Les décisions de faire

A little smoke curled from a cigarette sitting on a shallow coffee saucer. It burned slowly, recieving no attention from the smoker himself as he sat before the table. His gaunt frame, clothed only in a pair of striped boxers and ragged undershirt seemed to just press into the worn chair. Bare, hairy legs wrapped around the legs of the chair and his arms lay before him on the table top with his palms upwards. The brass clock on the mantle in the room chimed a short song before resuming a monotonous ticking. His body expanded as he took a deep breath into his lungs, nearly swelling to twice his size. It happened suddenly as he sat meditating, dirty tools strewn around on the table, when the windows rattled suddenly. His attention momentarily shaken, his eyes darted towards the french windows. His blue eyes shaking nervously around showing the effects of caffeine. He stood and walked towards the windows, his feet padding and making a dull "thud" sound as he walked. Peering behind the faded damask curtain, he spotted the cause of the trouble, a small rubber ball with a note tied to it. He examined it through the window, before opening it and stepping out onto the small balcony.
The tile floor of the porch was warm, baking in the sun. He grabbed the black twisted metal railing, picked at a rust spot where the paint peeled before turning his full attention to the ball. It was a cracked old ball, split down the seam with a string run through it and a note tied to the half still in good condition. He picked it up tearing the note from it and tossing the ball off into the street below. He watched as it bounced off the hood of a car below before reentering his apartment. He read the note, looked at the clock and reread the note again. Seemingly satisfied, with it, he crumbled it into a ball and pitched it into the fireplace. He strode over to the bookcase on the other side of the room. It was piled with loose papers, tight bundles of documents held together with dirty string. He pulled down a pile it crashed onto the floor before him. Behind it was a small hole in the case, exposing a small knob and dial. He spun it quickly, a calculated careful mind reciting the numbers by heart before hearing it click and he opened it. A couple bundles of cash lay behind the door, a small album and a thin banking envelope. He grabbed the last item and shut the safe.
The envelope lay on the table surrounded by the tools. He paced back and forth on the worn hearth rug eying the envelope like some sort of bomb. He finally sat down and picked up the envelope and tore open the flap. The single leaf of paper was folded into quarters and as he unfolded it, smells of mold and mildew floated upwards. His eyes scanned the words quickly and once he finished the letter, he took it and lit it on fire. Placing it delicately onto the small hearth, he watched it burn and smolder. Once it finished, he poked it with the tip of his oxford scattering the remains across the tile. He pulled from the attache case on the chair an unfiltered cigarette, and lit it.

The bustling market below the apartment had hardly a hint of what was going on, as a thin wisp of smoke curled from the cracked terra-cotta chimney pots. Below, Marie was buying vegetables. Her thin face, accented by large designer sunglasses and dark hair tied up into a bun hidden from view in a sun hat still showed her youthful beauty. As she picked up an Algerian marrow, she looked up perplexed by the smell of smoke. It had a distinctive smell, compared to the charcoal braziers which market stall owners were cooking various food stuffs, or the heavy coke rich smell of the glaziers down the street working on pottery and glass. She looked up towards the apartment seeing the smoke and a man leaning on the balcony railing above with a cigarette sandwiched between his fingers.
She quickly paid for her purchases, and entered the building. The lobby was dirty, a rusting bicycle leaned against a wall opposite a row of broken post boxes. She stepped into the cage elevator pulling each door shut. When she stepped out, she didn't need to get her keys ready as the door opened before her. The man with the cigarette jerked his head back telling her to come in and she followed willingly. She looked around the small garotte, noting the smoke curling out of the fireplace and the papers scattered around the floor. She placed her shopping on the counter in the kitchen and came back into the room. The man had returned to the balcony for a second cigarette and muttered and pointed to a case in the center of the table. She opened the dusty case and inside revealed a enigma teleprinter. He began to mutter a bunch of codes and numbers, connectors and wheels. As she set them into order, he asked her about her day. She only remarked on the heat and the price of vegetables. She uttered "prêt!"
He slowly and clearly spoke, his voice trailing quietly through the air. The market below still provided an ambient background noise as he spoke. He reentered the room and walked past her, through the arch and into the bedroom. He continued to dictate clearly as he dressed into a pair of slacks and a button shirt. He pulled a drawer in the wardrobe and a flurry of multicolored ties flew out onto the bed. He turned to pick one out and began to tie it. He picked a light colored jacket and returned to the room where she remained at the device. He remarked that he finished and she entered the final codes. Looking at the thin ribbon of type that stuck out of the teleprinter, she ripped the ribbon off and rolled it into a film canister. "Il sera pris en charge, ce soir au consulat." He patted her on the shoulder and from the wall safe, this time he pulled out a second envelope. This time, padded thicker than the first. She tore the flap open revealing about 10,000 francs.
Marie picked up her groceries and tossed the film into the shopping bag with eggs and butter pats. She nodded to him expecting some sort of gesture of approval, but he merely picked up another cigarette from the box on the mantle and lit it. Back on the street, she replaced her hat and sunglasses on her head and continued down the narrow corridor with mopeds and market men shouting at passerbys. She reached the entrance of her own building and entering the front doors, she checked her mail and as she walked up, her land lady popped her head out of her door. "Louer! Vous me devez louer!" She stopped for a moment, pulled the envelope out of her purse and placed 150 francs on the bony hand. "Non non non, vous me devez trois mois." She forked over another hundred franc bill. Seemingly satisfied, the landlady retreated her head back into the door and it shut with a click.
Her apartment was decorated comfortably, a small sitting area with a cabinet and black and white television set sat on top. Low slung armchairs with saggy seats faced the little machine. A small scrubbed painted table sat near the windows overlooking a courtyard. The kitchenette was small with a tiny antique paraffin stove to one side and an ancient looking ice box underneath the window. She placed the vegetables on hooks and hangers and placed the meat and eggs into the box. Glancing into the courtyard, she looked down at the the palm fronds and the broken fountain below. She watched as a bicycle messenger screeched to a halt at the entrance and dismounted and entered her building. She continued putting groceries away and a moment later, a soft rapping came at the door. She opened the door poking her face into the crack. Before her, a smartly dressed, but obviously sweaty messenger stood before her. His brown uniform and askew tie hinted that he didn't care much for his job, but did it for the pay. She placed a 50 centime piece in his hand and he handed her the envelope. She opened it as she closed the door behind her, pulling out the papers.
The message was clear, it was printed on official consulate papers. France was giving up Algeria. Her position at the consulate would remain in place if she moved back to France. She placed the letter on the stove and continued to pull out groceries, lost in a haze. As she pulled out a small marrow, the film canister dropped out. She remembered her transaction with the man with the cigarette. It was a code to resistance members in the country to establish a coup to keep France as the parent country. The pieds-noirs would start a revolution to quell the liberation front. Torn between countries, Marie stared at the sinister little canister. Picking up the letter, it also mentioned a comfortable position and promotion in Nice. She looked at the canister, thinking of her country, growing up in Algiers during the war, living in a villa with her mother and father before they had passed away. She thought of the country the was a part of and loved. Her mind then turned to France. Back to Algeria, then back to France again. Frustrated, she set the two things down on the counter, and flopped onto her bed. She could not betray France, not like her older brother who was 10 years her senior. Hugo had joined the Vichy french and was later shot for being a traitor. She remembered him being dragged out of the house in 1946 when she was only 11, her mother and father on their knees begging for mercy from the French officer. She rose from the bed, looking at the walls down in the courtyard. She saw the bullet holes against the wall of the garage next door where her brother was shot. His last words were "Vive Pétain!" before he slumped over onto the ground. Tears began to form in her eyes, thinking of foolishly going against her country as Hugo had.
She set the canister onto the stove and lit it. As it burned, she watched it intently, imagining the difficulty getting forces together to fight. Algeria was no longer her country. She had to leave it, the people she loved and start new. When it finished burning, she tossed the melted lump into the rubbish heap in the courtyard below watching it fall satisfyingly fall into the garbage. She looked around her, grabbing photographs and packing them into a suitcase with several clothes. Everything else, she didn't need. In another suitcase, she packed her parent's wedding blanket and several other articles. She tossed a jewelry box into it, opening its carved wooden lid and removing 3000 francs from inside. She looked around her one last time before locking the door and leaving the key with the land lady.

The man with the cigarette waited outside the consulate, looking for Marie. He began to sweat nervously as she didn't begin to show. He saw the gendarme at the gate shut and lock the front door. Then, he locked the yard gate. The gendarme in his slender blue uniform shooed him away. Marie saw all this happen as she passed in a taxi bound for the Algiers dockyards. She had a ticket ready and had already called to the foreign office accepting the position immediately. Her ticket was for the SS Flandre which was in port, ready to depart for Nice by seven that evening. As she boarded after passing through customs, she looked back at the towers and minarets along the skyline. She muttered "Vive France."

The Aniv

Loosening his tie, he grazed his fingers over the tips of the keys of his keyboard as he entered the record of an order of 3000 test tubes and 200 flasks. He sighed as his eyes darted around the room, looking through the menagerie of glass ware. Everything seemed in right order. Nothing out of place. He spotted his assistant entering the room, cardboard boxes in his arms with more glasses, he thought. Rummaging through his bag, he pulled out a small blue racquetball and rolled it towards the unsuspecting lab assistant.
What happened next could only be described in most cartoon comics. The assistant stepped on the ball, realizing that his balance was suddenly compromised fell over sideways, but instead of glass shattering from the box, his box was full of large laboratory weights and heavy stone platforms. He fell throwing the boxes towards the first shelf full of delicate glassware. In turn, that one fell over onto the next, and so on until the University's dispensary was nothing more than a glass shard pile.
Rafe stirred from his nap as he heard the slap of a paper on windowed desk. Breaking as quickly from sleep, he looked at the order form. A magnetic stirring plate, three beakers and the magnet. What a strange order for these kids he thought. He stepped back and produced the desired items without even making eye contact with the requestee. It was easier to deal with undergraduates without having to look at them, explain anything or talk for that matter.
"Here is your equipment, have it back by six pm a month from today. Here is a sheet with the instructions. If you have any questions about equipment, call the office here with the number at the bottom of the sheet." Rafe said blandly. He turned to the calendar and saw the red circle marked around this upcoming saturday. In sharpie it read 'Sam's Aniv' Aniv? Aniversery! Of course, how could Rafe forget. It was six months since they first met, when he had slammed into a car door and she flew down to him in rescue. What to do... What to do... His assistant arrived, enhanded with cases of fresh, sterile glass tubing.
"Mitch, what should... I need your opinion on something."
"Chyeah, get larger volumetric pipets, these things suck in terms of capacity. If you're interested, i've got the number memorized as a mental note."
"No no, it's on something..."
"CHAAA KEEEE VOOOOO FFFFFFFF Eto! Eto! Nung! Kang! Doiiing!"
"What the fuck?"
"Oh, dont worry, it's the way i store all mental notes. It translates to CKVF 11930."
"No, these pipets are fine as is."
"Whatev broski."
"No, I wanted to ask you, what you should think I should do for Sam and my's 6 month anniversery."
"Dude!"
"What?"
"Order her this totally sick ass larger capacity volumetric pipets! Like thirty of them."
Rafe only could turn away and roll his eyes with contempt. 'What a weirdo' he thought.

