early—Dolores headed for the kitchen.
"I made a roast," she announced, pulling the plug on the slow cooker. "They had them on sale at Weis."
Mandy joined her mother in the kitchen, setting the table and getting the condiments out of the refrigerator.
The whirr of the electric knife was followed by Dolores's announcement that it was time to eat.
"Smells good," Gene Ryland declared as he entered the room.
The routine known as family dinner never varied. Neither the domestic scenery nor the conversation at the table ever changed much. As he forced himself to praise his mother-in-law's cooking, he wondered where the other drivers and the pit crew mechanics had gone to eat. Had they been racing at Darlington, Talladega, Watkins Glen or any of the other tracks on the circuit, he would have gone out with them. However, whenever he raced at the Poconos, Mandy insisted on accompanying him.
Time dragged by as Gene and Dolores told their guests about their recent week-long trip to New England. They described every tourist attraction they visited, every hotel they stayed in and every meal they ate in boring detail, always giving, to the penny, the price everything cost. Finally, Gene put his fork down, got up from the table and delivered his usual seal of approval.
"That was good cooking, sweetheart."
As though on cue, the two women rose from their seats and began clearing away the dirty dishes and putting any uneaten food into Rubbermaid containers. Here was Buck's chance to escape.
"I'll be back in a little while," he announced, taking the car keys out of his pocket.
"Where are you going?" Mandy asked although she had a pretty good idea what her husband's answer would be.
"I'm gonna meet some of the guys for a drink."
"You shouldn't drink and drive," Dolores said. "It's dangerous."
Buck dismissed his mother-in-law's well-meant but unsolicited advice with humor.
"I drive around a racecourse at two hundred miles an hour. I think I can handle driving on these roads after a couple of beers."
"You needn't bother telling him what to do, Mom," Mandy said, her smile gone and her voice bitter. "He won't listen anyway."
* * *
No sooner did he get behind the wheel of the Toyota than Buck received a text from one of the pit crew for the Penske team: WHERE R U?
ON MY WAY, he texted back. WHAT BAR?
After a few moments, the mechanic replied: FIRTH'S.
I never heard of it. It must be a new place.
He was about to text back and ask for directions when his phone suddenly went dead. Thankfully, the rental car had an onboard navigator. He typed in FIRTH'S on the keypad and waited for the device to calculate the route.
"Turn left onto Route 715," the robotic voice instructed when he drove back to the intersection near The Crossings. "Then take first right onto Sullivan's Trail."
The only place I know along this road is the Barley Creek Brewing Company.
He drove for twenty minutes but saw no other bars or restaurants. According to the navigator, he was still fifteen miles away from his destination.
"Where the hell is this place?" he asked aloud.
He drove on and on into the gathering darkness. When the navigator finally announced that he had reached his destination, he almost drove past the place. Since there were no other cars in sight, he stopped and looked around. A neon sign, barely visible from the road, spelled out FIRT—the H, the S and the apostrophe had burned out.
There were no vehicles in the lot. Perhaps they had given up on him and returned to the hotel, or maybe they were parked in the back.
Either way, after spending the day with my in-laws, I could use a drink.
It was not that he disliked the Rylands. They were good people. But in the ongoing disagreement between Buck and his wife, they were firmly on their daughter's side. Despite his phenomenal success on the NASCAR circuit—he was the youngest driver to win a grand slam—they shared Mandy's opinion that he ought to take a less dangerous job, settle down and raise a family, preferably in Tannersville. At only twenty-six, he had no intention of retiring yet. Hell, there were drivers who were still racing in their forties and fifties. Who knows to what heights he could rise if he raced another twenty or thirty years?
Buck entered Firth's and immediately noticed the place was empty except for the man behind the bar. He had been in dive bars before, but this one took the cake. Everything in the place, from the torn and faded curtains to the chipped tables and mismatched chairs, looked as though it came from the Blue Ridge Flea Market in Saylorsburg.
The bartender looked up, and an expression of surprise spread across his face.
"Hey, I know you," he said. "You're Buck Bartel. You won the Daytona 500 last year."
"Yeah. I was supposed to meet some friends here. I suppose they left already."
"No one's been in here all night. Maybe they're on their way. Want to sit down and wait for them?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Can I get you something to drink? It's on the house."
Buck laughed. He had enough money to buy not only Firth's but half of the businesses in the Poconos. He could definitely afford to pay for his drink.
"I'll take whatever beer you've got on tap."
As the driver sipped his drink, an old man in a wheelchair appeared from a doorway in the rear of the building. He rolled to a table and greeted Buck who was sitting on a stool at the bar, the only one whose faux leather upholstery was not ripped open.
"I'm Artemas Firth," he introduced himself. "I own the place."
"Buck Bartel."
"I know."
"You follow NASCAR?"
