Last night I was sittin’ in my chair, window shopping chrome for my new hardtail Sportster, as my old back beat a steady rhythm of pain through my body… and I got a message from the sister of one of my old riding buddies. My heart thudded loudly as I stared for a minute at the first few words she typed… ‘Hey I keep forgetting to tell you that my brother Ron…’ I was terrified to click on it and read the end of that sentence.
Finally, I worked up the nerve to open it, and thankfully she was just telling me he was in a nursing home here in town. He lost a toe, got put on dialysis… a common theme amongst old bikers from all the beer and road food… diabetes. I got his number from her and immediately texted him. Then I took my pack of dogs and went to bed early with my aching back.
This morning about 3:30 that backache woke me up with a gasp and tears, and I crawled out of the big brass bed that used to belong to Jj Solari, cussing my dogs, cussing my body, cussing Jj’s beautiful bed, cussing everything as my feet hit the floor. I staggered naked to the back door to let my dogs out, and pissed in the yard with them, because i wasn’t sure I could even get on and off the toilet. I tried not to cry out, naked in the yard and grasping the fence, trying to relieve the pressure on my spine. I stumbled back inside and grabbed my cleanest dirty shirt from the laundry basket and headed to the kitchen and my coffee pot. Then my phone lit up…. and it was Ron.
Ron and I ran together when I was married to my first husband. He is an old Vet and slept on our couch more often than not for several years. Back in those wild-ass days of my early twenties, we all worked like dogs in the Arkansas heat, then rode our bikes and fought and fucked around on the weekends. We did a little speed, drank a fair amount of everything, and smoked enough pot to put Willie Nelson in a coma. Thankfully, we didn’t turn into meth-heads or drunks… but the weed stuck.
As we were catching up this morning in texts, Ron told me he got caught with weed in the nursing home and almost got kicked out. I asked a million questions. How did they find it? Where did he get it? Did he sneak it in with the prison butt pocket method? (he said he didn’t) He also said he wasn’t alone… there was six of them, all in wheelchairs. I said,’ you seriously started a nursing home gang? Lemme come see you and get the whole story.’
I rolled a doobie and hobbled out to my car and headed to see my old friend before the sun came up. He came out of the nursing home and got in my car and we parked in an employee parking lot and did what we do, as he told me the tale. Seems he and several other residents snuck outside and had a nice little safety meeting and all was well, until one little old lady went weaving down the hall in her wheelchair giggling and carrying on and of course the jig was up since she also smelled like Pepe LePew. The nursing home decided Ron was the ringleader because he was the only one still able to roll a joint… they have now branded him the troublemaker.
I forgot my pain as I laughed and watched my dear old buddy of almost thirty years tell me of his experiences sneaking here and there to smoke pot during his nursing home stay. I left him to go get his breakfast with squinty red eyes and a big grin… I bet he ate a big breakfast today.
I came home and eased out of my car… and sat down on my new old hardtail in the driveway and watched the sun come up. I stretched my arms toward the sky and took a deep breath and prepared to fight my pain through another day. The thought went through my mind as I stretched, that old bikers never die. They just buy new Harleys and get caught smoking weed in the nursing home.