Since Lucy bike was no more, Rafe had bought a truck off craigslist. It was a beautiful 1956 Chevy pickup with a gigantic back window, that could carry everything he needed at the lab. He sidled himself into the car, slipped the key into the ignition and the engine roared to life with a heavy rumble and kick. A thin smile plastered over his mouth feeling the engine running and throwing the car into gear. The car lurched forward, pulling out of the parking lot and down the street. As he scanned the road, Rafe's eyes slowly rolled back and forth, looking at the shops and stores in the area. "Hm... nothing seems all that good," he thought "There has to be some place I can find something really outstanding to get Sam." As he braked, the little picture tag on his mirror danced back and forth spinning around showing a picture of Kentucky, his old dog and a picture of him and Sam sitting on top of the roof at Georgia Road Fruit Market. His consciousness snapped and an idea materialized in his head.

Sam stared at her reflection in the medicine cabinet. She pulled the sides of her mouth with her fingers, baring a neat row of pearly teeth, her expression went from playful to laughter. She stepped out of the bathroom and looked down at the loft that she and Rafe now shared. Rafe's old roommate finally found a place next door and she moved into Rafe's place. It looked the same with a couple of exceptions of some girly objects, her old furniture arranged neatly around the bed loft. She looked around the comfortably furnished bedroom and saw on the dresser a small, leatherbound black book. She picked it up and realized it was Rafe's planner. He must have forgotten it. She flipped to today and saw that today was their six month anniversary. She'd forgotten! She ran to the bureau and started pulling out dresses and skirts. Rafe must have something planned and she didn't even have anything for him. "Oh shit. Everything here is for summer. I cant go out and buy a new dress, Rafe has the truck and, and, and..." she gasped. Written underneath the red circle was something. It was written in Rafe's cryptic scrawl. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to decipher. All she could make out was the word Diamond. The shocked expression on her face slowly melted away to form a large grin that plastered her face. A diamond!

Rafe had a grin plastered on his face as well. He remembered, there was something he'd ordered for Sam a couple months ago. He needed his diary, it would have it. He reached into his leather sack and the familiar leather book couldn't be found. Shit. It has to be at the loft he thought. Sam would be working from home today. How would he get by her? He pulled the truck outside the door of their building. He gingerly slipped out and walked in to the hallway. He silently opened the door to their loft. His head poked in and he peered around. The kitchen was empty, the living space seemed deserted. Wandering in stealthily, he scanned the room. All clear. All he had to do was go up the stairs to the loft and grab his book. With cat like tread, Rafe stole silently up the stairs and onto his prey. He looked around the seemingly empty loft, his eyes darting around in hopes of finding the journal. He saw it laying on his pillow, its weight pressing down into the down pillow. Grabbing it, it revealed underneath Sam's delicate hand. Rafe's heart stopped for a moment. Sam must have read whatever was in this. Shit shit shit...

Carefully backing away from what seemed like a lion's den, Rafe moved slowly, watching every step he took. One out, he ran to the truck, shutting the door behind him and breathing heavily. His head dropped back against the rear window and blinked several times. He reeled forward again looking at the book in his hands. Opening it almost like a treasure, he looked for the date and in his cryptic scrawl, it read: Be sure to pick up order at Diamond Heights. Bringing the truck to life, he pulled away and to safety. He pulled the truck in front a small narrow alleyway, and left the truck there. Walking gingerly amongst piles of trash bags and cans, Rafe came up to a stoop with a dreary looking painted door at the top. He knocked three times and a small slot opened, a hand reached out grasping a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. The arm handed it to Rafe and in return, Rafe shoved several bills into the extended hand. The little slot shut and the alleyway was as it was again.

Over dinner and cocktails, Rafe thought he was doing well. Sam sat across from him at the small table at the little restaurant where they first went out together. The fairly expensive one mentioned in a previous story but i'm too lazy to look up. The entire evening, Sam seemed to have a twinkle in her eye, every time she laughed, her curls bounced lightly. Rafe looked at her and began to melt in his seat. He felt happy. After dinner and the dessert and coffee was brought over, Rafe reached into his pocket and pulled out the little brown package. It was still tied up with waxy twine and he placed it on the small saucer that sat in front of her. She stared at it, not knowing what to think. It certainly was larger than a ring box, but not big enough to be a bracelet or necklace case. She gingerly undid the bow that held everything in place, and with a careful finger, she peeled back the paper revealing a small little silver box. She opened the lid and inside was a beautifully hand crafted silver ring set with several small stones and a diamond right in the center. She was stunned and shocked, her mouth hung open.

"Babe, I know we've been together for six months. I've loved every single minute of it. I would love to spend alot more of it with you later on. Will you marry me?" Sam looked at Rafe, her expression drooped and she nodded, obviously lost for words. She only could make a gutterance of uh-huh as she nodded.

Street Signs Part Deux

A sequel for a story writ two years ago...

I shuddered as a breeze caught around my ankles. Denise had left me after all, after that "hell" I went through when she had that family emergency. I still lived with Dwight, although he somewhat simmered down from the boiling hot lothario he was two years ago. The two of us moved out of our old place on Mason street and found a nice, decent double loft in the industrial part of the city. I was no longer studying at the university but I was working as a technician for the labs in the forestry department. When I say technician, I really mean something more like... well... the guy behind the counter at the dispensary for lab equipment. But I do know how to work all the stuff, and service it. Mostly since it was equipment from the 1930s.

I didn't care that I was single, I changed for a new lifestyle. Dwight had become a graduate student and was working as a TA earning a bit of money and I was pulling my part. Our place became a pretty chic place, like you know, those fancy looking apartments you see on television. We had a flat screen, and Barcelona chairs and big glass topped counters. To be fair, the flat screen is 24 inches and the reason we have so much modern furniture was because the guy who lived across the hall ran a furniture warehouse and couldn't move the damn things so he gave them to us. Pretty sick bachelor pad if I must say. Our double loft is a bit of an anomalie because there's two separate lofts. One over the entrance and one over the living space. It works, there's still tons of light and all, just less privacy. I can be in bed and sit up and then see the big D riding on some girl he met. Lately, it has been the same girl. I think he's finally settling down for a change. But every night those two were together, I wanted it just as much, so badly.

Mason st. and Delaware avenue

My old apartment was on my normal bike ride to work at the College of Forestry. Every morning, I'd pass by it and ring the bell on my road bike just to say hello to my old windows and front door. Sometimes, i'd check the mailbox to see if I still had any mail being sent there. I got most of it by then, but occasionally, a misinformed relative will send a check there and whoever moved in just leaves my mail in the box still.

On that morning, I did my usual routine, rode past it, and rung the bell. Suddenly, I heard the shuck of a window and I looked up to see a round tan face looking back at me. From my own old apartment for that matter. I was enthralled for a moment as her straight, blond hair drooped over her bare shoulders covered only by the straps of a worn looking undershirt. I forgot I was on my bicycle. Someone had opened the door of their car right in front of me and well, I went sailing for a brief second. I did a sort of half barrel roll over the handle bars and laid there on the street for a moment. The offending vehicle had closed the door and pulled away quickly, running over my bike in the process. She saw this and her head ducked out the window.

I dont know for how long I laid in the street but when I came to, my head was cradled in her arms and resting on her knees on the sidewalk. Up close, her face was sweet, and her eyes were greenish blue. If I didn't have to get to work, I could have laid there for a while longer. I staggered to my feet and she looked at me in surprise.

"I... I got to get to work..."
"Are you all right? You took a nasty hit and that person just kinda ran off."
"Where... where's my bike?"
"Well, you cant really ride it. It got run over."
"What? Lucy Bell? Run over?"
"That's a cute name for a bike."

I started to cry a little. She pointed to the wreckage of my bicycle leaning against the wall of my old building. The handle bars were bent, the frame wrecked and both wheels busted up pretty badly. The only thing that survived was the pannier rack on the back, the bell and my Brooks saddle.

"Why don't you come inside for a moment. You can use the telephone here to call your work place."
"Uh.. S-sure."

She was petite but she was strong enough to support me up the staircase. She kicked open the door to her place and placed me in a chair in the living room. I thought to myself, this used to be my living room... I looked around me, the place was rather bare. There was a simple scrubbed table on one side of the dining area, a couple Ikeaish chairs, a forlorn looking saggy couch and a few prints framed on the walls.

"My name's Samantha. Everyone calls me Sam."
"Well, my name's Rafe."
"Just want to know. Is it with an ie or a... hah. Oops."
"Easy mistake. It's fine. The telephone?"
"Ah, nearly forgot."

She walked over to the kitchen counter and picked up a black cordless phone and handed it to me. I called in my office, saying I wouldn't be in today since I was in an accident, etc. etc. As I spoke with my boss, I watched her walk around the apartment doing her things. She walked into her room and emerged wearing a sweatshirt with the letters Alpha Nu on the front. My mind raced a little.

