50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 5, The West

by Kevin B Parsons

  ~

  To their surprise, when the gang arrived the next month, they rode in on nice fresh asphalt. The parking lot stripes favored motorcycle parking. This time they brought the women.

  Tiffany breathed a sigh of relief. “It won’t be a sophomoric idiot fest with the women here, you watch.”

  Manuel obeyed our strict instructions to give each patron just a ‘leetle,’ but even with the women, they stomped, sang ‘Everybody Loves Somebody,’ ‘Hey Mambo,’ and of course, ‘That’s Amore.’ A few girls fell out of the tub, too. I’d have to put exercise mats around it or something. Organ Donor filmed it all.

  “How could they know the words to such old songs?” Tiffany surveyed the crowd, arms around one another, belting it out.

  “Beats me. But I’m going to have to give the fourth quarter speech again.” Purple liquid wicked up my khaki pants from helping men and women in and out of the tub.

  For months I held court for a small but loyal group, and the bikers acted nothing like they looked. It didn’t take long to realize they played dress up with their leather and chains. No one smelled of old sweat, the women were sweet, and they would do anything for you, should you become their friend. And they bought lots of wine.

  ~

  I decided to visit Claire. If she wouldn’t tell me her condition, I’d check it myself. I called her mother.

  “Hello, Lauren. I wondered if I could stop by and see Claire.”

  Silence. Did the phone drop the call?

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, Bill, I’m here. Why don’t you come down tomorrow?”

  ~

  I knocked on the back door. Lauren opened it and escorted me into the living room. Claire sat in a recliner, a stick girl, sunken into the cushions. I braced myself from gasping or crying. Her pale blue eyes loomed in her head because of her shrunken cheeks, giving her the look of a frightened, terrified child. I steeled my will and tried my best to sound upbeat. “Hey, kiddo.” I patted her knee. Bones covered with paper-thin skin under a thick blanket.

  “Hi, Bill.”

  “I brought you a coloring book.” I produced a book and box of crayons.

  “Cool. Thanks.” I could tell it took energy just to answer.

  “And I brought a nice photo of Maria.” I held up a framed photograph with Maria holding an American flag in the crook of her arm, someone’s latest contribution.

  “That’s awesome. Thanks.” Claire did her best to act enthusiastic and attentive. I stayed for a few minutes until it became apparent she struggled to remain engaged. Excusing myself to get something to drink, I stumbled into the kitchen and hugged her mother. Deep sobs wracked my body. I remembered the damage my Honey endured before succumbing to the evil disease. But a child? It seemed crueler, the ultimate violation. I took a deep shaking breath and faced her mother. Another set of sunken cheeks, eyes looking into an abyss.

  “She doesn’t have long, does she?”

  “Just a couple of weeks.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I just appreciate you coming. It’s so hard on her. Most people are afraid or something and avoid her.”

  I wiped my eyes. “I get that.” I pulled an envelope out of my pocket. “Something to help you.” She opened the envelope and stared at the check, and took her turn weeping.

  “Thank you so much.”

  “It’s from our customers. We keep Claire’s picture up on a tip jar.”

  Using great determination, I returned to say goodbye—hopefully not the last—to Claire. She held the photograph. “She looks really pretty.”

  “Yes. They did a good job, didn’t they?”

  She nodded and ran her fingers over the image of the statue. “She’ll never lose her hair, will she?”

  God help me. “No, she won’t.”

  “You’ll take care of her, won’t you?”

  “I will.”

  “You should put chaps on her. That would look cool.” It would be impossible, but I assured her we’d look into it.

  I only drove a half a block from her house before stopping to get a grip.

  ~

  Honey used to complain about my tendency to be a workaholic. In a classic case of closing the gate after the horse got out, I made arrangements with Fuelie and we rode to the Harley dealer in Vacaville. It took most of the day, but I rode away on a nice red and white Softail Deluxe with retro looking whitewall tires and a promise (along with a swipe of the credit card) for a safety course. It might be too late for Honey to enjoy the ride, but I was determined to get Claire riding in the wind.

