This story is true. The names and exact locations have been changed to protect the innocent—or guilty—depending upon your personal ideas of justice. It must be considered that this event took place in 1979…things were different then.
It was springtime and the sky was deep blue and cloudless as the Superglide pounded its fateful rhythm against the northbound Texas pavement of I-35. As the warm sunshine beat down upon the face of the lone rider his mind began to wander over events of the recent past. Times had been tough, at least from his way of thinking.
Although only 21, Little John stood six two and weighed 240-pounds, most of which was hard muscle. His basic nature had always been that of a gentle giant, and his natural levels of patience and tolerance were, according to almost all who knew him, far above that of the average person. There was, however, one inconsistency: Little John had a snapping point—it was like a switch—and anyone who pushed him beyond it quickly found themselves facing a very different man from the gentle giant they’d first met. Fortunately however, John’s immense size and kind nature had repeatedly saved him from those scrapes throughout his relatively short time on this earth.
His family life had been as good as any and he loved his folks well enough. But eventually all boys grow up and, at the age of 18, Little John had known it was time to leave the nest.
Aside from a natural mechanical ability, yet to be properly honed, the young man possessed no real marketable skills. Many of his friends had done well in the Armed Forces and John had just figured, as many young men do, that a beginning in the military would gain him a trade as well as an opportunity to strike out on his own. After a year of technical training at Lowery Air Force Base in Colorado, he’d been stationed at Bergstrom, which was located just south of Austin Texas.
Yet try to control himself as he might, the service had offered what John considered a much larger serving of bullshit than he’d deserved. There had been trouble. Although other incidents had occurred, the bacon fight was the final straw.
Behind a face chiseled with bad attitude had been a pair of laughing eyes that obviously enjoyed the privilege to wield small power. While standing over a large pan of well-done bacon, the mess-cook refused John anything but a plate of raw pig meat, and the big man snapped. The force of the metal plate and raw meat smashing into the cook's face, first broke his nose before sending him toppling over a hot stove to land in an unconscious heap on the cement floor.
Upon his release from the brig and, after serving three-and- a-half of a four-year hitch, John was discharged under a section eight. They’d said he was mentally unstable.
But that was behind him now and, as the Superglide pulled strong against the pavement of that sunny day, John felt as though he’d been released from the gates of hell to enjoy something like real freedom once again. Momentarily his grin broadened and the young rider found relief in a moment of great belly laughter.
Little John decided to make a road-trip of the journey home. He’d give the wind ample time to blow the cobwebs from his brain while enjoying the ride north along I-35. Somewhere ahead he’d turn west then ride into the Rocky Mountains. Eventually he’d find the roads that led to his hometown of Tucson, Arizona. John had $1,500, a sleeping bag, and the trusty Superglide. It was a good day indeed.
As the Oklahoma state line drew near Little John remembered rumors of the state’s backwoods, and redneck cops. He watched the movie Easy Rider and wanted no trouble like that.
After pulling to roadside John removed the combat knife (two inches over the legal limit) from his belt. He then unrolled his sleeping bag. Dropping the knife—sheath and all—into the bottom of the bag he thought, That's better. Shouldn't provoke no trouble in there.
The Oklahoma state line came and went while the rhythm of the country road soothed the big man's spirit. Two hours passed when John took notice of the state trooper’s red lights flashing in his rearview mirror.
Even though his paperwork was in order, John soon stood at curbside while a porky, stone-faced cop riffled through his belongings.
As the illegal search continued to bare no fruit, the officer’s attitude steadily degraded. Truly he was pissed. Eventually the cop got around to the sleeping bag.
Upon finding the knife he said, “Well what have we here? A concealed weapon huh? Alright hippie; turn around, hands against the car and spread ’em!”
Shortly after the tow truck had hitched up his bike, John found himself cuffed and staring at the fine countryside from the backseat of a cruiser. Before long the car was bouncing down a tiny, pot-holed, road.
The town could have been Mayberry, John thought, had it been slightly bigger and a whole lot friendlier. On the right sat a run down Texaco station, and he could see the chain link fence that encircled the police impound-lot behind as they passed. On the left sat a general store—the only other business in town. Beyond that lay only trees and a few old houses.
The cruiser stopped at the general store and John was escorted inside. As they crossed the wooden floor of its dingy interior, John caught sight of an old man sitting behind the counter in a wooden recliner.
Glancing down the cop said, “Afternoon Ben.”
“Bobby. What yuh got there?”
The Sheriff set the knife on the table, “Found this on ‘im Ben. Concealed weapon.”
The old man reached forward to flip the small sign atop his desk that read ‘Proprietor”. The other side said ‘Municipal Judge’. Little John could hardly believe his eyes. This wasn’t really happening…was it?
The body search back on the highway had revealed Little Johns net worth. The Judge fined him 1,450 of his 1,500 dollars, then passed a sentence of six-months at the county work farm. Embarrassment had prompted John to refuse his phone call. First, his discharge from the military and now this. He prayed his folks would never find out.
Ten minutes after he’d arrived, Little John, still cuffed behind his back, stepped from the porch and back into the squad car.
Outside the main body of the county jail rested a series of rundown metal-buildings surrounded by a tall chain link fence topped with razor wire. An occasional gun tower was thrown in for good measure. This steadily decaying environment served as home to the working prisoners.
Dressed in black and white stripes and shackled at the ankle to the men who worked beside him, John spent his days digging ditches, slinging a sickle, moving rock or whatever other job was assigned. On the perimeter of every work-detail, a handful of pudgy cops sat on their horses with shotguns held across their laps. Little John thought that this sort of thing only happened in the movies. And with each swing of his sickle the big man’s resentment grew.