"Finished."
"Cool. How're you feeling now?"
"A bit better. Say, can I ask you something sort of personal."
"That depends on what you're trying to find out."
"Do you buy groceries at Boles' Green Grocers?"
"Yeah, I do actually."
"Do you recall bumping into someone and slapping him there?"
"Slapping... let me think. Yeah, there was this perv there. Said he was reading the words on my ass and thinking of the Dean or something. I told him I was kinky and... oh my god. That's you. Like... how are you!"
"Fine thanks."
"Look, I didn't mean it when I said perv or anything. It's just, it's been pretty hard lately. I was dating some douche bag who wanted me to spray tan myself orange and he dumped me for some floozie at Chi O and I dont know why I'm telling you all this."
"I dont either. What are you doing here?"
"Well, I moved in here when the place came up. I graduated and needed a place to live since I started work for the admissions office."
"Believe it or not, this is my old place."
"That's like some sort of crazy coincidence."
"Sorry for kinda standing you up the last time we met."
"Well, I did come on to you a bit forward."
"I suppose. You're not dating this uh.. D bag still are you?"
"No. Single as a nun."
"Ahh. Well.."
"You're asking me out aren't you?"
"Possibly."
"Yes."
"What?"
"My answer to you is yes."
"You're not still kinky are you?"
"You have yet to see my good sir."
"Uh. Great. Pick you up at eight?"
"On what? Your Lucy Bell is reduced to a bike seat."
"Saddle. Bike saddle."
"Fine fine. But what do you intend to do?"
"Well, you have yet to see my good lady."

We exchanged numbers and parted ways. I took the remnants of my bike out of the lobby and carried them back to the loft. When I got back, Dwight looked at me and sprayed his drink all over the table.

"What the fuck dude? What happened to you?"
"It's a long story. But in the end, I got a date."
"What? No way. How long has it been since your dick's seen another woman's bits?"
"Not that long. Sheesh. It's been what? Seven months."
"Seven months! Oh my god. I'm surprised your balls haven't exploded unless you've been whacking off constantly since that Denise witch dumped you."
"I'll appreciate it if you dont call her a witch. Denise and I are still friends."
"Yeah look. I'm friends with my grandma. But I dont think about her like the way you think about Denise."
"Look, your grandmother..."
"Aww dude. I cant eat now. I'm thinking about my grandma in bad ways. Fuck."
"Dwight. You're sick."
"You're sick man. You're the one with the date now. The girl I've been bringing around, she says she wants to move some things in. Shit dude. What am I gonna do?"
"Fine with me."
"No. Not fine with you. You should be virulently opposed and get in her face."
"You dont know her name do you?"
"No fucking idea."
"Right. Well, we'll work on that. Not even a first name."
"Abby or Edie or Babby something with an ee sounding name."
"Babby?"
"I dated a girl by the name of Babbi all right?"
"When?"
"Back at the old place. The one I brought back a second time and never after."
"That was Bambi. We talked a little."
"Woah, total brain fuck right there man."
"Right. I'll help you figure out your girl's name for you if you help me."
"With what?"
"I need your truck for tonight."
"Fine. Take care of her. She needs a bit of gas."
"Fine by me."

Dwight's pickup rumbled to life as I put the keys in, and shifted it into gear. I loved driving, it's a warm feeling, feeling the warmth of the seat, the rumble of the car as it sat in gear. I pulled the car outside her place, got out and set off for her door. There was a familiar buzz of the doorbell and a warm, sassy sounding voice from the speaker.

"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me."
"Hey, come on up."

The door rattled with a buzz and I pushed my way in. I came up to her door on the third floor, and the same little bare room made itself present again.

"Hey you."
"How're you doing?"
"Fine, just give me a second to finish putting on makeup."
"Sure sure."

I sat in a small easy chair as she disappeared to the bathroom again. I looked around, there seemed to be a bit more furniture than when I was here earlier this morning.

"Is some of this furniture new?"
"Sorta."
"How is furniture 'sorta' new?"
"Well, college finished a couple of days ago, and students are just throwing all this stuff out."
"Did you look at it with a black light first?"
"I didn't want to think about that."
"Well, it comes with student used furniture."
"So.. where are we going?" She emerged from the doorway, wearing a black slinky dress, her face lightly touched up with makeup. "I mean, if we're going somewhere else, I need to change again."
I thought about it, one thing came up. "Twin Peaks."
"Twin peaks? The bar?"
"Yeah sure. C'mon it'll be fun. Look, I got my darts with me, I can teach you." She reluctantly looked at me with a cocked head and little pouted lips. "Or how about Swing."
"That sounds more like it." She grabbed me by the tie and we left her place. In the hall, there is an old alcove for the telephone, she pushed me into it. Her lips pressed against mine, this caught me by surprise, and I just let it happen.
"How 'bout dinner too?"
"That's better."

I took her for dinner at Oxygen 42, a considerable dig into my pocket and then we found ourselves dancing and grinding around the dance floor. Drinks flowed between me and her, more her than me. Before long, I found her crashing about, falling, flailing and generally, very drunk. After an hour's worth of dancing, I had to drag her back to the car.

"Where are your keys?"
"I dunno. They-they were n a scrunchie on my wrist." I looked at her wrists. Bare. "But uh oh. Looks like I lost them."
"How am I supposed to get you home?"
"Take me with you!"
"It's only our first date. Look... I"
"Shhhh. Just let me sleep. I promise I wont be bad."
"Allright I suppose."

I drove back to my loft and took her up to my room. She looked at me, a wide grin smashed itself over her face. She giggled and then pounced onto my bed. I looked at her, I cant do it I thought. She's drunk. She looked at me and crawled to the edge of the bed and grabbed my tie again and this time, with a weird amount of strength, she pulled me down on top of her. The rest is just history.

I woke up, the sun was streaming through the windows, and my head was still somewhat of a groggy mess. I looked around. The bedsheets were tangled around my legs and waist. A lump of pillows lay around, the comforter was thrown onto the chair and there were clothes everywhere. I looked to my side and splayed out on the sheets, arms enwrapt around a stuffed moose I had laying on the bed, was the naked figure of Samantha. Her hair was spread out and fanned over the pillows. I drew a finger and poked her side. Her eyes stirred, and I poked again. Her lips, parted revealing a small pink tongue that licked around.

Atlas and Kingman Sts.

I sat quietly at the cafe, sketchbook laid out flat in front of me. My cigarette still let little wisps out, showing resilience to dying out just yet. As I drew, the pen just seemed to flow over the pages, cutting loose all of my enslaved ideas and thoughts in picture form. It was a little while since I last saw Sam. That morning we had gone to bed together, she just disappeared and hadn't called since. The waiter brought along another coffee to the table. As I looked at the steaming cup, I heard the piercing ring of a cellphone. I looked around to find this strange source of noise and found myself making eyes with Sam again. She saw me and sprang up, knocking over her table and the things on it.

"Oh my god, so there you went."
"Yeah, here I went."
"Why didn't you call?" Her legs crossed, revealing a bit of a thigh. It was becoming irresistable.
"Well, you left in such a hurry, I almost thought you didn't want to be bothered."
"A girl would like to know a little bit at least..."
"Well, I apologize then."
"Do you want to make a girl's fancy again?"
"What?"
"You know..." Her skirt lifted a little.
"Aha, well... hum." I put my coffee down and looked her in the eyes. Her lashes batted over her light blue eyes. "I could.. Lets go how's that?"

I took her arm and she took mine and we walked back to my apartment.

Hoegaarden part two

I just met a girl, Cassie. Cassie god knows what her last name is, told me to met her here at this time. With a fist full of cash and an open mind. A really open mind. I stood there, thinking, this couldn't be possible, that everything that had just happened in my usual breakfast place was just a dream. Yet, here I was, standing by the Cable Car turnaround and in my jacket pocket, eight hundred dollars. I watched the masses of tourists line obediently around the concrete bollards, waiting for their chance to ride the world famous cable cars of the city. I jerked the pale keffyeh closer around my neck and looked around one last time. Five minutes i'll give her. Five.
I heard my name, pitched out through the cold air. "Max!" I spun on my heels to look around. I didn't see anything. People just kept milling about their businesses, togged up in cold weather clothes. "Max!" I heard Cassie, I just didn't see where she was. She finally pushed her way through a throng of tourists. "Max, there you are. Come on, i've been waiting forever. Come on silly."
She grabbed my arm, leading me through the crowd and down into the BART station towards the entrance to the mall. She gripped my arm with a strength I really didn't think she had. We wandered down, below Market street and we found ourselves immersed in the Westfield mall. Couples, groups of college students, all milling about looking and trying on things. I looked at my drab clothes, a pea coat, collared shirt and levis. Nothing exciting. She dragged me towards Nordstroms. All around me stood mannequins dressed sharply in plaid and checkered patterns, beautiful looking people with their noses in the air and old ladies, dressed in their best shopping. Cassie took me by the hands and looked me in the eyes.
"You need this. It's not too late to back out. Just say so, and i'll disappear like fries in front of a fat kid"
"Of course I do. Why else do you think i'm here?"
"Allright. Prepare to go from drab to dapper."
She skired off for a moment then returned with the floor walker.
"Yes I see ma'am. I'll see what I can do. Please."
The floor walker escorted me into a back room and suddenly, without warning, i'm covered and swamped in clothes. The sheer combinations and colors was overwhelming and soon, I found myself presented before Cassie. Wearing a pair of dark trousers, a plaid shirt, skinny tie, wool jacket and a small porkpie. Only one thing could come out of my mouth.
"What is the cost?"
"Sir, this entire combination runs for about fourhundred and seventy five."
I choked. "Come again?"
"four hundred and seventy five. Plus Tax might I add."
"Ah. Well."
Cassie poked me in the ribs again. "Do it."
I forked over the cash. "I'm wincing as I'm doing this as you know."
"You're doing good. I've got a kiss for you." She leaned into my face and placed a small kiss on my cheek.
"Whey hey hey."
"Thank you sir, here is your receipt."
I grumbled in my new outfit as we walked out of the store. Cassie held my hand. I couldn't help myself.
"Let's get a drink ok?"
"I guess."
"Allright, we'll go to The Peaks."
She pulled me onto an F car and we rumbled together into the Castro.

