No one else wears a tux to the Dunn Falls Speedway, but no one else got the wrong address for the wedding. But you’re there now, and you’re going to live it up. With an armful from the concession stand—blueberry bomb pops, brown sugar pretzels, and black licorice whips— you follow the roar of the engines, the tires kicking up fresh earth, faint black pepper smoke. And you jump into the driver’s seat of a waiting car, just to see what it’s like. Only the next race is about to start, and now they’re strapping you in. By the time you’ve taken your victory lap, you’re beyond late for the ceremony. Time to start writing those vows.

It’s well past sundown at the Chamber of Commerce charity ball and there’s a rattlesnake on the dance floor. Stilettos pierce blackberry soufflés and balsamic-drizzled olives as socialites in violet and dark plum evening gowns head for high ground. It’s all resinous-herb energy, coiling and uncoiling to Moon River. But you’re unfazed as you shed that tuxedo vest, find the shovel in the ballroom’s back closet, and give the tumultuous crowd what they want, all without spilling your drink.