I can see the lights, red, blue, then devilish red again reflecting in the depths of the kids eyes. He can’t be older than 19, but here he is, asking me these questions that no child should have to.
His pupils are wide in the black night, unaffected by the flaring bulbs around us. He says, “You’re lucky to be alive.”
I ask him, “How is my bike?”
————————————-
I guess it started on Thursday.
The guys I ride with are religious. Not like Preachers or Hells Angels, and most probably don’t even believe in God. God never gave them life, God never moved their souls. Their motorcycles perform both those feats; who cares if dual compound Z-rated radials can’t walk on water.
Thursday. Bike Night. Religion.
We meet under an LCD sign near the Fairgrounds. An empty parking lot with room for hundreds of bikes if you park them neatly. We never do. Sometimes the cops wait across the street.
When we leave we stage in two columns; Spartans 30 deep. The cars don’t stop. They don’t care. That’s why we have blockers; crazy bastards volunteers who pull into traffic and block the cars going both ways. They sit and wait while we launch. Then they follow. Rear Guard.
That Thursday night we ride all over. West for Pizza. I break off with a raiding party; North with 9 bikes because we missed an exit. East because we had already left the city. South to get to the meeting spot.
I drink beer with a girl named George. She has pompoms coming out of the helmet she just dropped. She doesn’t laugh at my jokes and she tells me she hates her phone.
The waitress at this place, Mojoe’s, is a grim unsmiling affair. She is packaged liked Christmas in a cheap bar, black on black, pale skin, red and freckly. No smiles, no jokes, no quarter. I don’t care. I’m a million bucks. I’m riding a Demon in blue. F U, Red.
Bill paid, we break away and head for the parking lot. No one seems to know what the hell they are doing next, so I mount up and head off to the next bar down the street. This place is supposed to be giving out free Miller Light tonight.
It’s bedlam. Some of the guys brought girls along. One of the other riders stepdaughters is after me, and she’s cute for her age, but wouldn’t fit on the back of the Demon. NFC.
Mustaches come out. Black ones. God Bless Sharpies.
One of the riders is ready to leave. The girl that came with him isn’t. These are the days we train for. These are the reasons that we buy extra helmets and strap them on the bike, even though we have no Intended. He leaves. She stays.
Her name is one of those ridiculous Puerto Rican names to match her brown eyes. She shortened it from 30 syllables to 2. Brenna. Hi, Brenna. This is your captain speaking. Welcome aboard.
Tommy’s friend Alix has boobs.
While at face value one could technically apply this statement accurately to almost any woman on the face of the planet, I have gone out of my way to present to you this simple sentence. So, if this statement is considered self evident and pervasive; how must Alix’s boobs be if I specifically say: Alix has boobs.
Think about that.
When I say that Alix works at a club called Haven, you already know where we went next.
The name Haven is like Vortex or Basement. There a club named each in turn in every city in every state in the USA. The walls of Haven are adorned in the usual fashion of local art and naked women. There is a screen hanging on the eastern wall of the dance area that blasts every shade of the rainbow in Technicolor dream-waves that no one outside of Timothy Leary’s inner circle has ever truly appreciated. Writhing, shaking, and twirling in the center of the screen is the black shadow of a naked woman undulating to the music.
Alix is pinned behind a bar, throwing out drinks to the savages as fast as her breasts arms can handle. She hooks it up while Tommy’s friend tells him he has 5 VIP tickets to the Linkin Park concert the following day that he will be unable to use. Tommy, good friend that he is, obliges the man by taking them off his hands.
There is dancing and drinking and shouting and more dancing. Tommy is a man above. He’s on the floor moving, sandwiched between a Blondie in low slung pants with hips that don’t quit, and Brenna who is making the best of an awesome situation.
I’m afraid to drink. I’ve got to pilot my bike and this girl home safely. Passengers add a sense of mortality to riding a bike that isn’t there when I’m alone.
I have to work in the morning. I remember this and I sigh. While I say my goodbyes to the Riders, Brenna reads my body language and sidles up like it’s a foregone conclusion that she is leaving with me. She’s short, but not the shortest girl that’s ridden on my bike. At 5′ 4″ she says, “and a half” like it’s loaded. She’s skinny but still manages to have an ass. Good thing too, since the back seat of these bikes isn’t exactly Tempur-Pedic.
Winding through the dark city street I can hear her yell directions from her helmet to mine. She lives near this great movie theater that serves beer, so I know the area. When I drop her off, I keep my helmet on because I know where that sort of thing leads you.
Head nod. Wave. I’m on my way home.
Sleep…
Friday.
Linkin Park.
These are my first thoughts, in order, as I wake up.
Your writing style becomes more amazing with each post.
I’m flattered that you think so. But if you think my writing is talented, you should see the other things I do in my bedroom.
Like do a one-handed handstand with beating it with the other.
Ross, I don’t understand, but I appreciate your candor.