Hoegaarden part one

A short story:

I'm not the sort of guy, to try something new. Hell, I'm afraid of trying a new beer. In high school, my friends called me Maxed out Max. Not cause I did things to the extremes, but more because I had exhausted out everyone from not wanting to try anything other than my usuals. In my first two years of college, I continued in this fashion until my third year, which is where this story begins.

My eyes tend to remain shut, they dont really open until well after I've emerged from my cocoon of comforters and blankets. It usually tends to happen, just about halfway through brushing my teeth, and shaving. As usual, my roommate is still fastened firmly to his mattress, his legs dangled limply over the edge in a pair of red basketball shorts. The little clock beside his head began to chirp a soft alarm and his hand, edged towards it like a snake and with a single, deft motion, chucked it at me. I just managed avoid being hit by morning missiles. His head ducked under the covers and I pulled the thick, linen curtains open. Light streamed through the large windows and he sat up. Blinked a couple times and covered his head with a pillow. I only stared at him contently and finished dressing and got out.

At the cafe, I ordered my usual breakfast and my usual coffee. I had it at my usual table with my usual newspaper section from my usual newspaper open.

I dont know what it was, but you know that feeling that some people get when something just clicks in their head, and they go flippin bananas? I kinda had that. I stared at my table and only one thing came into my mind. Disgust. I motioned for the waiter, and he came by.

"Mr. Max, good to see you. Is there something with your breakfast?"

"Yes, there is."

"But, what could it be? It is the exact same thing our cook Maurice has made for you for the past two years."

"But that's just it. Could I have something different?"

"But of course. Here is a menu, I'll be back."

I stared at the piece of paper. Although, there were 12 different breakfasts, it felt like staring down 1000 different entrees. My mouth began to pulsate with fear and excitement. Each option looked more liberating that the next and each one began to scare me like no other. I could only look at the next one down and almost feel my teeth chatter. The waiter came back.

"Mr. Max, are you ready?"

I looked at him, and then back to the menu. My mouth trembled in fear.

"I'll just stick with what I got."

"I see..."

Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me. It wasn't any voice I knew, none that was familiar to me at least. It was sweet, and sour at the same time. It rang in my ears but was pleasing. I turned around and saw a smiling, bubbly face. She sat there, in a calico print sun dress, her hair was clipped short and she sported a cycle cap and thick framed glasses.

"Could I get, a carafe of orange juice, a chicken fried steak, some home fries, no... let's have hashbrown patties today, and a fried egg on the side. Sunny side up. Something new this time."

I was in awe of how easily she just picked new things. I turned back towards my plate of eggs benedict and hashbrown pattie and looked back at her. Something in my gut said I needed her. I stood up and sat myself down at her table.

"I'm Max."

"Oh. Hello. That was rather forward. Well. Hello Max, welcome to my table." As she said this, she made a flowering gesture with her hands. "Now Max. What can I do for you?"

"Well, this might sound silly. But hear me out ok?"

"It's fine. Just tell me."

"Ok, well... I'm in a rut. I cant try anything new. I've been the same, straight laced guy for the past 20 years and I think you're the person to help me change that."

"Why would I want to help you?"
"I just feel it in my stomach. The way you ordered breakfast, I could never do that."

"Haha, silly. But that's just breakfast. It's what I feel like."

"But why do I always feel like eggs benedict and patties?" I jerked the dish from my table onto hers. The eggs landed with a rattle and bits of potato scattered about.

"Oh man. Are you some nutjob or something?"

"No, I'm honest. Look. There's no one in my life that's radical, different, etcetera. I want to live a little. I want to... I want to do things my mother would be angry at."

"That's not a problem. Ok first off, let's order breakfast."

"But I got breakfast right here." I motioned to the eggs benedict and patty.

"Not anymore." She spit on her palm and smacked the benedict. "You're ordering something new, and i'm helping you. What do you feel like?"

"Me? Uh. I dunno."

"Pick something."

"Ahh. phoo... um. Pigs in a blanket covered in gravy sound good actually. I've never noticed them before."

"Then Piggies you shall have! Waiter!" She motioned over my waiter. "This gentleman will have..."

"Uh... Can I get the pigs in a blanket covered in gravy."

He looked at me stunned. "Very good. Anything else?"

She looked at me. I looked at the menu.

"Champagne and orange juice. I'd like that please."

"Very good." A smile spread over his face as he walked off to put the order in.

"That's a great start. I'm proud of you."

"T-thanks. It's new."

"Cassie."

"Pardon?"

"Cassie Innsbruk"

"You?"

"Of course."

"huh" I nodded vigorously. The waiter came back with a plate of sausage gravy draped over a pair of piggies. I wolfed them down. They didn't taste like they should have been in my mouth at this hour, but it was invigorating. The Champagne came next and it washed it down with a bubble. I grinned at my new found ability.

"Turns out you do have free will"

"Heh, I guess so. Hey look, I know it's kinda out of the blue, but would you like to go out with me? Help me continue changing me? It'll be for the good of the world."

She looked at me stunned. "Ok. I'm not seeing anyone, and something like you might be a fun project. But we gotta do heavier shit than just bacon and eggs. Now. What other problems do you have?"

"Well, where should we start?"

"How about them threads. When did you last go shopping."

"On my own?"

"Sure."

"Never."

"Oh my god. Meet me at Powell station in 45 minutes. Bring a buttload of cash."

to be continued...

Living the Life of Lindsay

This entry is dedicated to a very good friend of mine, she is a really amazing, wonderful and beautiful person and late one night on an IM client, she inspired me to write this little short story for you all to enjoy.

Do you know that feeling? The one where you wake up, the sun is streaming through the windows and the first thing you do is smile, squint your eyes a little and then raise your arms over your head to stretch? That's what my life is like every morning now. I graduated from Berkeley just a couple months ago and I found this job working in Paris as a researcher for some big professor at the Ecole de Beaux Arts. So I spend my mornings combing through the libraries looking at folios filled with drawings of buildings and paintings. I really couldn't get an even more cultured look into French life than this. After spending my mornings sifting, I stop by the school, present my findings for an hour or so then I have the rest of the day off. Normally, if I was still back home I would go straight back to all the libraries. But after the first few weeks of doing so, I'd forgotten about the world outside of the library and that I was in, of all places, Paris!
So that's what it's like to wake up in my life. Following my usual ritual of morning research, I made the presentation and was out at two. I returned to the little flat in the suburb of Belleville to drop my things off. Around me, people in the building were artists, writers, the poor and the thinkers. The first day, I made friends with most everyone in the building and the building certainly is a bit safer knowing who's who. On the ground floor, there is a small little grocers and every night, I would buy all my meal ingredients there. The man who runs it is a nice old chinese man who lives by himself in the back.
Up at the flat, I picked up the receiver of the telephone on my desk and called a taxi company. I felt like exploring some of the other suburbs of Paris today. Or maybe one by one. Within a few minutes, a small Citroen taxi was shaking underneath my window with the horn bleating, begging for my presence. I hopped in and the driver stared at me. "Montmarte, merci si vous plait." The cab sped through the narrow streets, passing street cafes and parks, by artists painting on canvases, musicians playing in circles. The narrow alleyways of Belleville were behind us soon and we entered Menilmontant, the steep part of town, and soon, the wide avenues of Montmarte became our raceway. The driver stopped in front of the Moulin Rouge and I paid him and he sped off looking for the next venerable fare.
Feeling a little hungry, I found a cafe and ordered a light salad. I placed my little side bag on the chair beside me and pulled out a copy of Fitzgerald. I started to read as the coffee was placed on the table with a jug of ice water and a warm glass, still steaming from a hot bath. As I continued, the world I sat in seemed to swirl in with the Paris in Fitzgerald's books. I was lost in a smile, and I didn't really notice the boy at the table across staring at me. It must have taken awhile for me to notice him because when I finally did look at him, his coffee cup fell from his hand onto his saucer. Snapping out of it, he realized his lap was full of cold coffee and rushed to grab the table linens to start blotting his lap. I laughed, as he did, he looked up at me again. His hair was greased back, his jaw firm and prominent and covered in stubble. His green eyes were hidden behind a pair of rimless glasses. Well dressed with the exception of the coffee stain, he stood, all six feet two of him and sat in the chair opposite mine. Somewhat shocked, I tried to compose myself and look further into the text. He sat there, then leaned forward, putting his chin on his hands.
The salad arrived, I put the book away and looked at him. I raised a finger, at him. He looked confused, he looked around, his locks of hair bouncing back. He then pointed at himself with a look of bewilderment. I shook the coco-nut. He didn't get I wanted him to go back to his seat. Finally, in French, «Please, go back to your seat, you're not going to find anything here.» Dejected, he sat down back at his table, now stained with coffee. I finished the salad, and left. But not without noticing him following me.
I stopped at every famous landmark, the Moulin de la Galette, The famous Moulin Rouge as well as Le Chat Noir. By now, the evening dusk was starting to envelope the city. I hailed a cab, and as I entered, he entered as well. He immediately ushered the cab driver to the VIII^e arrondissement. As we sped down the thoroughfares, I wondered if this man was going to kill me, or worse, take advantage of me. I tapped the driver to let him know I was going somewhere different. He realized the mistake and let me off. I merely waved the hand as he stared in surprise through the back window. I hailed another cab and this time, it went back to Belleville.
Living my life, I wouldn't know how to describe it for you. The boys are nice, but there are some days, I have to beat them away with a stick. Even if they're a handsome Parisian boy. As I got out, I saw another cab pull behind mine, and somehow, it was him. The cabs drove off, and as I tried to get the key in the lock, he swooned up to me. «You know, i've been following you all day. I think you are a gorgeous girl, please. I would like to get to know you.» I merely stared at him, and doing the typical American thing, I said no and walked through the door. I opened my windows to the street and he still stood there. I looked at him. «Go Away!»«At least tell me your name.» I finally caved in. "Lindsay." I saw him mouth the word in the streetlight. His heart seemed to just flutter.
I went to bed that night flustered.
Remember how I described mornings to you? Waking up with a smile, with the sun streaming through the shutters, and the birds chirping and pidgeons cooing on the gutters? Well, imagine that, but finding the room had been opened while I was asleep and then suddenly filled with flowers of ever kind. I frumpled my face and only could start to imagine what Ashley would do if she found out I was turning down a European man.