"Sometimes. I keep busy, but I occasionally catch a race now and then."
"I grew up in the Poconos, in Tannersville. So did my wife. In fact, her parents still live there."
"I know. The Pocono Record calls you a hometown hero. Why don't you join me? These chairs aren't much to look at, but they're more comfortable than the barstools."
Buck took his glass of beer and sat down at the table across from the old man.
"I never heard of this place before," he said. "Is it new?"
"No. It seems it's been here forever. But it's off the beaten track, so we don't get many customers."
"How do you stay in business then?"
"I manage to keep it going. Without it—well, I have no family. This place is my life."
At twenty-six, the young driver could not conceive of an old age so lonely that it would lead a man to cling to a dying business. He was lucky enough to still have both his parents, a wife and eventually children. When he got to be Firth's age, he hoped to be riding in the family car with his grandkids and telling them about the time when he won his first race.
"So, what made you become a race car driver?" Artemas asked, signaling the bartender to bring another glass of beer for the customer.
"I always had a thing for cars. One of my first Christmas presents as a kid was a Hot Wheels racetrack. Then one year—I guess I was five or six—I rode a go-cart, and I was hooked. While other kids tried out for baseball and football, I took courses in driving and motorsports. I went from go-carts to Formula One racers, to stock cars. After I graduated high school and turned eighteen, I got a sponsor. And the rest, as they say, is history."
"You're very good at what you do. You must love it."
"As Tom Cruise said in Top Gun, 'I feel the need for speed.'"
"And your wife? How does she feel about it?"
Buck frowned, drained his glass and replied, "That's a subject I'd rather not talk about."
"I apologize if I gave the impression that I was prying. I don't get to see many people, and when I do, I tend to talk their ears off."
"Don't worry about it."
"You've won so many races already, are there any goals you've set for yourself that you haven't fulfilled yet?" Artemas asked, sounding like a journalist conducting an interview for Autoweek magazine.
"There is one. I hope to someday hold the record for the most NASCAR Cup wins. Richard Petty holds the record now, with seven."
"If you continue winning the way you have, I've no doubt you'll get your wish."
For the following forty minutes, the two men discussed racing, the changing face of tourism in the Poconos and life in general. Finally, after finishing his fourth beer, Buck decided it was time to go.
Artemas, who seemed reluctant to see the young man leave, said, "It's only 9:30. Won't you stay another ten or fifteen minutes? It would make an old man very happy."
Not being too eager to return to his in-laws' house where his wife was sure to start pressuring him again to quit racing before he wound up like Dale Earnhardt, he agreed to Firth's request.
"Have another drink," the bar's proprietor offered.
"No, thanks. I'm good."
"Come on. Have one for the road."
When the glass was half-empty (or half-full, if you're an optimist), Buck's head began to spin.
"I think I've had enough."
"Nonsense!" Artemas exclaimed, his voice seeming to come from a great distance.
"I have to drive home."
"You'll be fine. Finish your drink."
Moments after the glass was drained, Norton Bartel, Jr., felt the world as he knew it slip away.
* * *
"Flavius, have another cup of wine," a voice called.
Buck opened his eyes and experienced that odd sensation where one is not sure if he is awake or is asleep and only dreaming he is awake.
I must be dreaming, he thought. This is definitely not the Poconos.
"If you don't want wine," the same voice called again, "how about a nice, shapely slave girl?"
Slave girl? This obviously isn't a very politically correct dream!
A young woman was thrust onto his lap. This was no slave, though. Her skin was as white as his own. Then he noticed her attire. It was not the dress of an African-American slave, but a loosely draped garment that resembled a Roman toga.
"Come on, Flavius," the voice urged. "We haven't got all night. You have to race tomorrow."
"Flavius? Who the hell is that?" Buck asked when his vision cleared and he realized the voice was talking to him. "Who are you? And where am I?"
"Either you've had too much to drink or one of your horses kicked you in the head," the other man laughed. "I'm Lucius Silvius, this is Rome and you are the great Flavius Scorpus, the famous charioteer."
"I know dreams are just a way your subconscious mind can communicate with your conscious mind, but what does all this mean?" the NASCAR driver asked himself. "I feel like I'm a character straight out of Ben-Hur. I swear to God I expect Charlton Heston to walk through the door any minute."
Lucius looked at his friend as though he had suddenly gone mad.
"You're talking nonsense. And what's this about swearing to God? You're not falling under the influence of that dangerous new sect, those who call themselves Christians, are you?"
"This is getting freakier and freakier every minute. What was in that last drink Artemas gave me?"
He continued to speak to himself since he was certain Lucius Silvius was nothing more than a figment of his imagination, a fictional character literally dreamed up by his subconscious mind.