  ~

  When Fuelie and I returned, Maria stood covered in pink ribbons. We weaved through a sea of bikes as people parked them in every conceivable spot, a record-setting crowd. But for what? Most of the bikes bore stuffed animals bungeed to their sissy bars. As we got off our bikes, Chappie emerged from the crowd.

  “We decided to do a run for Claire,” he said and swept his hand over the crowd. “So we raised some cash and got toys for her.”

  I stood with my hands on my hips. “You folks are amazing.”

  We rode to Claire’s house and loaded her down with stuffed animals. Chappie gave Lauren a check and her eyes bugged out before dissolving into tears of gratitude. “Thank you so much.”

  Chappie took me aside with an idea. Sometimes men come up with good ideas, and sometimes they come up with… ideas. No idea how this one would play out. It sounded like good to me, but I decided to run it by Lauren.

  “We’d like to give Claire a ride today.” Her eyes bulged. “Just a short one… a few blocks.” As the words emerged, I realized it sounded idiotic. She could barely hold herself up; what were we thinking?

  “Okay.”

  Did I hear her right? “You sure?”

  “It sounds really dangerous.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But what have we got to lose? She falls off and gets killed having fun for the first time in… I don’t know how long. Or she can waste away here…”

  I backpedalled. “Maybe it’s a bad idea. I couldn’t live with myself if… if…”

  “Do it.” Lauren’s eyes bored into mine. “Just stop thinking about it and do it.”

  I approached Claire and knelt beside her. “How’d you like to ride a motorcycle?”

  “Serious? For sure?”

  “For sure.”

  She smiled clear to her eyes. “Cool.”

  Logistics proved to be challenging. “Anybody have a kid’s helmet?” Everyone looked to each other. Nope.

  Lauren said, “Just do it. Get her on the bike. Go a few blocks. If a cop pulls you over, tell him her story. There. The legal side’s taken care of. The safety? Be careful.”

  Claire tottered out to the driveway, determined to get there on her own. We decided that Chappie and his bike worked best to give her a ride, because of his experience and his sissy bar. I lifted her onto the machine, a bundle of twigs. We debated whether to tie her onto the sissy bar and decided against it. No good solution.

  We all took off, Claire in the front with Chappie. Organ Donor volunteered to ride alongside with his wife running the video camera. I rode behind and prayed I wouldn’t be the first to see the carnage. Claire seemed fine, and after a few blocks she leaned over the side, turned back, and gave me a thumbs up. Her wig blew off. Nobody stopped to pick it up.

  ~

  Alexis blew her hard-hearted journalist’s nose on a napkin and set it on the bar with the others.

  “That was the day I learned about my business. I always thought it was about the wine. But I learned it was about the people.”

  “That is so sweet.”

  A man stepped between our barstools. “Am I interrupting anything?” He wore black framed glasses, a polo shirt, slacks and goatee, looking like a college professor.

  “Jonathan,” Alexis said, “you know Bill, right?”

  I peered at him. Seen in a different environment, he seemed out of context.

  He said,
“Hey, Bill,” and I knew.

  “Knucklehead Nate.”

  “That’s me,” he smiled and Alexis said, “Who?”

  I shook his hand. “You’re Jonathan Fray the third? Wine critic? Knucklehead Nate on weekends.”

  “Right.” He sat beside me. “My grandpa was John, Dad was Jonathan, so they called me Nathan. Nate. But for the snooty wine crowd, it’s Jonathan Fray the Third. My real name is more of a pseudonym, really.”

  “So that’s why you sounded like you knew me. You did. You tricked me, secret shopper.”

  “Actually, the question never came up. We bikers talk about bikes, riding, touring, and wrenching, but seldom talk about work. You never asked, so I never broached the subject. I assure you, I would have. It would have wrecked some unadulterated looks at you and your winery, though. But I’ll tell you something, Bill. And you need to pay attention, Alexis. When people know I’m a critic, they change. Can’t help it. Almost impossible to get them to be honest. But Bill here… ” he patted me on the shoulder, “he’s the real deal. And you know what? He’s all about the people. Something amazing happened on the way to being a good person. He made some great wine. Prize-winning wine.”