Moped Diaries: Day seven

long awaited by me, probably not by you but what the hell!

A haze hung over my head as I woke up. I gasped at the air of the dark room trying to inhale something fresh at least. I looked around me and I could see nothing but pitch black. A white line traced itself across the ceiling, bumping into the smoke detector and overtaking it like nothing. That line continued across the ceiling running into another thing I couldn't make out. It then hit the wall and then ran down over the frame of a picture and then a canvas pannier. My pannier. I recgonized the initials Z W painted over the front flap. I pulled the sheet off and stood up. A pain ran down my entire spine as I stood and I bent forward from it. Nearly bashing my head into a sleeping lump next to me. I shuddered and stood. I walked to the source of the line and pulled it apart. The curtains squealed as I opened them. I looked before me. A sprawl of green and fog pierced my eye. I looked out beyond the balcony. I saw our two mopeds chained to a pole and ice machine. Strange. I shuffled back to the warm half of my bed and sat there for awhile. I looked around, hoping to perhaps understand what happened last night.

I felt a hand grab at my waistband of my underpants and I reeled back in shock. I looked back towards the bed and saw a slender wrist with a bracelet on it. Several bracelets actually. I looked back at it. I stared at it intently. Cursing it with a slight disgust. We were supposed to meet our girls in Victoria in three days and the last thing we needed was this. I poked Ashton, or at least what I thought was Ashton.

"G'ywer over!"

I was taken aback at the harshness and femineity of the voice. I poked the other lump and then Ashton stirred.

"Wha?"
"Dude! Look."

He turned onto his side and looked. It was a female. Sort of. She was wearing heavy black corset with black satin ribbons here and there. Ashton made up with a start.

"aaagh!"

The black lifeless mold sprung to life.

"Dear god! Where am I?"

Suddenly, the bangled hand sprung to life as well.

"Candy! Where are we?"
"W-who are you two?" I asked.
"I'm Candy Jean and this is Florence. We call her Flo. Only Flo."
"Uh heyeah...."
"Wait. Who are you two?"
"I dont know."
"What you mean you dont know. Aint you two... yous two?"
"I'm Reginald." Ashton made up in a thick British accent.
"Ah, and i'm uh Sid."
"Sure... sure. You guys got any Baileys?"

We both shook our heads. The two girls then exited the room. We stared at each other in complete fear. We searched every trash can for any condoms. The cans were empty. We pulled apart the room looking for evidence of sex. None. As far as we knew.

"How wasted did we get last night?"
"I dont know, enough to lock our bikes to a vending machine and a drain pipe and apparently take those two bats to bed."
"But we didnt.... did we?"
"I dont think either of us did. As far as I knew, I passed out."
"Jesus, Buddah and Holy Zombie Jesus with Joseph Smith on their majestic steed 'Brigham Young'"
"Ditto." I said.

As we checked out, we asked the check out desk if they knew who those girls were. It turns out they were occupants in the room two doors down. We must have accidentally left the door unlocked and they wandered in and slept. We hope.

We loaded our bags and made our way down to the bikes. I tightened the sheepskin collar on my leather jacket and helmet. Ashton had a limp handrolled cigarette in his mouth. I slapped the thing out of his mouth. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes before giving me a 'fuck you' look. We both unlocked our bikes and we soon found ourselves in line for the border crossing. As soon as we made it to the border, a guard in a blue shirt and black hat came up to us.

"Hello Gentlemen. Passports if you please."

We handed them over. He came back out in a minute and then passed them back to us. He told us to enjoy our visit to the great nation of Canada. We finally made it to Canada! It was all so confusing. The liters, the loonies and not seeing US flags everywhere. We dumped our things at the YMCA hotel in Vancouver and locked up the mopeds in the garage. We both looked at each other and couldn't believe we made out to Vancouver after seven days of biking and motoring. We took in the city as much as we could and then returned to the YMCA at 10. The next morning, we would board the ferries then meet our girls in Victoria.

Her Turn

Her forehead touched the cold thick window slightly. Her light blue eyes remained transfixed in one position staring out the window. She wasn't looking at any one thing in particular since the outside was moving so quickly. The plate of food before her seemed to hang in time, neither cold nor warm, but still edible. She sat alone at the table for two with only a few things on her mind. She recalled this trip awhile ago. Years perhaps. She remembered she had taken it with someone she once knew but now rather faded away from her life.

The white-jacketed waiter approached her and the gaze was broken for a moment. She gave him a look of confusion, mixed with a string of apprehension. Then, with a wave of her hand, he took away the plate of food. He came back with a thin apertif menu. She looked it over. Campari, Kahlua, Cointreau, Mt. Gay Rhum. Her brow winced at the sight of these names. She saw one she could handle. He came back with a small schnapps glass with absolute inside it. It eased down her throat and could think of one thing. Caves. She shuddered and grabbed her timbuk2 bag.

Leaving the dining car, she entered her state room, and came out with a heavy sheepskin blanket. She carried the heavy thing with her to the observation car where she had many memories from before. She sat at the table and placed the blanket over her lap, fur side down. Her hand reached into her bag and produced a moleskine sketch book as well as a well worn moose. She pressed its nose to her lips and set it down onto the table. She started drawing, nothing in particular, just drawing. To her, she hadn't drawn in a long time. Her hands trembled as she drew for herself, not for any assignment or business job project. The porter came by at eight and placed a small charoal brazer onto the table. Warmth radiated from it and it was welcoming. The train lurched over a curve, passing over a trestle. The stuffed moose toy flopped onto its side, and the heat from the brazer began to warm it up. Soon, the car was filled with a brilliant, piercing smell of pink grapefruit. Several others in the car turned their heads around in an attempt to discover which of the ladies had walked in.

At ten, the lamps were extinguished. The orange glow from the brazer still spread a blanket of warmth over the booth. She leaned back, easing into her seat and pulled the moose up to her breast. The stars lazily hung overhead as the tips of the conifers rushed by. Her head remained gawking upwards, until it bounced forward. She looked around her. The car was empty except for herself and the porter. He announced the closing of the car and she returned back to her cabin. She climbed into her bunk, turned out the lights and kissed the stuffed moose goodnight.

Boredom

I found myself standing at the edge of the ship with my hands clasped to the railing tightly. I drew in a deep breath of the cold night air and let out a scream. Behind me, passengers on their after dinner walks just ignored me and continued on and lights in the staterooms behind also lit up in confusion. No one talked to be for a good five minutes before an official looking person came up to me. I explained to him nothing was the matter and that I just needed to get a scream out was all. He hesitantly understood and walked off. The cool, dark air seemed to envelope me in a comfortable yet chilling blanket. The stars stood out and each one seemed to want to call my name but sat there in the sky, motionless. I plunked down onto an empty steamer chair, reclined and sighed. The varnished teak creaked under my weight as I shifted about endlessly. I stood again, and then untied my bowtie and loosened the vest underneath my jacket. Tweed isn't exactly a handsome look for the steamer Queen Alexandra.

My stateroom was near the front of B deck, right beneath the bridge, but behind the Samba room. In the evenings, I could hear the band playing, the gayeity, the couples laughing and the tigers on the prowl for mates. I dont think I came here to mate. Certainly not on a ship for now... It was later towards the night when I heard an odd thing from outside the cabin. It was a long howl, almost yelling. I switched on my lamp, pulled over a dressing gown and stepped outside. There it was again, that yell. I closed the door behind me, locking it and putting the key in my pocket. I climbed the staircase and found that same officer that looked at me when I was howling, he was now howling. I stood halfway between B and A decks watching, and trying in a sense, to be inconspicious. He looked at me and nodded.

"Does a body good you know."
"Yeah, I do." I responded.
"Sorry for giving you funny looks earlier, but you know how it is. Gotta keep up appearances."
"No no, by all means."

I retreated back to the B deck promenade when I hear a yell again. I looked at one of the clocks that stuck out from the wall. 103AM. Goodness, what a lark.

The next morning, I found myself again at the table that seemed to be unofficially and unceremoniously christened the single gentleman's table. I sat, cherrily with a white china plate piled with sliced pineapples, cooked ham, roasted king edward potatos and corned beef hash. I sat and ate in silence with my newspaper. Around me, there was the buzz of families and conversations in the dining room. Some of the other passengers were dressed in bathing suits and caps and had robes on. As if after eating, they would take a swim in the plunge room. I could imagine a few of them getting cramps half way through a lap of front crawl and then the lifeguard would drag them out and then they'd complain about having their lap interrupted by some underpaid lackey.

On board, things were boring and dull. One could only play so many frames of shuffleboard with Colonel Lysander, or so many rubbers of whist with the ladies who defiantly hung around the men's smoking lounge. Life at sea was like living in the country. This trip would mark the second time i've journeyed from New York to Southampton. Neither trip was as entertaining as the martini girl in the samba room at 8pm. She would walk in wearking only a dress made of balloons with a martini in each hand. Whatever lucky bloke paid enough for one of these martinis would get five seconds with a pin to pop as many balloons as possible. That's ship entertainment for you. The arcade was no better. The stores were mostly botiques for ladies and the one store that did appeal to mens was the ship's barbers. But inside, the usuals frequented their seats, waiting for juicy gossip to spread. In reality, the only thing they talked about was the last baseball game and the scores of college football games of colleges I never went to.

I stepped into the barbershop and the air of hair and musk hit me instantly. I sat in the deep, swinigng, moroccan leather chair and asked for a short back and sides. The barber began to cut my hair, slowly humming a dirge-like tune. His arms had more hair than his head did which was rather discerning, but the cut turned out fine. I paid him, and he handed me a pocket comb as a souviner. I examined the little piece of plastic in my hand carefully. There was a silhouette of the ship imprinted on the side in gold foil with the letters: R.M.S. Queen Alexandra. I thanked him and left.

