by Elias Taylor
“All I’m saying, Mel...is that you’re so hot, when you get to LA, the guys are going to be lined up,” Christina said. “And it might be less overwhelming if you just lose your V-card real quick.”
“The right guy won’t care that I’m not experienced,” Mel said. “The right guy will make the effort to at least sweep me off my feet. Anybody who doesn’t at least put in the effort is not worth my time. I think there’s much more to the whole art of romance than simply screwing and getting off than most people care to admit. I think it has to do with a lack of understanding of what true love is. I think that’s the way most women should be. Only my opinion.”
“Fair enough,” Christina said. “You’re such a square, Mel—a true Romantic, if I ever saw one. That’s what I love about you. You’re so honest and pure. Seriously, the guys in LA are going to be lining up to get in your pants.” She giggled as she shoved her friend.
Mel could tell her friend didn’t really believe in the ‘right guy’ just appearing out of nowhere, but the friends had debated this point ad nauseam before to great extents.
Christina’s phone rang and she leaped up. “Pizza’s here!” She dashed towards the door, all concerns about Mel’s nonexistent sex life evaporating. Christina, with her intense but short attention span, often reminded Mel of a butterfly, flitting from flower to flower.
Mel pulled out her sketchbook. She loved imagining dresses for the people in her life. As Christina paid for the pizza at the front door, Mel quickly sketched out a dress inspired by her friend. It was an amazing thing to see her dole out quick but truly fascinating lines with such trajectory as to boggle the mind. With such an eye for detail, coupled with both artistic flair and rampant speed was an art all its own. In a short amount of time, while Christina was fetching the plates and placing hot, piping fresh, deliciously wonderful slices on them Mel was hard at work creating a flowing multi-colored number with spaghetti straps and an open back. It would be sophisticated but a little bit risque as well. The dress would be longer in the back, so it would flow behind Christina as she dashed from person to person.
“Pencil down, this is friend time,” Christina said. “And pizza time!”
“Ok, ok,” Mel said. “That smells terrific!” She finished the rough sketch and tucked it away for later.
As the girls dug into the pizza, Mel thought about how one day she was going to make Christina a slew of fabulous dresses. She was going to design a whole line inspired by Christina, and then she could invite her friend to the fashion show. It was in moments like this she dreamed of New York City, Paris, London, Milan, all the great cities of the fashion world. Maybe then her parents would stop saying her dreams were unrealistic.
When they finished the pizza, Christina and Mel had a spirited debate about which movie they should watch. Mel, as usual, was pushing for a classic feel-good romantic comedy, while Christina wanted something newer and edgier. Perhaps a horror to make them dive deep under the covers like they once had as children. In true friend fashion they always spent a long time picking a movie, and then ended up not really watching because they were too busy chatting. At this point, it was just tradition.
Finally, they made a selection and changed into PJ’s.
Curled up in Christina’s bed in the childhood bedroom plastered with all the familiar posters, Mel felt safe. With a pang, she realized that very soon she would be leaving all this behind.
It was worth it though. It had to be worth it. In her future lie two things which tickled her imagination and gave her spirit a life of its own. One: was a man—not a boy, but a man who would find her and love her with truth and meaning until the end of her days. And two: a career worth all the trials and errors she could ever want or need in order for her worth to rise up to the top of an industry palled with terrific height, terrible slips and life-changing crashes. She was determined to make it in both areas—love and career. And with those two remarkable items, her life would become a series of events and hallmarks paraded from one thrilling scene to the next in a wild throng of titillating dates.
Chapter Four: A Mess
Amidst a hearty crowd of young partygoers, a small clan of suave intellectuals and a team of roaring sport-nuts Tripp hung close to the bar with the rest of the blue-collar force—those he could most relate to, guys who swung hammers, fitted pipes or worked heavy machinery. Guys who worked their asses off day to day, guys who broke into sweat swinging sledgehammers or fixed highways or built houses. It was this manual labor quarter that he most associated himself with. But he suspected that most of them had peaked in terms of ambition and drive, settling into the world with low aspirations, becoming content with their manual labor jobs. Nothing wrong with that, but unlike many of them who had over time become like a spoke on a wheel working on someone else’s dreams he had his own dreams, his own drives and ambitions.
