Easing back into the conversation, I remark that I was at her “breakout” race at the Indianapolis Speedway in 2005. “Oh really,” Danica Patrick responds, like I’m as much of an operator & leering pig as James Dean seems to be tonight, like maybe I'm also impolitic enough to ask her the What-Big-Race-Have-You-Won-Lately question. I say that yes, I really was there in Indiana, re-inhabiting the world I’d known as an excited kid, 65 years ago.

Instead, at a moderate speed, Dad drove our family’s stick-shift car to Indianapolis. I recollect fights en route with my brother. I recall merriment too from Burma Shave messages. These days, I miss the six narrow markers along the road like “Cattle Crossing/Means Go Slow/That old Bull/Is Some/Cow’s Beau/Burma Shave”?

For our gang tonight, I attest to the Indy Speedway’s motor roars and the smell of screeching rubber. I can picture big crowds around the track, and I remember the alarm on Dad’s face about a ripping crash we heard and rising smoke we saw.

A week or so later at the movies back home, I saw a black-and-white newsreel of that same event -- narrated by Ed Herlihy. That’s the first time I’d been part of something newsworthy. Ah, one never forgets the good memories.

James, a native of Indiana, circles his hands over his head and imitates the buzz of souped-up engines ramming round and round a track. For him too, the Indy was life-and-death exciting. “It suited my morbid personality. Almost as much fun as shucking corn.” I rib him (back) with a nag about the morbidity of his smoking, and he laughs.

At one point, Danica turns historical on us. It seems that for ‘my’ year, 1940, the winner was the identical chap who’d won the year before, Wilbur Shaw. Later, during World War II, the Indy fell into disrepair and folk expected it’d be turned into a housing development for returning veterans. When Shaw revisited the scene of his triumph, he was shocked at its run-down state.

Danica: “Wilbur took on the task of finding a buyer for the property. It was owned by Eddie Rickenbacker, the World War I ace fighter pilot. Wilbur looked around for someone who knew what the Indy was all about. A local businessman was game and in 1945, the track began building towards new greatness.” Decades passed before women were even allowed in the garage, the pits, or even the press box. And, as we hear, not until 1977 did a woman, aerospace engineer Janet Guthrie, qualify for the Indy.

Chris Peters asks Dancia for the name again of the energizer in her story of the Indy's rebirth. “I’m fascinated by institutional renewal,” he justifies. Danica repeats, ‘Wilbur Shaw.’” The puckered Wi of “Wilbur” elongates her lips perfectly. Noting the attention Chris and I give to those lips, James emits a tormented look.

Our guests are cordial enough to let me resume my reverie. In 2005, I had obeyed a mystic ‘call’ to revisit the Speedway. Mistily, I was recalling pleasures with my late father.

Of course, ’05 is when Danica had -- for a woman -- the best-ever start and the best-ever finish. Her showing, applauded nationally, was seen as a win for women in general. At least Barb saw it that way then.

“I made a hell of a point for anybody, are you kidding me?” Danica says, correctly, competitively.

Danica gives me an affirming glance. She’s treating me kindly, almost as if I’m a member of her own cool generation.

James, standing by the mantle where he’s put the ashtray, seems more hot than cool. Even when he isn’t saying anything, the chap is one buzzing center of nerves. He rolls his shoulders, tugs at his jacket, or pushes his hands deep into his jeans’ pockets. His facial gestures seem to invite sympathy over some private suffering. Confusion, Gusto, Oppositional Defiant Disorder (ODD), Need To Urinate -- he may be expressing all or none of these conditions.

If others in the room also are considering how an actor builds his characters, they're wondering if he has to suffer to show suffering. And they're curious if he has to be happy to show happiness. Perhaps an actor ‘wings’ those moments or draws upon life experiences stored from ‘down’ and ‘up’ times. I’m in the dark whether you can separate life from theater.

About James Dean's ‘wound’ quote from India: I quickly count and conclude that my body does have nine openings to the world. Nine! Never knew that before.

Even so, tonight James has logorrhea and that makes for a tense feel.

His stories are well-told and coherent -- unquestionably he’s dined out on them before -- but they don’t capture my interest. Often James has a key part in those tales, the hero of his own internal movie. Also he can be just a minor character or observer. Whichever, if he has an overarching theme -- and I’m not sure he does -- it's that adverse circumstances can promote human development, immersion in the dark can propel people toward the light, blah, blah, blah. One or two long stories along those lines might be riveting to hear… but ten?

Periodically, Chris Peters asserts his can-do perspective. For instance, hH urges concentrating on the 100 good things that happen every day rather than the several bad things. He argues too that more than ever before, people today experience less pain -- but James talks right over him. So Chris ultimately looks disengaged from this environment. Who wouldn’t be when James is saying in effect, “Look at me, I’m expressing myself. Be grateful for my renderings of life as bittersweet.”

We need a gong or ‘hook’ to cut him off. Neighbor Ned would be a welcome distraction about now. Now that we need him, Ned doesn’t show. I could phone him. It must be one of his alley's All-You-Can-Bowl nights.