Serving as a model prisoner had earned “time off” for good behavior and John was finally released after what had seemed like the longest three months of his life.
John thought first of his bike. Fifty dollars would not touch the impound fees and had probably only been left him with bus-fare in mind. They’d robed him then used him as slave labor. Now they would take his ride as well.
Little John had other ideas.
All seemed quiet inside the beat up Texaco station as John slipped unnoticed along the building’s side. Ahead he saw a dirt trail that ran along the impound lot perimeter. To his right grew a wall of thick trees, while his left offered a tall chain-link fence with wooden slats slipped between the links to help deter prying eyes.
Was the Superglide still here? John’s heart pumped a little harder as he slid quietly past the building. The guard-dog’s menacing stare was the first thing Little John saw as he lifted his eyes above the fence. It was an older Shepherd, heavily scared from street fights. He was mean. But it was not his nature to bark and the dog only growled a warning. John saw that he meant business. But the dog was only an inconvenience.
Little John had come for his bike.
Casting a gaze across the lot, he soon spotted her. His gear was still packed exactly as it had been on the day this nightmare began! The dog had gnawed the seat and his gear. John’s anger intensified.
Stealthily, he slipped away.
It was three a.m. and aside from a single streetlight adjacent to the general store, the little town of Mayberry seemed deserted. In the Texaco parking lot sat a single tow-truck. With violent intent obvious in his stride, Little John walked to it. His only plan had been to hot-wire the vehicle then ram the gate. After that, he didn’t know?
Bits of shattered glass flew across the bench seat as a large rock smashed the driver’s window. Next, a work-callused hand reached for the door-lock. A quick search of the truck revealed a set of bolt-cutters stashed behind the seat. “How convenient,” the big man thought. Moments later Little John cut the lock from the impound gate then slid it open.
Again the dog was there. It snarled and attacked.
There was a single yelp as the business end of the bolt-cutters came down on the dog’s skull. In an instant the animal lay unconscious upon the ground. One hind-leg still twitched. John hit him again and the dog lay still.
Five minutes later John pushed the motorcycle to the street then turned left and headed out of town. The bike was heavy, but Little John continued for another 1/8th mile before deciding it was probably safe to try the engine.
After inserting the spare key he always carried, John hit the button. The starter didn’t even click. As he’d feared, the battery had gone dead over his three months of incarceration. Thank god for kickers, he thought. But the spark was weak and still she did not start. He worked hard…still nothing. Desperation gripped him as the sweat began to flow from his body. And still he worked. Finally she fired…but only once, then again, and again. Eventually the old engine came to life and it was with a great sigh of relief that Little John threw a leg over the bike, then dropped her into gear.
It had been three long months since he’d felt the wind in his face and in the wee hours of that late summer morning the quiet country road supplied him with only a warm breeze as he rode free again. Looking to the black velvet sky it occurred to him that all the stars of the universe had come to offer their misty milk-light in a ritual of surreal blessing cast down upon his escape.
But he was afraid. He’d killed an officer—a police dog! If they caught him now, by law, they could send him up for murder. Fear. It seemed a weak word now, for what John really felt was something more like terror. His mind raced for a plan. They know I’m moving west because of my Arizona license. It’s certainly fortunate that the address is wrong. Think I’ll go east. It wasn't much of a plan. But it was all he had.
Once the adrenaline had washed from his veins a horrible anxiety took its place and, stopping only for gas and an occasional catnap at the ground beside his bike, John rode for two solid days. Eventually the North Carolina coastline stopped him. With no interest in the southern route, as it passed entirely to close to Oklahoma, Little John turned the Superglide north.
Somewhere in Virginia the money ran out and John found himself pushing what had begun to feel like two tons of cold steel. Eventually he brought the motorcycle into a small Sinclair Station. The young man approached the proprietor then and offered his labor. “Any kind of work at all,” he’d said, “in trade for a tank of gas.” It was a very embarrassing moment indeed.
The wiry old man looked him over thoughtfully for a moment. His sudden grin revealed two missing teeth. “Know how to operate a broom?” he said. But John knew more, and by that very afternoon his face was buried under the hood of an aging Chevrolet as his hand worked diligentlywith a 9/16 box-wrench. The old man let him sleep behind the station. On the sixth day Little John collected his pay then headed up I-17 once again.
As the Canadian border drew near it was decided to pick up I-90 and start west. The highway now offered some semblance of security in the fact that Oklahoma had been given the widest berth possible and again the ride brought great contentment to the big man’s spirit.
Twice more the motorcycle was pushed into gas stations—intentionally—for John now sought employment before his wallet ran dry. Twice again he found work.
From Washington, Little John rode I-5 south to Portland before turning west for the coast. Now this is truly living, he thought as giant redwood forests dazzled him, and impossibly green landscapes made candy for his eyes, while stunning seascapes filled his lungs with fresh ocean air. It was without doubt the height of his short life on this earth.
A week later Little John pulled into Los Angeles. From there he picked up I-10 east and began the last 500-mile stretch of his long journey home.
As the familiar desert opened up ahead, John began to rehearse the lies he’d tell friends and, especially, his folks about the nature of his long disappearance. But somehow his heart had been changed and John thought he now felt a touch of manhood that had not been with him before. No, he would not lie. Besides, the truth was just too strange a tale not to be told.
Little John pulled into his parents driveway and shut the Superglide down. His mom, startled by the familiar sound of the Shovelhead engine, met him at the door. She threw her arms around him and said, “Johnny, where the hell have you been? I was so damn worried!”
“Well mom…it all started when I crossed the Oklahoma state line…”
This story is dedicated to the real Little John. You know who you are.
Ride long and prosper…
–Scooter Tramp Scotty
