Having doused a parched throat with several Mexican beers and after having worn out entirely subject matter relating to automotive parts, Elvis, and the all-to-common problems that we deal with when selecting proper underwear (you just can't try-on underwear you know), it was mutually decided upon that a local establishment providing public viewing of young ladies in the nude would serve as the nightcap for the evening.
With heads numb and full of thoughts pertaining to the on-coming ladies of the night we mounted our respected Harley-Davidson motorcycles so as to commence the mission. It must be pointed out here that the Harley-Davidson motorcycle has for years given young men the motivation of false advantage that they so desperately need... a pair of Levis, a tshirt, an unshaven face! Suddenly you're unstoppable. Pair this with a few ounces of liquid courage and you have man willing to die for his cause.
After a few miles the road begins to carpet under you in blurred motions of relationship and understanding. The rubber tires negotiate the grooves and castings in the asphalt and magically, if only for a few moments, you're machine is on auto pilot.
Crossing lanes, zipping through traffic, splitting up to gain the advantage on the civilians in their metal boxes with wheels. Fifty-five miles per hour, sixty, seventy - you can no longer risk looking down at the speedometer as the motorbike surpasses eighty miles per hour.
All cars in eye-shot stand motionless as their operators grimace at the heathen saints passing within inches of their bumpers.
A trip that would normally take fifteen to twenty minutes is reduced substantially to a mere ten.
A Saturday, the parking lot full as expected. The doorman waves us to park right along the building to the left and right of the entrance forming a gauntlet of chrome shimmering for all who enter behind.
Bob the bartender steps his heels together and salutes in proper military form and issues the usual, we melt into the stools and palm the frosty bottles with our hands still shaking from the adrenalin left outside.
Demonstrations of flexibility and time-relations to musical numbers commence, skin-full and cold. Women with tired, tanned breasts frown as they dance while red-lipped girls fresh from high-school bask in the attention received from working class joes in safety-orange construction shirts advertising LCC's, Bro's, and INC's.
Of course they flock, don't they always?... the same old shit cliche: "Hi, I'm Star! Where you guys from?" A conversation so predictable that I taste puke in the back of my throat half-way through it. "So, which one of you is gonna buy me a drink huh?" We glance at each other, read each other's minds with highway-like quickness and laugh a collective, sarcastic, condescending laugh. 'Bitch please!' We all think but dare not say as we do intend to finish our beers with out trouble.
Bob again. You can't turn Bob down. His eyes know it, we know it... we know he knows we know he needs tips to survive. He knows we'll be back but we know not for a while so yes, two more rounds Bob.
Ah, heads. Wobbling on the fulcrum that is our necks.
Five cigarettes, six beers, zero women... the night's over for me guys. Me too. Me too I guess.
The Harley-Davidsons sit outside in the cool air and tick quietly still warm from the heated race down. We fire up the engines and rev the internal combustion revolutions-per-minute up over and over again! A devilish spectacle of sound!
With clutches released the bikes snap off and stop quickly to wait at the highway's edge for a break in the passing cars... one rider missing. A flash of light circles around the parking lot and drops.
Sonuvabitch! Talking to a stripper? To drunk to ride? Taking his sweet-ass time perhaps? Two breaks of opportunity in the traffic pass.
I leg go of the clutch and sail back around the parking lot to have a look... As I creep around the corner I'm puzzled at our brother standing by his machine rubbing his wrist. His handlebars are tweaked slightly and his foot peg is bend upwards. My jaw is dropped in question... a smoking strippers looked on
"Forgot to unlock the fuckin' handlebar lock... popped the clutch and just spun out and dumped it! How's my chin dude?- is'it bleeded much?"
The ride home was a little slower but beyond the suggested speed limit for certain. The alcohol was wearing off yet we weaved from lane to lane and struggled to keep the Harley-Davidsons upright as we replayed the last scene through our minds and laughed uncontrollably until we all separated and took our own exits and off-ramps towards home.
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