Could Danica Patrick shush James up? Perhaps, because he sure dotes on her enough. I'm not saying his behavior is her fault, but perhaps his performance tonight is boosted by his having to compete with Chris for Danica’s attention.

Unfortunately, however, Danica has become super-silent. Perhaps she knows better than to interrupt. Possibly too, she’s never before seen anyone close-up who has proclaimed himself maladjusted: “I wouldn’t like me if I had to be around me.” To round off another story, James boasts, “A neurotic person has the necessity to express himself and my neuroticism manifest itself in the dramatic.” In his brain structure, James must have a larger than average amygdale that’s whacking him out.

No one is tearing James to shreds over his behavior. We are holding our criticism in reserve. We’re too damn tolerant. I should smile, smoothly cut in, and say it’s time to hear from Danica.

Except that at brief intervals, Barb -- especially great-hearted Barb, the great Yes of my life -- laughs. She has kind and encouraging words for James, like they could heal and repair wounds. Maybe they can.

Strange, verbosity is not especially characteristic of the awkward, reticent, sulky, and surly James Dean that I recall from movies. I hazard that he was unhinged by my invitation, at the outset of tonight, to have the guests tell stories about themselves. Naturally James has all these pent-up words and feelings to express, and he has not been able to grow up beyond his 24 years, but who gives a flying frog?

Once, when James goes on ‘Pause,’ Barb asks Danica, “What was your happiest birthday party?” By way of an exaggerated example, Barb shares that one her ‘happiest’ was when she turned 12 or 13. Her parents gave her, among other things, a James Dean T-shirt. “The one, James, with a print of your handsome, brooding face.”

Guess who now seizes the initiative to prattle about co-workers’ tragicomic birthday parties in Hollywood and New York.

If we directly aired that James has hijacked our conversation, a resolution might ensue -- but not when your most famous guest is fast-talking and emoting brilliantly non-stop.

This party isn’t doing it for me, er, for us anymore. The only racing worth doing is getting out of here.

I would rather be upstairs asleep. Or navigating fierce whitewaters. Or even cutting the grass at our church’s cemetery (my least favorite role there). (My favorite role there is pushing the loaded-up food-cart down the center aisle, during the organ's offertory anthem after members of the congregation have put non-perishables into the food bank's cart.) (Barb insists on pushing the cart at the supermarket, so I serve mostly in a decidedly secondary capacity as a runner delivering dairy, cereal, and soap products to that cart.)

Once in a while now, Chris Peters still tries to get a word or two in edgewise. But then James Dean re-opens his trap and selfishly brings the spotlight right back to his repertoire of sappy vignettes.

If there’s a lesson here about the Race Of Life, it’s to Establish Structure & Ground Rules At The Outset. I guess other groups have this same problem with over-talkers denying chances to under-talkers.

A couple hours ago, back when we were talking about Wilbur Shaw rescuing the Indy, Danica Patrick casually had said that she listens less to what a man say and looks more at what he does. All right, Danica (I say to myself), what if talking too damn much is what the man does? Was he always so...so volatile?

Graceful defeat is our only course now. As in chess, sometimes winning moves just aren’t possible.

Praise be, to draw things to a welcome close, Chris snaps his fingers, gets up, reclaims his coat, turns around, and remarks that he enjoyed meeting Danica. Gentlemanly, he shakes James’s hand -- less convivially, to be sure, than when they first met. Chris says thanks to Barb and me, and skedaddles out.

He is no sooner out of our driveway than Danica looks at her watch, says “Wow, it’s late. Gotta run. Good night,” and bolts out, Phoenix-bound. She lightly taps her car’s horn in a goodbye gesture.

Eventually I grab back the green ashtray that all night James has had dibs on.

I empty it into the fireplace and tell James that we hope he had a good time. That’s not a lie.

“This has been a great chance for me to get inside my character,” James says. “Thanks for hearing me out,” we hear him shout as he drives out of sight.

People want different things in life, but tonight our three guests want to stabilize their social ties by feeling the vibe, making and re-making music.

Finally (as if anything involving work is final), because Rick and I have promised to help clean-up (rake, sow seeds in brown spots, plant flowers and six elms) our church’s grounds beginning at 8:30 a.m., we rise and thank our threesome for coming. We offer to call a cab or two, but “No problems,” Kenny says, brandishing his cellphone. An hour or two ago, he had noticed where we keep our phone-book when we cavorted in our rhumba line. (Ah, the hilarity we had in rhumba-ing and colliding with each other and the furniture. That was a part of what brought us five together.)

As we withdraw, our visitors wave at us in mid-song. A new collective, they are going with something different from the words and music that each is known for.

Rick understands that some of the good that takes place in our house happens in his absence. But this morning, maybe like Presto, he is a mite territorial, taken aback that our guests notice our exits so little.

In any event, Kenny Chesney, Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, and Anna Amalia do not appear to interpret our going as a rebuff.

Out of reflex, I farethewell them with “Have a good…”. I pause at the foot of the stairs, pondering if I should say “evening” or'“morning”? I re-start and re-conclude, “Have a good time.”

Knackered, Rick and I lug ourselves up to bed. A tired dog does too.

Upstairs, we do not even floss. Downstairs, the music goes on much as it has lately, not loud enough to keep us awake...