Most men are transparent as glass to me in my wise old age, but that wisdom was won slowly and most painfully over many years. I even remember thinking that no one could fool me anymore, then stepping neck deep into quicksand the very next minute. Although I expect no one to learn by my example, I know my stories have a certain entertainment value, and no one give a tinker’s damn about morality tales anyway, so let me tell you about a character I met worthy of a John Updike novel. In fact, I think “Rabbit” would be the perfect pseudonym.
I literally ran into him in Monroe Park in Richmond, because I wasn’t watching where I was going. Thinking back on it I even wonder if it was really an accident on his part, but if it wasn’t, it was the least of his character flaws. We both apologized profusely, and his hand lingered a bit too long on my arm as he was trying to put me to rights again. The eyes got me, caramel brown and soulful, staring into mine with a delightful wicked twinkle. He was emboldened by the presence of his friend who chatted up my buxom housemate while he tried to make time with me. I found out he was also a college student, but from U of R, down slumming at the more affordable state school I was attending. He told me he ran track, I told him I was divorced with a child. He was only about 5 inches taller than me and built more like a boxer than a runner, so naturally I was as surprised at his revelation as he was at mine. He said he loved kids and invited himself to my place. Well, I’d heard that line before, but somehow he impressed me with his humor, intelligence, and good looks, so I told him he could drop by if he liked.
He showed up that very night on the back of a Harley Davison. I mean, who knew? He was a total preppie down to his Izod shirt and khaki trousers, but he covered them with a tasteful, very expensive, black leather jacket. He asked me if I had ever been on a bike before and I admitted it would be a new experience. My buxom housemate looked on disapprovingly as we roared off into the evening, my arms wrapped tightly around him, hiding a terror I would not admit. The evening was warm and clear with a lover’s moon in the sky. I have no idea where we went, because I had my eyes tightly shut and my face buried in his shoulder. I could certainly see why guys liked this mode of transportation with the forced intimacy and body contact, but I remember only tolerating the trip to be with him. When he took me home later he made his move, and I resisted, both of us knowing how the game was played. The next night he upped the ante and showed up in a sports car of some sort, an MG as I recall. He took me to dinner and a movie, shyly taking my hand in the theater, and then kissing me quite soundly on my doorstep. The next night he was back with a serious look, a bouquet of red roses, and a tentative declaration of, yes, he said it, the “L” word. So, rich guy, really cute, hot body, kisses like thunder, and the love card. His Harley sat in front of my house all that night and the next day, and the next, and the next. Friday night he told me he had to go home for a while and get some clean clothes, but he would be back on Saturday around 2 PM. He didn’t even have the hutzba to call me himself; he had his friend come by on Sunday to tell me the truth. The jerk had gotten married on Saturday at 2 PM and was on his honeymoon in the Bahamas. I was the last fling, or at least the one he promised would be the last, but you know it most likely wasn’t.
I literally ran into him in Monroe Park in Richmond, because I wasn’t watching where I was going. Thinking back on it I even wonder if it was really an accident on his part, but if it wasn’t, it was the least of his character flaws. We both apologized profusely, and his hand lingered a bit too long on my arm as he was trying to put me to rights again. The eyes got me, caramel brown and soulful, staring into mine with a delightful wicked twinkle. He was emboldened by the presence of his friend who chatted up my buxom housemate while he tried to make time with me. I found out he was also a college student, but from U of R, down slumming at the more affordable state school I was attending. He told me he ran track, I told him I was divorced with a child. He was only about 5 inches taller than me and built more like a boxer than a runner, so naturally I was as surprised at his revelation as he was at mine. He said he loved kids and invited himself to my place. Well, I’d heard that line before, but somehow he impressed me with his humor, intelligence, and good looks, so I told him he could drop by if he liked.
He showed up that very night on the back of a Harley Davison. I mean, who knew? He was a total preppie down to his Izod shirt and khaki trousers, but he covered them with a tasteful, very expensive, black leather jacket. He asked me if I had ever been on a bike before and I admitted it would be a new experience. My buxom housemate looked on disapprovingly as we roared off into the evening, my arms wrapped tightly around him, hiding a terror I would not admit. The evening was warm and clear with a lover’s moon in the sky. I have no idea where we went, because I had my eyes tightly shut and my face buried in his shoulder. I could certainly see why guys liked this mode of transportation with the forced intimacy and body contact, but I remember only tolerating the trip to be with him. When he took me home later he made his move, and I resisted, both of us knowing how the game was played. The next night he upped the ante and showed up in a sports car of some sort, an MG as I recall. He took me to dinner and a movie, shyly taking my hand in the theater, and then kissing me quite soundly on my doorstep. The next night he was back with a serious look, a bouquet of red roses, and a tentative declaration of, yes, he said it, the “L” word. So, rich guy, really cute, hot body, kisses like thunder, and the love card. His Harley sat in front of my house all that night and the next day, and the next, and the next. Friday night he told me he had to go home for a while and get some clean clothes, but he would be back on Saturday around 2 PM. He didn’t even have the hutzba to call me himself; he had his friend come by on Sunday to tell me the truth. The jerk had gotten married on Saturday at 2 PM and was on his honeymoon in the Bahamas. I was the last fling, or at least the one he promised would be the last, but you know it most likely wasn’t.
When my husband started talking about buying a motorcycle the memory of “Rabbit” came flooding back. I told him I had no interest in riding with him. He bought the bike anyway, and he bought me a helmet in red, my favorite color. I put the helmet on the top shelf in the utility room behind some half used cans of paint. The bike was a vintage Honda Nighthawk in need of much mechanical intervention. He worked on it tirelessly on the weekends, but it never ran worth a hoot. I saw the discouraged look on his face and the longing he had for the fool thing and my heart began to melt. When my father died and left me a little money, I told him I would buy him a new one, one that would actually work, but not to get any ideas, because hell would freeze over before I got on the back of it with him. He got a shiny black 1999 Honda Magna, used, but in wonderful shape, and for a while he was out of the house a lot, sober and enthusiastic about life. One day last summer he turned it over in slow motion on a patch of gravel, and fortunately walked away uninjured. The bike was not so lucky however, and for long months it has languished in the garage beside the Nighthawk and all the lawn mowers that won’t start. Okay, I said he worked on them, I never said he was any good at doing so. Last month, when we fell in love again, I made a rash statement. I told him I would ride the damn thing if he got it fixed. Knowing his propensity for procrastination, I took the same attitude about the bike working again as our administration takes on global warming. I just didn’t think about it and hoped it would go away. Well folks, the shit has hit the fan. He took it to the shop last week and it should be ready to roll after I come back from England the first of May. I know the people in hell are going to be grateful that ice water is now available.
I once worked as a speech writer for the Dept. of Transportation.
ReplyDeleteYou're 26 times more likely to be killed on a motorcyle--or to be dating an asshole.
So the combination of asshole and byke is quite a gamble, right?
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