I came back to my room, and the samba music started up. I walked out, yelled, then fell asleep.

Moped Diaries: Day Six

Seattle at last.

It seemed like a luxury all of a sudden, to have slept in beds two nights in a row, rather than in my amazingly small sleeping bag and tent. I woke up at noon, while Ashton still slept. I sat up and nudged him a little and he only let out a fart. I laughed at his response and proceeded to the bathroom to take a look at myself. I looked at my beard. It didn't hang out like Ashton's did. It just sort of clung to my face, the way Hipsters used to grow their beards back in the late 2000's. It didn't seem epic, but this was the most facial hair I had ever had. I brushed my teeth and returned to the room to see Ashton spooning a pillow. Jokingly, I spoke in falsetto "Oh Ashiepoo, you know how to make a girl happy." With that, I saw a smile stretch over his face. In our iteneraries, we had decided to take the day we got to Seattle to visit everything we could before we would cross the border the next day. So far, a third of the day was over and we still were inside the hotel.

I pulled the pillow out from his claw like grip and his arms snapped around him like a bear trap. He shuddered awake instantly. He stared at me and went to the bathroom and shut the door. By the time he came out, it was two. But I laughed when I saw him. He shaved his epic beard to resemble the clingy hipster like beard I was sporting now.

"What?"
"Nothing. I thought your beard was epic."
"It still is."
"Nope."
"Fuck."
"C'mon, we got stuff to see in Seattle."
"Like what?"
I clawed the back of my head for things to do in Seattle. I could only muster a few, "We could see the world's first Starbucks, and go to the Pike's Market, and see the needle, and of course R.E.M. Koolhaus' library." I hoped that was sufficient.
"Sure."

This time, the cycles were lighter, not loaded with panniers, leathery oilskins and plastic cases. This time, just two riders and their cameras. We saw the sites, we ate the food, we did this and we did that, but we wanted a drink. The last beer we had was on our third day, a bottle of Moosehead lager I bought at the convience store. We found a pub, walked down into the basement and it almost felt like walking into Cheers.

We stumbled home, walking our Mopeds, and singing a song. We locked the bikes to the chain post and to the rain gutter, and to a vending machine for some reason unknown. We retired to our room, took off our heavy outer wear, and plopped down and fell asleep.

Moped Diaries: Day Five

sorry it's been such a long time since the last post, but here goes!

A low rumble of thunder shook me awake. I sat, surprisingly upright, stiff in an old soccer jersey, groggy and trying to get a feel for my settings. The room was dark with the exception of a mottled, dirty brown rectangle of light to the side of me. This was a welcome change from the damp green tent we usually slept in. I rustled my naked legs under the sheets, feeling my leg hairs catch the threads. I rubbed my thin beard, still blinking unconciously, trying to fit the room and the things in it into focus and eventually it did. It smelled sterile, like a cleaned smoking room. The whole room seemed to blend into the sixties fairly nicely with the fabric wall paper, ceiling lamp suspended on a brass chain and decorative metal artwork. Shuffling to the bathroom, I faced the large mirror. My face was growing again since the first time I shaved outside of the Oregon coast. I brushed, washed and scrubbed, and performed two out of the three s's. I didn't shave.

I re-entered the room to find that the curtains now were drawn and Ashton was sitting in the pleather armchair by the radiator under the big window. He had the grimy looking coffee maker switched on to make some hot water. Another low rumble. This time, the window rattled a little. Curiously, I peered over to the clock by the bed and it said 7am. Ashton grabbed the remote and pointed it at the television set. It hummed to life and a faded out image of an Anchorperson showed up. The sound hadn't quite caught up just yet. Then, the sound crackled to life.

"Today's news forecast calls for thunder storms until one, and high winds starting at seven pm tonight. If you're going south, avoid the coast as we will be getting southerly winds mixing up with a cold front from Canada."
"That settles it," Ashton cried, "we'll have to stay here until two.
"We gotta check out though."
"Yeah, forgot about that. OK, new plan. We'll hang out at the market until two."

Packing up the mopeds, we loaded them up in silence, breaking it only once when I leand over to pass a fart. The clouds still mussled themselves overhead, playing like waves, breaking on an ocean, but above our heads. He rode out to the Portland market, sat and ate fried fish, picked out fresh fruit, a tomato here, an onion there. Closer to two, we would sit by the coffee trolley and sit and play backgammon. When two passed, we apparently decided it would be safe to go out. The bridge over the river seperating Portland and Vancouver in Washington state would be our final farewell to Oregon. We pedaled north, following the roads into the interior, and the clouds kept coming. We found a small little trap along side a lonely side road that we decided to stop and take a break at. Turns out the man sold beaver and otter pelts. Ashton was disgusted and walked out while I remaind inside touching the soft furs.

Washington is quite strange you could say with a grin. I read back in college that a large portion of the state was used to manufacture the materials necessary for nuclear research during the second world war. My how the values have changed within the past sixty years. We continued to ride, this time, rejoining the coast and following the road north. By nine in the evening, we reached the city of Seattle. Tired, cold and hungry, we parked at another motel, this time, one not from the sixties, and ate at the dive at the corner, plunked onto the beds, still in our jackets, helmets, goggles and boots.

At one, I shifted over, realizing I was still in full ride up gear, undressed, urinated in the bathroom and went to bed.

Spraktopina

The morning dew kissed its heavy breath over the country side. Leaves, blades of grass, crumpled sheets from an ancient newspaper, yellowed by the sun and the weather. A confusing jumble of Cyrillic characters covers the front page, the words blending and mashing into one another like a train of cars bumping into a barrier. A photograph of a pudgy official yelling into a podium microphone covers the rest of the yellow newsprint.

The figure of a man lays sprawled underneath a dying tree. His body is covered in a muddied, torn and stained mackintosh which looks as if it came out of a catalog from thirty years ago. His face is not covered in wrinkles, but there is a youthful bounce to his skin. His eyes remain shut, though they waver, restless against his dreams. Over the barren grassy plain, the first rays of the sun begin to reach his body. Still partially shaded in the tall grass, it first touch his side, then his midsection, then his entire body. He stirs, rubbing his eyes with grimy fists and sits up. Standing, he shakes off the coat of dew on his body. His name is Anton. Just Anton, no last name. The people in the village call him the dummy, and no one seems to know where he came from.

The local official in his reports state he first appeared in town on April 18, 1972. That was six years ago, his files are still locked in the tarnished steel cabinet in the local police station. No one wanted to adopt him, Khrushchev forbade any sort of adoption of local runaways. But one largehearted man decided to travel to Moscow to argue a case since no one knew if he was a runaway or not. He just emerged from nowhere. That man had never returned, his house still stands empty, the door locked, paint peeling from the front and the inside. Some local teenagers had broken into it once and in the village, it became notorious as a place to engage in bad activities. But one day, the Police chief entered, kicked people out, boarded up the windows and padlocked the door.

Anton didn't have a home. Or a family. Everyday, he did the same thing, he would wake up, eat a few leaves as well as a loaf of bread usually left outside the church. Then he would do exercises by running around the entire village two or three times. Then he would play along the railway tracks, nearly getting hit by a State Railways train carrying pig iron once, he was caught in the front fender then thrown aside. He didn't seem to sustain any injuries, but the villagers remarked not seeing him for a week or so, then he reappeared completely healed, no bruises or scratches.

But it was winter in 1978, the area had not seen snow in several years since it was close to the Caspian. From the factories in Odessa trains would rumble by with cars filled with toys to be sold in Moscow, Leningrad, Stalingrad and Volgograd. On this day, Anton was sitting alongside the tracks when he felt the ground begin to shake. He understood this as a train coming and he sat on a discarded tie alongside. The steam engine rumbled by and wooshed steam into his face. He liked the warmth. But as the boxcars started passing by, there was one with an open door and several vagrants inside. They spotted him and threw something out at him. It landed with a clunk a few feet in front of him. He peered at the mysterious shape with curiosity and continued to watch the train rumble by with his eye. As soon as the red lamp was out of sight in the horizion, Anton stood up and walked over to it. He stood in front of it, dumbfounded. It was a wooden sled with iron runners and a iron back. He didn't know that though. He picked it up, it felt remarkably light. He took it back to his tree where he slept and placed it in the grass.

That night, he laid on the ground on his side, watching the thing with some mysticism as well as caution. But he only could compete in this contest for another hour before he fell asleep. The next morning, he did his usual routine, but cutting down his second lap short to run back to his tree. He squatted in front of the sled, poked it with curiosity, and he straddled it. Then he sat down in it. He leaned back in the iron railing seat back, suddenly, he imagined he was flying through the air. The little village was retreating fast behind as he soared in his magical machine. He sailed above the clouds, riding the pressure currents with the geese and then he reemerged below the clouds, this time, flying over a great vast ocean. He saw a beautiful red and yellow fishing boat with its sails full of wind. He zoomed by it, then circled it twice.

Night slid its blanket over the plains, he eagerly placed his new machine under the tree. He took his mackintosh and covered it up. The cold plains wind chilled him but he slept soundly. The morning came and he stood up, jumped around making a grunting sound. He whipped off the mackintosh and grabbed the sled and he ran to the train tracks. He had a rusted milk pail and he placed it on top of his like a helmet. The tracks stretched into infinity before him. He closed his eyes and he began fly again. The 12pm express to Volgograd materialized before him. His eyes still shut tight. He began to shake violently, if it was the train or him, it could not be determined. The steam engine's front grew, it started getting bigger and bigger. The earth subsided before him, the gravel falling away from the rails. The rusted cowcatcher smashed the sled, throwing Anton a few feet forward before the point of the catcher dragged his body along the rails. His body lay there for two days before the village people noticed he was gone. The men searched with their battery torches and found the smashed pieces of wood alongside the rails. They ran up and with their torches they scanned the immediate area. The circles of light converged onto a bloodied mass. They ran over and looked at the poor body of Anton.

