As she finished the last of the pot, she gently and carefully funneled the shake onto a business card, bent just right to dump the last load into the bowl. She flicked the Bic several times, and a low glowing blue flame emerged just enough to light the green material in the glass pipe. She sucked slowly, long and deep; this being the last hit it was important to savor it to the end.
Her real problem started just a couple months earlier. Actually, it wasn’t so much her who had the problem. She got rid of the cheating, lying old Jewish biker, with his bad breath and nasty habits. She came home from work and found another girl in her house with her cheating, lying old biker, with his bad breath and nasty habits. Need I say more?
She didn’t take the breakup well, even though it was her only logical reaction. But the solution became the black plague. She nursed severe resentment, alone and heartbroken, a dangerous place for an alcoholic, not to mention the pain pills and weed. The impact on her job wasn’t pretty. She called in sick way too many times, even though she had a great job with the local gas company. The daunting question creeping in, all the time, was why? Why and how did she get mixed up with him in the first place?
She recalled the day; it was a beautiful afternoon. Just before leaving the mall, she lowered the convertible top down. She pulled out on to the boulevard, unaware that she almost collided with a man on his motorcycle. He swerved radically to avoid her, she felt ashamed, and when the lights changed to red, she came to a stop and could hear the rumble and vibrations of his engine as he rode between the traffic and stopped at her side of the car.
She quickly apologized for her stupid carelessness. With the sound of the pipes filling the air around them, it was hard to know whether he heard her words. He took his large hand off the right side of the handlebars and waved her to pull over in the parking lot, then motioned for her to stop. As if being directed by a traffic cop, she wheeled her small sports car into the asphalt lot. The loud rumbling sound followed her, and then with a flick of an old ignition switch her ambience was totally still and soundless.
He swung his left boot and the whole side of his body moved over the graceful motorcycle. She took inventory, how he was dressed, the long hair, and glanced at the tattoos. He had style, from his custom hand-tooled leather boots to his handmade brass belt buckle, and his carefully saddle-stitched natural leather vest. And his art-deco sculptured crimson motorcycle would stop a parade. It was stunning, with long swooping fenders that seemed to kiss the pavement. The side fender valances were cream pearl, while the tops were a deep candy apple red. The 1946 Indian Chief sparkled with just enough chrome to mesmerize anyone.
“Hey, doll,” he said. “Have you ever been on the back of a bike when some car pulled out in front of you?”
She was awestruck the moment he pulled off his sunglasses and her eyes met his. His black piercing eyes mixed with softness in his weathered face as he asked the question. He didn’t seem to be upset with her. She replied with the truth–never been on a motorcycle before. The old biker asked if she wanted a ride and that sealed her fate. She straddled the hand-tooled natural leather seat and they rode off, leaving the car in the parking lot, with the top down, and the keys, so carelessly, left in the ignition. They rode and what a ride it turned out to be.
The vibration of the motorcycle seemed to run through her skin right to the bone. It was a bit awkward with her legs up along his thighs. The vibes slid through her hard low cut heels against the chromed steel pegs. The cushion she was perched on was not like the soft leather seat in her red Beemer. But excitement filled her entire body; blood was flowing fast enough to keep her warm from the inside out. That shimmering day it started, and it wasn’t always bad. In fact, it was mostly ghostly good.
Like any real relationship, it started out really hot and then it got sorta soggy, kinda like one spring ride to the coast. They never knew what to expect, and the distance was 700 miles from Boise, Idaho to Astoria, Oregon. The ride took them over the Blue Mountains and through the Columbia Gorge coupled with radically challenging weather changes. She remembered once when they rode the Indian back from the coast, they hit a downpour of rain slicing over the mountain range. It lasted 209 miles, all the way home. That was a seriously wet ride without any rain gear. But he loved every mile. He cared for that classic Indian Chief like it was his child.
They took off one spring morning. It was Father’s Day 2009, mind you, and they were only going for a long ride in the country, through farmlands, and the smells of the fresh afternoon. The sun had just stood up tall and the morning dew on the west side of the hills and valleys had a smell and scent of its own. Twisting and leaning, through the hills and valleys the Indian rumbled. The hum of the old Indian was at its best.
The big issue is they never stopped or turned around to go back home; they were out for an adventure, nothing packed in the saddle bags, no change of clothes, not even a camera to verify this lifetime event, and her without her meds. Bi-polar is a part of this story; just keep reading, it gets better.
The old Indian pulled into a gas station to catch a long drink of premium, to fill her up to the lip. They both went to the restrooms, walking off and shaking off the road. Her Levis got caught in her panties; it must have been better than just funny to anyone watching her shake off the pinch.
The old Jewish biker strolled to the register and paid for some smokes, a bottle of water and a half-pint of Jack Daniels. He moved the bike, which was beginning to show the years of wear, much like him. They walked down a rolling hill besides the gas station and mom-and-pop market. There was a really cool, rustic, tree and a bench a few yards away. They walked towards it and sat down.
She didn’t remember the exact words they spoke to each other. She thought back to their first ride on the pristine classic 80-inch Chief, to the coast and how wonderful it was. Now, a decade later, the Indian began to falter, and he drank a half-pint two or three times a day and smoked as many packs of cigarettes.
They were 143 miles away, and in another state. She pondered that first ride, the adventure. She had not been to the coast in more than 25 years that first time, and when she was 3 or 4 years old. It was such a rush on the Indian. The sensations that first time were so new, unique, stimulating. This time was old shit, baby! They were on our way to the coast and their last fresh crab dinner on the highway, at a beachside café.
These are the kind of memories that screwed up her brain the most, remembering the good stuff they did and places traveled, then the decline. The time they spent together when the passion was hot, hot as a summer’s day rolling across to the Painted Desert in Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico all in the same day’s ride. She remembered that the old Jew really did so love his motorcycle, but as their relationship faded, so did his desire to keep himself up, and the Chief. Life became all about whiskey and depression.
She lifted the glass pipe to her lips, but the lighter was too weak to light it again, and she looked into the bowl and realized she’s out–in more ways than one.
