sludgo’s Mile Markers

I was running behind. Way behind. Again. Always, or so it seemed back then. Had jammed as much as I could into my day thinking foolishly the meetings and sessions I’d scheduled would all go as planned, like clockwork. But of course they hadn’t because they never did. This person or that person would need a few extra moments of my time or my lecture would run long because there were lots of questions or the computer was glitching or the overhead projector wasn’t working. And on that particular day I was hauling tail though town in the A6 trying not to be too late for my meet and greet with the new District Judge at the courthouse when I tried to beat a yellow at an intersection and some old coot in a big green Sedan DeVille made a left right in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and the ABS did its job, stopping me only inches short of the Cadillac. I leaned on the horn, my rage-filled eyes hidden behind my Ray-Bans, and saw the balding, snowy-bearded Caddy Captain looking back at me and shrugging his shoulders and that’s when it happened. I gave him the finger.

I hate flying. Hate it. Such a hassle. Fighting traffic to the airport and finding parking. Then waiting in line to check in. Then waiting in another line where they make you empty your pockets and take off your jacket and shoes and belt and put everything into a tub for screening before you’re pointed into the Whizbang 9000 Deluxe Hijacker Detector to dutifully assume the position. Then there’s that one last line to wait in along with the rest of the herd when you finally board the plane. Moo. I’d probably enjoy the experience more if I flew first class but the cheapskate in me chokes at the expense, remembering the Oldsmobile Man’s observation that the nose of the plane gets wherever you’re going just as fast as the tail does so the ‘complimentary’ cocktails and snacks and marginally wider and deeper seats really weren’t worth the extra scratch. But exactly two weeks ago, as I inched through the expansive first class section of my plane then wedged my behind into my more-than-snug aisle seat back in coach I began questioning Pop’s sage advice. I shook off the thought, though. Didn’t matter. My ticket was bought and paid for and I already had enough on my mind as I buckled in and switched my phone to Airplane Mode. I was heading to Arizona again. Down to the house in Sunset Acres one more time. But this time would be different than all the rest. Very different.

This is Part Three of a three-part series. Click the links to read Part One, and Part Two.
It was a warm and sunny June morning and I’d been home about a week and a half. I was out in the garage thinking I should take advantage of the weather and give Mom’s RAV4 a good wash because it needed it. Had gotten dusty sitting in front of the McBungalow since I got back and was still grimy and buggy from the trip, but just as I was getting motivated my phone rang. Saw it was the eldest so I picked up. Knew immediately by his voice that something was brewing. He pretended-normal for a minute, asking me all the usuals. How I was. What I’d been up to. If the dogs were okay. And I answered him with all the usuals. Fine. Not much. Yup. Then he paused and cleared his throat. Said he’d just gotten off a phone call from Grandma—the Beehive—and needed to talk to me about a couple things. So I walked over to my workbench and sat down on my shop stool. “Okeydoke, kiddo. Shoot.”

The Riding Shotgun project has been an interesting one for me, to say the least, and as I picked up the e-phone to chat with the seventh subject of the series I couldn’t help but recall what a certain Mr. Gump had to say about that box of chocolates. Thus far in the project, whenever I’ve connected with any of the RS subjects, I’ve never known what I was going to get, and @hardtuned was no different. A handsome, youngish guy with chiseled features and a slender athletic build, he greeted me with a broad smile and an enthusiasm that was contagious. And when he began my ride-along by offering me a “ten-second tour” of his garage and its eclectic occupants, I knew I was in for another fascinating journey.

Recently I did something that all my life I swore I’d never do. Had been offered many chances to do it before but always gamely resisted, white-knuckling through any and all temptations like a champ. However, over the past few years I’ve found myself growing weaker of body and spirit and mind while the deadly-sweet melody of one particular siren’s song only grew louder and more seductive and last week I finally gave up and gave in. I know there are those who’ll think less of me because of it, people who’ll look askance at me when I walk into the room and whisper and hiss and snicker about me when I walk back out but, oh well. It is what it is. Or was what it was, I suppose. There’s no taking it back now and before rumors started to fly I figured I’d better get ahead of any scandal and admit it outright, admit that I’d gone over to the Dark Side and for the first time ever had my car professionally detailed rather than washing it by hand myself. I hope you were all sitting down.

This last Saturday evening I met my youngest at the rib place over by the mall. We’ve made it a regular date ever since he moved out of the McBungalow however many years ago. I enjoy seeing him and think he enjoys seeing his dear ol’ dad, but I know full well that in light of his instant-ramen-level cooking skills what he likely enjoys most is having a decent meal once a week, especially if I’m springing for it. No matter. I don’t mind. It’s become a highlight of my week. I always buy a couple of scratch-off tickets for us—the five dollar kind—and we sit in our favorite booth scratching away, hoping to win big bucks as we chat about this and that and nosh on our racks of baby backs and stacks of sweet Vidalia beer-battered onion rings before washing everything down with a Long Island iced tea for me and a Dr. Pepper for the kiddo. It’s a good time. Like I said, a highlight of my week.

A week ago I was in the TT and rolled up next to a biker sitting at a stoplight. Three in the afternoon and hotter than blazes here in mid-August southeast Idaho. He was riding solo on a late-model Fat Boy—black on black. Was wearing what Hog riders all seem to wear: an unbuttoned leather vest over a tattered black t-shirt, leather chaps over worn and torn black jeans and a set of scuffed and scarred steel-toed boots. No helmet, of course, just a do-rag, but I saw a beanie-cap strapped to his rear pillion rack—in case he had to go to Oregon, I supposed. His face was mostly hidden by a bristly salt-and-pepper grandpa beard and his eyes were shielded by mirrored wrap-around Terminator shades. His skin looked thick and weathered and was deeply tanned, so deep it took a moment for me to see his arms were slathered shoulder-to-wrist with an ornate selection of tattoos. Flames and skulls and dragons and tombstones inscribed with initials and dates and symbols I didn’t recognize. He noticed me noticing him and gave me a big tobacco-stained snaggle-toothed grin then flashed me the peace sign. I flashed him one back and the light went green and he twisted the throttle and dropped the clutch and roared off to parts unknown. And as I watched him disappear into the shimmering horizon, somewhere inside my head Steppenwolf suddenly started to play.