"Someone gave you a drink?" the other man asked with visible relief. "I don't know who this Artemas is, but he might have slipped you something in the drink, hoping to knock you out of the race. That would explain the way you're acting. Come on, let's get you to bed so you can sleep it off."
There was a sudden shift in time and space, in that annoying way that dreams operate. Buck found himself at the racecourse, but it was not Pocono Raceway, as he was still in Rome, not Long Pond, Pennsylvania. For several minutes, he stood motionless, trying to take in all the details of his new surroundings. The long, oblong-shaped dirk track in the center of the hippodrome was smaller than the paved Tricky Triangle at Pocono, but the stands could accommodate twice the number of fans. In the distance, he could see the ancient buildings, that had yet to fall to ruin, on Palatine Hill. What amazed him most were the competitors waiting at the carceres (the starting gate) for the race to begin. There were twelve chariots, three representing each of the four racing teams, designated by color: red, blue, green and white. Each of these four chariots had a team of four horses to pull it.
"Flavius, what are you doing?" Lucius shouted. "Get into your chariot!"
Only one of the chariots, a green one, was unmanned. It obviously was meant to be driven by Flavius Scorpus.
"But that's not me!" Buck cried. "I'm not a charioteer; I'm a stock car driver. I belong in the U.S.A., not Ancient Rome."
He then felt the sting of Lucius's slap across his face.
"This is no time for foolish talk. You've got to compete. Domitian is here to see you race. You don't want to disappoint the emperor, do you? Besides, a lot of money has been wagered on you. If you don't race, you'll make more than a few dangerous enemies."
"How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not Flavius. My name is Buck Bartel and I ...."
Lucius, a large, muscular man, actually picked Buck up off the ground and placed him in his chariot.
"Whoever you are, you're going to race."
The excitement in the Circus Maximus mounted. By rough estimate, there were more than a hundred and fifty thousand people in the cavea (the stands), nearly all of whom came to see the great Scorpus, a former slave who purchased his freedom, the winner of more than two thousand races, compete.
What choice do I have? Whatever lunacy or bizarre twist of fate put me in this time and place, I am here. I'll have to make the best of it, I suppose.
He grabbed the reins, wrapping the ends around his body as he had seen the other racers do.
"That's more like it!" Lucius cried.
"What's it they say in all those gladiator movies?" he asked, more to himself than to Lucius. "'Those who are about to die salute you.'"
A moment later, the presiding magistrate dropped a white flag, and the race began. Although highly skilled at maneuvering a stock car past other drivers, around bends and along the straightaways of America's speedways, Buck had no idea how to control a team of four powerful horses. Somehow, however, he made one complete revolution around the track despite other charioteers, jockeying for position, trying to force him off the course. As the racers passed the starting gates, the first of seven brass dolphins—one for each of the required laps in the race—was turned.
I don't think I can do this for six more laps, he thought, struggling to keep his team from crashing into the spina, the brick wall in the center of the course.
As he raced past the pulvinar (the imperial box) on his second lap, he glanced up at the emperor.
No doubt this pitiful performance of mine will earn me a thumbs down from Domitian.
On his third lap, he was racing past the metae (the turning posts) at the end of the spina, when he encountered a man on horseback, a jubilatory, a man whose sole function was to cheer the charioteers on. He only got a quick look at the man's face, but it was enough for him to recognize Artemas Firth, the bar owner from the Poconos. Buck had no opportunity to wonder why the old man was in Rome or why he was not in his wheelchair. He was too busy fighting for his life.
The Boy Wonder of the NASCAR Circuit made it to the fourth lap without incident. He had just rounded a turn when a charioteer from the red team rammed his chariot. Had he been behind the wheel of a car, he might have recovered and avoided a collision, but this was not his sport. He had no hope of avoiding a deadly crash.
This is it, he thought.
Oddly enough, the only regret he had at the moment was that he would not have the opportunity to say goodbye to Mandy.
* * *
Buck tried to open his eyes, but could not face the bright, blinding light. Were all those stories he heard about death true? Was he dead and now in the presence of God, his angels or some other heavenly force?
I suppose it's too late to get religion now, he thought.
"Just relax," a voice told him.
"Is that you, Lucius?" he managed to ask.
"I'm Dr. Werner."
"The crash ... I survived?"
"You remember the crash? Most patients don't."
Dr. Werner turned off the flashlight that he had shined in his patient's eyes.
"Where am I?"
"St. Luke's. You were brought here after your accident."
"All the way from Rome?"
Buck temporarily found himself caught between two worlds, unsure if he was Norton Bartel, Jr., or Flavius Scorpus.
"Rome? No. Your car was found in a ditch along Sullivan's Trail."
"I'm home," he said, his face radiant with joy.
"I'm afraid you won't be going home for a couple of days. You received a head injury and a few broken bones as well as some internal bleeding."