  We continued the interview with Nate adding his own twist to my stories. As we finished up and stood, I shook Nate’s hand. “If you’re not doing anything next weekend, I could use a hand at the vineyard.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to take a pair of chaps and get them on Maria somehow.”

  His eyes searched mine. Was this a trick? “Is this about Claire?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Wyoming

  Riding through Wyoming, Quilter Girl noted that Yellowstone National Park sat both in Wyoming and Montana. What would happen if someone kidnapped a kid, and without knowing it, crossed over into another state, making it a federal offense?

  This is the story that started it all.

  THE KIDNAPPING

  Mindy held up the paper. “It’ll work, I tell you.”

  Eight-year-old Connor peered at the form. “I don’t know.” His big sister always came up with crazy ideas, most that didn’t work.

  “Listen.” She held the paper and read it.

  Dear Steve,

  I’ve decided that the kids could use some time with their father, so I give you permission to take them to Yellowstone Park during their summer vacation. You can take them for a week.

  Angie

  “How you gonna sign it?”

  She held up a paper with signatures all over it. “I’ve been practicing.”

  Much as he wanted to reject it, he admitted it looked pretty good. Mindy carefully wrote her mom’s name at the bottom. Nope, too rigid. Luckily she printed ten copies to practice. Nope, too squiggly. Too blocky.

  “We’re going to run out of paper.”

  “I’ll get it.” She tried again and by the seventh attempt, declared it adequate. She set the paper down and picked up her cell phone.

  “Dad... You know you been trying to get Mom to let us go to Yellowstone with you?... She said okay... yeah, she left a note, you know a permission thingy like the judge said... She had to go to work. Yeah... she said any time. Connor and me want to go right now. School’s out, so... can you?” She winked at her brother.

  ~

  Steve Lindstrom clicked off his phone and let out a whoop. Finally, Angie relented! Better strike while the iron is hot. He called his boss and told him the truth for a change and asked for the week off. Starting now? Please. Yes!

  He strode around the tiny kitchen. No car, not much cash. Need to be clever. Looking at the bike calendar on his refrigerator, the light clicked on in his head. Billy owed him a big favor. He found his number in his contacts.

  “Billy? Steve here... yeah, good... say I need a huge favor... Mindy gave me a ‘get out of jail free’ card... yeah, the kids for a week, can you believe it? Anyway, I need your help...”

  ~

  Connor dropped his bag on the drive and pointed. “What is that?”

  Steve patted him on the back. “That’s our ride. Part of the adventure.”

  Mindy ran up to it. “Cool! Look, it’s camo colored. It’s a World War Two bike, huh, Dad?”

  “That’s right.” The old Harley sported the OD green paint with dents, rust, and an oil leak or two.

  Mindy tugged on Steve’s shirt. “Can I ride in the sidecar? Please, oh please please please?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Steve helped the kids put together a week’s worth of clothes and toiletries. He looked over the house—a mansion really—neat as a pin with the faint smell of Angie. He decided to leave her a note. Finding the pen and paper in a familiar spot, he stopped, the pen poised. What to write? ‘Thanks for letting me have the kids.’ No. Too much like groveling. Perhaps a long letter to rebuild the bridges. Impossible. He wrote:

  ‘I have the kids. See you.’

  That’s it? My, aren’t you the writer. He replaced the pen and pad and left the page on the island.

  They loaded the kids’ things in the sidecar and Mindy wriggled inside it, rearranging bags to find legroom. “Smile, Dad.” She held up her iPad and took a picture of him.

  Geez, they’re eight and ten and they’ve got cell phones and iPads. Steve kicked the bike eight or nine times before it sputtered to life, then roared.

  “Come on, Connor.”

  The boy looked back at the house, now empty. No choice. He climbed on behind his dad and clutched both sides of his leather jacket. The bike roared off, the three helmets nodding like bobble head dolls, the exhaust backfiring with flames shooting out the pipes.

  ~

  Angie stalked into the house, her spike heels echoing a staccato off the floor tiles. Dropping her purse on the island, a paper fluttered to the floor.