Anton was given a burial, the coffin provided by the local carpenter. The priest led the ceremony, the ladies in the village were dressed in somber black, the men in town wore black, the teenagers didn't even show up. They didn't want to appear at the funeral for what they thought was a social retard. They lowered the pine coffin into the earth and everyone threw a splash of dirt into the hole. As the workmen filled in the hole, the priest read the last rites. As the hole was soon filled, they realized there was no headstone. The men who had found his body walked to the tracks and grabbed the largest plank that was still left from the remains of the sled. A policeman produced a marker from his pocket and wrote Anton above the company logo. He asked the villagers what his last name was. He looked around only to be rebutted with blank, vacant faces. He shrugged and stabbed the plank into the loose earth mound. He lived as Anton. He was remembered as Anton Spraktopina. After the wooden toy company.

Through the Rockies on my own.

I had made the journey once before, under different circumstances though. I found myself making this journey once again. My Raleigh reliant road bike is stowed in the bicycle room in the baggage car, my cabin, though small seems like a vast empty music hall. I leave for dinner as the four chime sounds and I see in the corner of my eye the porter entering and turning down the bed for the night.

The dining car is filled with groups and couples, occasionally here and there, there are businessmen sitting alone eating dinner by themselves, but after putting down their flatware, they'd shift over to the bar car for joviality. I remained planted. My business bag in the chair next to me, a few books peer out from the opening, their covers reaching out their arms asking me to pick one. I dont pay any attention to any of them, instead, I'm peering at a familiar face looking back at me. I look into his little brown eyes, his antlers peek out like a set of rabbit ears. His big brown nose is mottled from months of nuzzling and falling asleep. That flip floppy moose never left my side since college. Now I'm on a Canadian Pacific dining car, racing through the Rockies on my way to a Canadian Timberwoods conference in Ottawa. I had to leave my cushy little apartment in Vancouver for this at the request of my foreman at the furniture workshop.

I've been to Ottawa once or twice. I think it was twice. The last time, I went with a special someone. I pulled the sliding door to the observation car, hearing it hiss behind me as it closed. I looked ahead of me, the stairway climbing up to the observation platform. I sushed my feet over the faded carpet, my sperry topsiders illuminated by the ground guiders. I take a seat at a familiar booth, the porter comes by with the small iron brazer to keep the booth warm. I pull out moosie, set him onto the table. The heat of the brazer starts to warm him up, the smell of pink grapefruit starts to fill the car, a few couples heads turn to find the source of the smell, the look but turn back.

At ten, the lights are extinguished, the waiter made his rounds, I order a pot of earl grey and he brings it around and places it on top of the brazer. His white mess jacket disappears at the end of the car and descends to the lower half of the car. I sit quietly, the orange glow from the coils dimly illuminate the table top. Moosie rolls over as the train turns over a large curve. I pull the heavy sheepskin blanket up higher over my lap and my head drops back. The stars drift slowly through the clear ceiling. The cold mountain air laps up against the window, occasionally tangoing with the warm air making little foggy spots. The snow capped peaks rush by, the tall pines fall over behind me. I cock my head forward again realizing i'm the only person in the car left. The slow shlucking of the wheels makes me shiver. The moonlight illuminates the car dimly and the pale white light makes the car seem to be lonely. The porter comes up, his white jacket is dazzling in the light he makes a small comment, that the car is closing. I bundle up the blanket, tuck moosie into my arm and I walk out. I look back one more time, I can feel her under my arm as I walk out, funny thing is, she's not there anymore.

I change into an undershirt and basketball shorts. I click out the light I lay in the top bunk. She would have been in the bottom and joined me, but I laid there like a log, my arms outreached, embracing the extra pillow just with one thing on my mind.

Moped Diaries: Day Four

Finally, I got the acheies to write again!

Our stint just across the Oregon border didn't last long, the place by far was the most beautiful leg of our journey, yet the journey wasn't half over. My hands held onto the cork and leather handlebars tightly, feeling the vibrations of the little two stroke, hearing the gasoline sloshing. I revved the engine again, lurching forward, faster, over the small hill, and up into the sky. I twisted the handle yet further, the moped roared into the sky, leaving the ground, floating or being pulled up by strings as if some great being desired to meet me in my bike. Suddenly, before me, the clouds amassed themselves, to form a great greek temple, and sitting was a great, white stony face of Zeus himself. Where his pupils should have been, only was a great distance of white, like in those ancient roman statues. His mouth opened, lightning seem to flash into it, and began to suck me into his mouth, darkness enveloped me. Shutting out all light, the world closing thick in, there was a terrible ringing. It didn't cease. It was like the sound of a million hammer heads falling onto one single anvil.

My eyes popped open. It was Ashton's fucking alarm clock going off. What a weird dream, I hadn't had a dream in years, taking careful note to orient my bed in a way in which dreams wouldn't filter into my head. But I guess, in the wilderness, that doesn't matter whichever fucking way you slept. Today marks our fourth day, four days since I last showered, since I last shaved, shitted in a porcelain god, eaten in a restaurant with leather bound menus and since I last remember sleeping on a mattress between clean bed linens. I looked around me, a low misty rumble kept me constant companion, other than Ashton of course. The tent seemed to sag with a bit moisture, the entire thing in itself wanted to suffocate the two of us. Ashton had thrown the clock out of the tent and resumed his face plant into his small bundled up jacket, now an improvised pillow. I leaned back again, closing my eyes, squeezing the lids as tight as possible and opened them. That bleak green color of the tent burned as I stared. I sat up, grabbing my fountain pen and the weather-all journal. I wrote a few lines and tossed them aside again.

The past three days, I had been wearing a ratty pair of old Abercrombie and Fitch jeans, and once, a pair of Columbia waterproof pants. I looked at the old jeans. There was a hole where the seat would be, the threads were stretched bare thin. I chuckled at them, reached into a side pocket of my backpack and pulled out a small silver case and an old paisley bandanna. I ripped it into two, sewed it into the seat and replaced the items into the little pockets here and there. I retrieved a silver pin from the case and gave Ashton a quick prod.

"Oi!
"Morning sexy pants
"Oh hello. Me breakfast in thirty?
"Sure sure. Cook it yourself mkay?
"Lol, Of course.

I pulled on a thick pair of corduroy pants, I wrapped the thick pea coat around me, placing the cashmere scarf she had given me between my neck and the rough wool. I stepped out, pulling on my heavy, sheepskin lined boots. I chunked around the campsite, nudging the remanants of the fire pit from last night and trying to stoke some life into it. I threw a few dead branches, a few wodges of newspaper and a little splash of fluid. I dropped a match onto the papers and they sprung to life. Opening up and crisping again as the newsprint faded into obscurity. I placed another log on top, then arranging the cooking platform on the side and placed the kettle with a small amount of water into it.

Ashton stepped out, walked to the bikes and pulled a smallish rectangular box from a rear side pannier and a small blue enamel bowl. He poured several handfuls of Cheerios into the bowl and commenced eating. I took a tin of sardines and a slice of bread and speared it with a sharpened stick, held it over the fire for a few moments and removed it and placed the little sardine fillets onto it and rolled it up. We both looked at our watches, mine said 9:30am, ashton's for some reason said 10:10. We looked at each other, puzzled, and grabbing each a section from the newspaper, we walked off to defecate. The newspaper served purpose twofold. Literally.

We put out the fire, loaded the panniers, buried the trash and unlocked the bikes. Portland, here we come!

I read a book somewhere about the amazing and beautiful bridges of the Oregon Highways once. The pictures in the book certainly did no justice to the genuine articles. They simply were amazing as our little motors hummed peacefully over them. The graceful arch of concrete, design celebrated and oriented carried our loads so carefully over the span, Ashton and I were compelled to take pictures of each and I remembered again to remount the camera on the front pannier rack. Ashton took the lead and we were chugging it north, further north. We arrived in Florence around lunch time, only a third of the way there. We refilled on gas, stocked up on provisions and treated ourselves to lunch in the diner. I had ordered a small pork chop with onions and mashed potatos on the side, Ashton ordered himself a salad with a side of tuna. We left the diner, our tummies and our gas tanks full and we roared off again.

By three PM, we arrived in Tillamook, this was our farewell to the 101, We now had to turn up onto the five and continue into Portland. Portland would be the first city where we would treat ourselves to a night in a motel. As a chance for the tent to dry in the shower and for once, enjoy sleep in a spring mattress and with clean white bed sheets. By five, we arrived in the outskirts and we checked into a Super 8 motel in the north part of town. We parked our bikes in one parking space, locked them and took our bags off. We checked in, then placed the panniers and bags all over the room. Then took out the tent, shook it and hung it to dry in the shower. We exchanged looks and stepped outside again, and unlocked the bikes.

We rode into the downtown, grabbed a few drinks at a local bar and rode back to the motel. We pulled a map out and stared at it. We literally could now walk right into the state of Washington. We covered the majority or Oregon within one day and dash it all, it was fucking amazing. Tomorrow morning, we would follow the five up into the city of Vancouver and enter the State of Washington. We each took turns using the shower for the first time as well as making use of the washing machine facilities in the building. Soon we both looked decent again, with the exception of our fairly scraggly looking beards we both now sported. Ashton's fully fledged and possibly hiding a bird, mine only covered my cheeks and my chin and upper lip. It didn't hang, it looked like lichen clinging to a tree. Our clothes cleaned and packed into the leather and canvas and nylon bags, we each climbed into our beds and turned out the light.

Moped Diaries: Day Three

A familiar feeling stirred me awake this morning. I sat up again, this time, I felt unaware of what was going on. I stared around, taking in the green nylon walls, the large purple mass besides me. The walls of the tent were pushing and pulling, the wind battling against the human element. Every of often, it sounded as if the tent was being pummeled with peppercorns and I realized it was rain. I nudged Ashton to stir him and he turned over and sniffed. I nudged him again but this time, he farted in retaliation. Giving up, I tried to cozy myself back into the position I was sleeping in. My eyes couldn't put the darkness before them again, the flashing green nylon kept my eyes open. Suddenly, I hear a buzz. It sounds like a small gong going off. I realize Ashton brought an alarm clock. He sits up instantly, clicks it off and runs out the tent.