"I never realized chariot racing could be so dangerous," he mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.
When he woke up seven hours later, he was himself. Flavius Scorpus, Lucius Silvius, Rome and the Circus Maximus, he concluded, were nothing more than elements of a dream, albeit a very convincing one.
"The last thing I remember was having a few beers at Firth's," he told Mandy when she visited him at the hospital. "I suppose I had one too many. I never should have got behind the wheel."
"But they tested your blood," his wife informed him. "There was no alcohol in it."
"That's impossible. I know I had at least four beers, possibly five."
"The blood test says otherwise."
"Either way, I missed the race. I hope I'll recover in time to compete at Charlotte. If I do, do you want to go with me on your way back to Florida?"
Mandy turned her head, breaking eye contact with her husband.
"I'm not going back to Florida. I'm staying here in the Poconos. I'll live with my parents until I can find a place of my own. I didn't want to tell you this while you were still in the hospital, but ...."
"You've had enough, huh?"
"Yes."
"I'm not surprised. I knew this was coming."
"It's not that I don't love you."
"I know."
"I'll come see you again tomorrow," she promised and left without a goodbye kiss.
Buck had known Mandy since the second grade. They began dating in the eighth. She was the only woman he had ever loved and could not imagine a life without her. Yet he had to abide by her decision.
I'll get by. I still have my career.
Not long after his wife left, Buck had another visitor: Artemas Firth.
"I heard you had an accident," the old man said as he wheeled his chair into the hospital room.
"Yeah. I don't suppose I ought to have had that last drink for the road."
"Thankfully, you survived."
"I still don't know how it happened. The last thing I remember was sitting in your bar with you. Everything after that is a complete blank."
"Is it?" Artemas asked.
"I did have a rather odd dream, though."
"Oh?"
"I was a man named Flavius Scorpus, and I was competing in a chariot race at the Circus Maximum. Weird, huh?"
"Scorpus, you say? I remember reading about him. He was one of the finest charioteers in Rome. Won over two thousand races. The people loved him, much like your fans love you. Too bad he died so young."
"What happened to him?"
"He was just twenty-seven years old when he was killed in what they called back then a naufragia, which in Latin means 'shipwreck.' It was how they referred to a pileup during a race. What a shame! He had his whole life ahead of him. I understand you'll be turning twenty-seven soon."
"Next month."
"Let's hope you don't wind up like poor Scorpus," Artemas laughed.
Although the comment was made in jest, it brought to Buck's mind a memory of his dream. He could almost feel the pull of the powerful horses on the reins as he was hurtling toward certain death. Could that have been what Flavius's last moments were like?
* * *
Two days after his birthday—the first one in many years that he did not celebrate with his wife—Buck was competing at Sonoma Raceway. In the past, Mandy would occasionally accompany him to California, and the two would tour the wineries in the Sonoma Valley. They had been separated for only a month, but he already missed her.
As he got behind the wheel of his Ford Mustang GT-500, he gave his usual greeting to the pit crew.
"I feel the need for speed."
At the starting lineup, waiting for the race to begin, Norton "Buck" Bartel recalled in vivid detail the dream in which he was racing a chariot at the Circus Maximum. He could clearly hear the crowd shouting for their hero, Scorpus. When the green flag was waved to signal the start of the race, the sound was replaced by the roar of engines.
This is my life! All my horsepower is in the engine, not at the end of the reins.
Buck raced around the twelve-turn, two-and-a-half-mile course with his usual skill, passing less talented drivers along the way. Like Scorpus, he completed three full laps of the race, but on the fourth lap, he suddenly fell behind.
Something's wrong with my car, he thought.
The Mustang lost even more speed as it headed toward the Carousel, a section of the track that includes a number of downhill turns, including one with a two-hundred-degree radius and a hairpin turn that lead to the track's longest straightaway.
If I can just make it to the pit ....
Ahead of him was a scene every NASCAR driver dreaded. What began as two cars colliding wound up a multi-vehicle pileup. Buck hit the brake and clutch to slow his Mustang, but he knew he could not avoid a crash.
Suddenly, Artemas Firth appeared beside the track in the guise of a Roman jubilatory.
"What the hell?"
As though unseen hands were in control of the steering wheel, the Mustang pulled off the side of the track and onto the grass.
"I'm alive!" he cried with disbelief as he exited his vehicle.
"Where are you going?" his head mechanic called as he walked past the pit.
"Home. Back to the Poconos, back to Mandy, if she'll have me."
"But you've got a race to finish."
"I'm through with racing," he cried. "Unlike poor Flavius, I want to live to see my twenty-eighth birthday and hopefully many more after that."
Unseen by either man, Artemas Firth sat in his wheelchair beside the pit crew and smiled.
Salem once starred in a movie about racing. He called it The Fast and the Furriest.
