(Published in Facsimilation Magazine 2004)

Monster Trucks : The Bigger The Better
by
Diana Grove

The only thing better than a big man with a tattoo, is an even bigger man with a tattoo and a Monster Truck t-shirt.

At least that's what I thought as I unloaded my spare change to buy gum and deodorant at an Exxon station in Savannah, Georgia. A gigantic man stood behind me near a display of motor oil, and I couldn't help but ask about his National Hot Rod Association t-shirt, which to my mind truly defined the term "badass."

He pulled the shirt tightly over his belly. "Well, this here's Big Foot, he's pretty much dead now. But he was the most legendary Monster Truck of 'em all. I even got it signed." He pointed to an autograph on his sleeve, then took the same finger and traced a scar down his forearm, showing me the name Jessie written carefully in cursive letters.

"This here's Jessie - my brother. He's dead too, but I won't get into that. Anyway, the Summer Heat Monster Truck Jam's down at Oglethorpe speedway, and I ain't dead, so by God that's where I'm gonna be!" He gave me a wink and headed out to his pick up.

A Monster Truck jam! I was in Savannah for just one night, but could I really afford to miss a Monster Truck jam? I definitely needed to reassess my priorities.

My travel plans, which originally seemed pleasant and even interesting, now appeared utterly ridiculous. Who cares about historic houses and five-star restaurants? Who cares about Live Oaks laced with Spanish moss and romantic carriage rides? Screw it, I wanted to see, smell and hear the biggest and baddest Monster Truck of them all…and I wanted to buy the t-shirt.

So naturally, being a girl of good breading and refined taste, I cancelled my dinner reservations, bought some Red Man chewing tobacco, and high-tailed it to the speedway.

As AC/DC blared Highway To Hell on my car stereo, I turned off the interstate and passed a little house next to the raceway entrance. On the lawn sat the most fantastic car I had ever seen. It was a bit rusted out and was missing its fenders, but it was still a Mustang Cobra, and that ain't hay. Not only did it have a super cool hood vent that someone had very cleverly used as a flag holder, but it also had two perfect skull indentations smashed into the windshield. The owner had written in large letters on the driver's side door "4 Sale Xcellent Racer $500 cash!" I slowed down to take a closer look.

"Man, would I be smokin' in that car!" I could barely contain my excitement. "I would be the envy of every hot rodder in the county! I could even buy some fake blood and a bandage to complete the look!" Then I felt a wave of regret for recently buying a brand new Mustang that had far fewer cylinders, several more fenders, and the standard, boring, unbroken windshield. "This is easily the coolest car in Georgia…and damn my wallet to hell for only having $22!"

I cruised by, deciding to forget my disappointment, and instead, see it as a harbinger for the tremendous display of flying gears and metal that was going to make up my evening. I pulled into a field of dusty, red dirt the Monster Jam people were calling a parking lot.

A 98-pound kid wearing a nametag labeled "Moose" took 3 of my $22 in exchange for a parking stub. I really wasn't sure what I was getting myself into, so I pressed him for details.

"Hey Moose, I've got two important questions for you. One - am I gonna see Monster Trucks jump over flaming Winnebagos? And two - am I gonna get a corndog?"

Moose ran 9 ½ fingers through his brush cut and gave me a wry smile. "Well ma'am, I don't rightly know what they're jumpin' tonight. And I don't know nothin' about no corndogs, but I do know they've been revvin' up for a while now. War Wizard and Grave Digger are already goin' at it and Reptoid's 'sposed a been there, but I ain't seen 'im yet."

"Reptoid?" This was too good to be true. "There's actually a truck named Reptoid? Does it have a gigantic metal tail and eat horse flies?"

He grinned and looked at the ground. "No ma'am, it surely don't."

"Okay then…does it molt sheet metal in the spring?"

"Well, uh…no ma'am." Moose was clean out of Monster information and all the questions were starting to make him fidgety, so I left him to his parking duties and moved on to the action.

The air was thick with the roar of racing motors and Monster Truck fans. Since the show had already started, the line for tickets was refreshingly short. A tiny, bald man in the ticket booth took 7 of my $19 and pointed to a Warning sign posted near the entrance. Apparently, if I was hit with a 200-pound truck tire, Oglethorpe Speedway wasn't legally responsible for re-attaching my horribly dented cranium to my bleeding neck stump. I made a mental note to duck when the mufflers and carburetors started flying.

As I passed through the gates and walked up the bleachers, about 193 Monster Truck fans stood up in unison and cheered.

"Wow," I thought, "Now that's the kind of warm country welcome I expect from the South."

It turned out it wasn't for me at all. Grave Digger, the star of the show, had just jumped and cleared about 8 late-model Impalas and the announcer had asked for a big Georgia-style round of applause. As the engines revved up, the crowd hollered and held up their cups of Budweiser in appreciation. The children, whose ears were packed with cotton, ran back and forth like rabid muskrats waving Jolly Roger flags. But just as Reptoid was warming up its mighty, lizardine crankshaft, a blanket of black storm clouds rolled over the track. A guy sitting next to me wearing a t-shirt that read: Afghanistan: Been There, Done That, Bought The T-Shirt, looked up and groaned.

"Oh fer Christ's sake, it ain't gonna rain is it? Rusty just got stitches yesterday and he can't afford to get 'em wet!"

As he was covering his son with a see-through garbage bag, the rain began, at first in delicate little splatters, then in long splashing sheets, and finally, in hurricane-like torrents. Lightning bounced around the sky like old Hog Machine's pistons as the crowd ran under the stadium for cover. The mood was definitely grim. Many fans gave up and fled to their cars without even getting a rain check.