  “Oh, crap.” With her tight skirt, bending to the floor proved to be next to impossible. She picked up the note and read it.

  What? You have the kids? Crushing the note she muttered, “Steve Lindstrom, I will kill you.” The nerve of that man! He did not have custody. None. Stopping at the island, she opened her purse and lit a cigarette. She reopened the note and smoothed it on the counter. Read it again.

  Then she smiled.

  She picked up her phone and dialed with one hand as she took a deep drag of her smoke. “Yes, I’d like to report a kidnapping.”

  ~

  Connor stood by the bike next to his dad. A tractor trailer roared by, the wind whipping their hair. “I’m scared.”

  Steve knelt in front of him and put both hands on his shoulders. “Hey, buddy, you better get off the pavement and onto the grass.”

  “Shall I, too, Dad?”

  He assented and Mindy crawled out of the sidecar to join her brother. “What’s wrong with it?” She clicked a photo with her iPad.

  Steve peered under the gas tank. “Vapor lock, I think.” The gas line ran close to the engine, so the gas probably boiled and wouldn’t flow to the engine. He rummaged through the sidecar and emerged with a gas line and tools. “I think I can fix it.”

  A few minutes later the old beast struggled to life and they climbed back into their respective places and roared off, the Grand Tetons towering into the sky on their left.

  ~

  “Ma’am, where do you think he would take them?”

  She dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t know, Detective. I’m just so afraid. Try his house. He lives in Pinedale. I’ll get his address. He doesn’t have any money so he couldn’t have gone far.” She handed him the address. “You should know he’s been convicted of two DUIs, so he could be at any bar between here and his place. He drives a 1972 brown Chevy Nova. I think he still has it, unless it’s been repossessed. I can get the plate for you.”

  “Appreciate that.”

  She punched a number on her phone. “Grace? Get the license plate number for Steve’s car... I don’t know, just make it happen; that’s why I pay you so well
. Text me.” She tossed the phone onto the counter. “Hard to find good help.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Angie paced, her arms crossed under her ample, enhanced chest. She stopped. “You don’t think?”

  “Ma’am?”

  Careful. “Perhaps he took them to Yellowstone Park.”

  “Camping? That doesn’t sound like a kidnapping.”

  “No. To hide. He just... he’s talked about going there.”

  “So... check the campgrounds?”

  “Certainly not. He’s never camped. He’ll be in a hotel.”

  “We can check that out.”

  ~

  Connor looked at the mess that was supposed to be a tent. “I don’t think this is right.”

  The tent sat eight inches off the ground and canted toward the back. Two yellow poles stuck out the door. Steve emerged and looked it over. “No, you’re right.”

  “Dad, look at those loops.” Mindy pointed. “Maybe the poles go outside and it hangs from them.”

  “Do you think?”

  “Couldn’t hurt to try.” She clicked a picture with her notebook.

  Steve returned to the tent and removed the poles, the nylon collapsing around him. Some camping dad you turned out to be. Chock this up to another screw-up for Steve-the-loser dad.

  Mindy pulled Connor out of earshot. “Whatever you do, if Mom calls your cell phone, don’t answer it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’ll be busted and have to go home. You don’t want to go home, do you?”

  Connor looked at the green shape undulating with Dad struggling under the tent. “I don’t know.”

  ~

  Five hours later, Angie paced and smoked. This should have been over by now. She turned on a half dozen lights. Where had he gone with those kids? She picked up her phone and called her attorney.

  “Phil? Angie here... Of course it’s late. My ex kidnapped the kids. Yes. Tomorrow I want you to press charges against him. Do you know a detective? The police aren’t getting anywhere. Get him going. Yes, now.” She smacked the phone on the counter.

  ~

  Steve handed the Styrofoam cup to his son.

  “Spaghetti-Os”

  “That’s right.”

  “Cool. Then we’re going to do s’mores, right?”

  No graham crackers, no marshmallows, no chocolate. “Uh, maybe tomorrow night?”

  “Cool.”

  Don’t know how. Budget is super tight.

  ~