"ASHTON! IT'S RAINING!"

He doesn't hear me. He's too busy frolicking in the tempest. The rain is coming down hard and fast, Ashton starts to disappear into the rain and through the thick of it and the fog, you cant see him. I pull out the church key and open a tin of milk. I sit watching the grey figure shuffle through the rain jumping over logs and running through the grass. A few minutes later, he reappears in the tent sopping wet. I hold out the can for him to have a sip of milk. He takes it and finishes it. I pull on compression leggings for warmth, and a pair of waterproof pants. Heavy woolen socks and I replace the boots on my feet. I pull on the heavy pea coat and the rain slicker.

We climb onto our bikes and start to ride. The world immersed in rain is different, gray figures muscle around us as we continue riding. We are soaked, the headlights barely cast into the gray fog. We ride, our cyclometers read 130 miles. My tank is running a little dry and Ashton switches his motor off. We pedal, we keep moving. We are in Oregon.

There are hardly changes in scenery from when we left California to when we arrived in Oregon, the trees are just as majestic as ever and the only noticeable difference was the lack of sales tax when we filled up our tanks at a small roadside gas station. This was truly a paradise as we kept riding up the coast.

Evening seems to come faster when you are in Oregon, no sooner had we crossed the border did the sun begin to set and run. We pitched our tent in a dry spot under a fallen tree in a gully, parked and set up the stove and a small fire. The orange sky turned to a madder lake deep red into a convulsing purple then into the cold, clear darkness of the heavens. The clouds had parted, the rain stopped and the stars vivid. I felt as if we were camping beneath the tip of the world. I pulled a small square frying pan, placed two sausages in it, and let it roast over the campfire. Ashton on the other hand was trying to cook a small pot of rice over the campstove and it had a little trouble, but in the end, with some ketchup, we were fine. We washed the dishes, placed them aside, away from the tents and we pulled out our instruments again. I started strumming out, picking "Little Brown Church in the Vale and Ashton took up the harmony. We sat and sang until our little fire went out. Into the tent, into our sleeping bags and lights out.

Moped Diaries: Day Two

A low moan rattled my sleep. I shuddered waking up and sitting up in my sleeping bag. I rubbed my arms in the heavy woolen sweater, blinking without my glasses and taking in my surroundings. The light green nylon fabric of the tent walls glowed eerily as I sat. Ashton still was rumbling with sleep in his sleeping bag and I gently rocked him to stir.

"Wha? Huh?"
"Morning sleeping beauty."
"Oh. Hello."
"Is that all you have to say to me?"
"Yep"
"Come on. Lets get washed up."

I drew the narrow silver canteen from the front pannier and poured it into a small wash pan and set it on top of the propane burner. I set up a mirror on a fence post and set up my shaving kit, carefully setting the badger brush on the post by the mirror and setting up the razor. The water began to steam and I poured half into the mug and set the rest aside for Ashton to wash his face. Slowly stirring the cream into a foam, I wrestled it onto my face and carefully shaved off the growth from the last two nights.

"Dude, this water is hot."
"What? You dont wash up with hot water?"
"No. Duh."
"Just do it. It'll feel better."
"You ought to keep your beard. It might keep you warm on the road."

Suddenly, that thought hit me. Warm face. I wiped off the cream and packed up the shaving things. We sat on our camp stools and as breakfast was cooking over the stove, we talked about where we were. While I was shaving, Ashton had taken a location with the lensatic compass and plotted our position on the map. Thirty miles out of Fort Bragg. We decided to fill up on gas there and one of us would move one of our panniers to the other person's bike and would hold a jerry can instead. I volunteered my front canvas pannier. Ashton stared at it, and clipped it behind my rear pannier.

"Hey!"
"Problem solved!"
"Fine. But you're carrying your own gasoline too."
"Fine!"

We pedaled to Fort Bragg and made it there by lunch time. We bought and filled to jerry cans and hooked them to our panniers. We stopped in town for an hour or two, to replace the things we had used up last night. A new tin of beans, a tin of beef, a loaf of sourdough bread and a pack of extra socks. I stopped outside the hardware store to pick up a small hatchet. We might need firewood at some point I thought. My moped was staring to look like a carry-all on wheels. The nice thing about it all was it looked rugged. The classic looks and lines of the derringer bike, the old school seat and panniers, it was meant for this. Ashton rolled by, his panniers and carriers filled with sketchbook paper, pencils, cans of lighter fluid, some old newspapers and a small bag of charcoals. We pulled out of Fort Bragg at three and continued up old highway one.

We rode, the wind pushing against our helmets and faces. It made me wish I had bought pilots goggles from the surplus store. As we rode, the flat rolling landscape soon became a harsh, rough, terrifying yet subtle landscape. It undulated but it fought back sometimes. Highway one was truly a road built to the world. It didn't plow through the landscape like most interstates did. This truly was second to god. We rode and rode. Our tanks not seeming to grow empty. Every so often, we'd stop and stretch, enjoy the land. Ashton would pull the sketchbook out and draw. I realized then, I forgot to use the camcorder. I quickly pulled out the small powershot and set up a rig on the handlebar to record us as we went.

Winding through steep and curving road, we rode over gigantic, beautiful concrete arch bridges, walked through forests now and then and stopped for a hot dog for dinner. This time, night caught up before our tanks were empty. This time, we settled camp away from road. We drove down a small path and parked in a clearing. We pitched the tent up, locked the bikes together and started a small fire. The darkness seemed like a cold blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I missed that feeling of someone wrapped up besides you. Ashton and I certainly were missing our better halves. The girls were going on a trip with each other to Florida. Ashton had scoffed at the idea and said it was only helping the industry. He could be like that sometimes, but it was fine. We balanced each other out. I had managed to strap my mandolin to the front pannier and I pulled it out. Ashton pulled his uke out and we started to jam into the night. Our two bodies, illuminated by the slowly dying fire, our fingers jangling around, pulling out a tune as best as possible. We laughed, shared a can of beer and turned in.

Yet more to come!

Moped Diaries: Day One

The start of a new series

http://www.derringercycles.com/slideshow/gallery.htm
That site should give you an idea of what I want to ride.

The cold gray fog still shrouded San Francisco, wrapping its misty arms around the towers and pooling in between the buildings. In the narrow back alleyways of the Western Addition, I woke up, I looked at the big ben clock on the nightstand. Six thirty four. The slow whirring ticking sound resonated on the table. I sat up in bed, rubbing my thighs briskly through a pair of old basketball shorts, blinking in the cold sunlight streaming through the shutters.

The hot tap rumbled as the steaming water emerged out of the tap into the dirty porcelain basin. I washed my rough face and brushed my teeth and packed my toothbrush. The canvas leather saddle bags sit by the door, ready and waiting to be mounted. One final check around the apartment, it will be a long time before I see this place. I grab the pairs of saddle bags and sling them over my shoulders. With my free hand, I grab the square leather case with smaller things, and the small camera case. The door behind me clicked, I locked the deadbolt and walked downstairs, nearly stumbling down the narrow flight of stairs.

Outside, the cars rush by on Hayes street, not noticing me or even giving a second thought as I begin to strap the saddles onto the pannier carriers on my new Derringer moped. I stand back and admire the handiwork, the craft of how everything just fell into place with each other. The drop head handle bars, the chrome plated twin vee engine, the heavy sprung Brooks saddle, I was ready to go. Ashton is supposed to meet me at the corner of California and Arguello and I take off, setting the chronometer as I go to keep track of how much time I would spend on the road. The pedaling part would come later as I speed up hills, through Golden gate park and arriving at California and Arguello.

Around ten minutes later, I hear the whinny of a 1972 Pierce engine with Ashton in the seat. We shake hands, we grab a coffee in the gas station, and stop one last time at the bicycle shop. We wait outside for a few minutes until a skinny girl in flannel and tight jeans opens up the shop. We wander in, pick up a set of ten extra tubes, several extra tires and an extra pannier basket. This one is going on Ashton's moped since one fell off on the way over. We fill up the last time before we leave San Francisco for our journey north. I pulled the heavy pea coat up close, tightening the crash helmet and adjusted my mirrors. It's time to go and make the pilgrimage.

Sailing down Park Presidio with the traffic is exhilirating, coasting down the road through tunnels and up slopes, we find ourselves crossing the golden gate bridge, north into Sausalito and the rest of Marin county. Our engines pumping warmly between our legs, we cruise at a comfortable 30mph through on side roads, winding up on narrow coastal roads, finding log cabin like buildings nestled into the network of trees. Minutes turn into hours and there never seems to be an end to the ceaseless forests and windswept beaches. Here and there, our bikes emerge from the woods in a road cut into a mound, the sand blowing from dunes over our heads. Crooked slat fences undulate into the landscape. Falling and rising and collapsing and in some places gone. Cattle here and there dot the cold fields. Grey clouds moving only so still as if a statue in a museum were moving in the corners of your eyes. We run out of juice 8 hours into the trip. We are now halfway between the border of California and San Francisco.

We pedaled for another few hours, until the weaning hours of darkness began to settle. We pulled off into the side of the road, locking the bicycles to a fallen tree and to each other in opposite directions. I pull out the old pup tent my father gave me as well as a tin of beef and a tin of mixed vegetables. For the longest time, I knew Ashton to be vegetarian. I knew for this trip, he would have to at least eat some meat and he obliged. The tins sit under the burning propane flame. He lights his hurricane lamp and darkness begins to envelope us all around. We pitched along a fence along highway one. The only people who would bother us were the CHP and I doubted that they would really bother with a lonely stretch of road alongside the ocean.

We shared stories, dreams, hopes and what we were expecting. our sleeping bags unravelled into the tent and the light out, we began to fall asleep. We lay there for a little while before we broke into conversation again. We just couldn't believe what we were doing was actually, finally happening. We had been planning this trip since the second year in college when I was at Berkeley and he was at SF state. He had an obsession with the moped since high school and I was and still am into fixing up my 1970 Raleigh Imperial road bicycle. He would laugh, I would too. Sleep caught our better sides and we were out for the night.

more later! Stay tuned.