A teenage boy yelled into the empty speedway, "Aw come on guys, don't shut 'er down! What's a little lightning to a Monster Truck? Bring it on - I'm grounded - I've got rubber shoes!" We all rushed by him, desperately pushing our way to the merchandise stand like salmon heading up stream.

As I gazed at all of the stuff for sale, I had to admit, the variety was impressive. There were easily 25 different Monster shirts to choose from. I didn't know whether to get Monster Mom in XL or Call The Undertaker- Grave Digger 2004 in XXL. There were even Grave Digger pajamas!

The girl behind the table had a wandering eye, so I positioned myself in front of the left one and asked which t-shirt suited me best. She looked me up and down - one eye focusing on my torso, the other on a stack of headbands to my right. She quickly nodded her head and handed me a Monster Trucks, The Bigger The Better in M Irregular.

She was right - it was totally me! Even though one sleeve was slightly larger than the other, in this shirt, I was going to be one bad motherfucker. Especially if I complimented it with some flip-flops and a Built Ford Tough baseball cap. I wrapped it around my neck, gave her 10 of my $12, and cruised around, waiting for the show to restart. I couldn't believe the whole thing was going to be cancelled just because of a stupid electrical storm, so I popped into something called Savannah's Loudest Sports Bar to wait it out.

The room was deadly quiet as everyone looked dour - sipping beer and dripping rainwater. A guy behind me broke the silence, "Well Goddamn it, if I'm gonna get wet - I'm gonna get drunk!" The room cheered. A middle-aged woman holding a naked rubber doll and a pack of Marlboros held up her beer and shouted, "I hear ya brother - Aaaaaaamen!"

As I pushed my way to the bar, Savannah's Loudest Bartender leaned over the tap and whispered, " Whatcha want darlin'?"

I sighed, looking in my wallet. "Oh gosh, gimme a root beerish-like drink…something in a shade of brown, with lots of syrup."

"Okay sweetheart, root beerish it is." He took 2 of my $2 and handed me a foamy cup. It turned out this was the second time since 1976 that I had been busted flat by Mr. Pibb. "Oh well," I shrugged, "At least I got my t-shirt. Now I just need to get it signed." I left 36 cents and a stick of gum on the bar and headed back outside.

At this point, most of the crowd had given up and gone home, but off in the distance I saw a folding table and a huge sign for Autographs. "Okay, here's my chance. If the humidity won't let my magic marker write on cotton, maybe Grave Digger will just sign my bicep." I rushed over to the empty table with my marker out, trying to look appealing.

This rarely works, so instead, I pulled out my Red Man. I ignored all of the mouth cancer warnings printed on the package and reached in to take a dip. It smelled kinda fruity, like a bucket of damp mangos. I shoved a pinch in my cheek and bit down.

"HOLY SHIT, JESUS CHRIST ALLMIGHTY THIS STUFF TASTES AWFUL! GODDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMN!

I spit the gooey wad into a cup of Diet Coke. It tasted exactly like wet grass infused with floral air-freshener imbedded in a whole lot of cow shit. A couple of ten-year-old boys standing next to me started snickering.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "You see boys, tobacco products may seem cool at first, but then after you try them, you find out they taste like the colon of a diseased goat." For some reason this made them snicker even more.

Since it was immediately apparent that no one was going to be signing autographs any time soon, I decided to chuck the Red Man and get chummy with the boys.

"Hey, look what I got!" I proudly held up my new t-shirt.

One of the kids, a redhead, scrunched up his face. "Monster Trucks - The Bigger The Better? What's that mean?"

"It means girls like big things."

"Oh…" He said quickly, looking down at his shoes.

I continued spitting brown fluid into a discarded hot dog bun.

"So, what did you two think of the show?"

The redhead perked up. "Well, I'll tell you what. I'd a done it different if I was in charge. I'd a cut out the Hooter's girls show in the beginning and started with War Wizard jumpin' them cars. We didn't git enough action before the rain started."

His little blond friend interjected, "Well, I liked them Hooter's girls! They was pretty!"

The redhead fumed, "Dale, I'm gonna smash your face in with a baseball bat if you don't shut up! They was pretty, but they was unnecessary!"

"No they wasn't!"

"Yes they was!"

"No they wasn't!"

"WAS!"

"WASN'T!"

"WAS!"

Here's what I love most about 10-year-old boys: they can beat each other bloody and no one ever calls the cops.

The two then chased each other around the concession stands, punching and kicking and throwing themselves in the mud. As I cheered the blonde kid on, yelling, "Use your left hook! Punch him harder…harder!" one of the Monster Truck managers came up to me from behind. I thought I'd finally get an explanation as to why I'd been waiting around for 20 minutes and my bicep still hadn't been signed.

The guy was the only one in the place wearing short hair and a clean, white shirt. He introduced himself as "Tony Downs - Monster Road Accountant."

He tried to explain, "You see, in rained-out situations like these, the guys don't usually come out to sign. They're usually back in their trailer, hosing off and drinking beer." Sensing my disappointment, he offered to sign my bicep instead. Sighing, and only slightly mollified, I handed over the marker and gave him a flex. He scribbled up my arm and onto my shoulder blade, using one of my larger moles as an O.

We were the only people left at the speedway, and it was definitely time to go. So with Tony Downs running off my arm, I waved goodbye to the boys, kicked off my shoes, and waded through an oil-filled lake of Monster mud toward my unsmashed, unnamed, and totally uncool Mustang.