Tripp picked up his third beer. The cold flavor and rich foam soothed him down to his core, bringing him to a state of contentment for the time being. With good music and a fair crowd of gorgeous young women and testosterone-filled guys all becoming louder and more liberated with every gulp of their preferred beverages, he was right at home. After all, he was young and good looking himself. He had been sticking to beer so far at the bar, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Mitch demanded tequila shots. And rightfully so. The beer was too gentle a ride on a night when most of his responsibilities were laid to rest. Tripp figured he deserved to let loose a little, after a long week of work and the added stress of the anniversary party. What he didn’t deserve was Sandy, the girl he was currently stuck talking to.
She was cute, bordering on pretty. At least her thick makeup and the dim bar lighting made her look decent enough, but she was boring. She kept giggling really hard, even if Tripp hadn’t said anything funny. And, once more she kept talking only about herself. And nothing about dreams or her future, at least those things would have been interesting, but instead she kept talking about her parent’s money, the amount of clothes she had, and all her make-up, much of which she did not use and would never use. She talked about stupid things: her favorite television shows, her favorite time of the day and her favorite time of the year. She talked about her favorite place to eat and all her worldly possessions. And when she talked, her words were separated by “likes” and “ums.” Tripp had tired of the conversation almost from the moment she opened her mouth. He was barely hanging on, but she kept blinking up at him and not moving from her perch on the seat.
Mitch was no help. He kept giving Tripp a thumbs-up sign from his place on the other side of the girl where he was attempting to woo the bartender. Mitch had a propensity to go for women who were way too cool for him, too hot and simply out of his league. But he had guts for trying. Tripp took a long sip of his beer and tried to cease his grumpiness. He didn’t know why he had been so on edge lately, but every day he wanted to lash out at people, even the girl sitting next to him. She hadn’t done anything wrong. He barely knew her. And yet, Tripp was annoyed by her. The truth was, he was probably just annoyed at himself. He wasn’t happy with his own life. Also, he had so much anger it radiated off him and towards other people.
He felt like snapping and he didn’t know why. Things weren’t that bad. But he too felt like a spoke on someone else's wheel. Dad’s wheel. In all honesty, nothing would make him happier than never having to go back to work laying shingles and burning beneath the hot sun every day. If he could just begin his own business building, repairing and restoring bikes he would be truly satisfied. He had some brilliant ideas, great sketches and a deep, dark passion just waiting for him to open up the floodgates and let it loose onto the world. He wanted to begin building up his own wheel, by his own grit and sweat. He wanted something he could build from the ground up. Something he could admire and cherish. Something wholly his. Something he could look at and say, ‘I built that. Me. Nobody else. And I did it with my own hard work, my own tears and effort.’ He took another sip of his beer.
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“So you’re, like, a biker, right?” Sandy asked.
Tripp forced himself not to roll his eyes. Instead, he took another long gulp of beer. He was going to need a fourth pretty soon. “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.” And really, though he was not like other bikers—those ‘one-percenters’ he knew and sometimes rode with—he rode on the fringes of that world, recognizing that was something he could not entertain. All the bikers that rode in those vicious circles of outlaws lived by a murderous code in a violent world. Those things he could tolerate, if need be—the cold, ruthless business aspect of the life—as long as they didn’t directly intervene in his life. What he could not handle—what he would never allow—was to be owned. All those guys with their ‘Harleys’ riding into the sunset with bags full of cocaine and heroin and methamphetamines...they were all owned. Their gangs ‘owned’ them outright.
Her eyes grew wide and eager. Tripp knew the type. Women who wanted the thrill of hooking up with a biker guy.
The woman burst into another peel of shrill giggles. He forced another shot of beer into his gullet just to avoid having to deal with that stupid aspect of her personality. What the hell...? I didn’t say a damn word, and she’s giggling. What the hell is it with this chick? Tripp took the opportunity to fix Mitch with his meanest glare. He was so done with Sandy’s awful flirtations, which, he assumed she believed to be sexy and intriguing. It was so not sexy and not the least bit intriguing. He was done, and if he had to storm out and abandon Mitch he would.
Mitch caught his vibe. Could sense his clear negative energy permeating off him like a hot radiator tank. They had been best friends for years, and Mitch knew the signs. He ambled up and stuck himself right in between Sandy and Tripp. In one smooth movement, Mitch gave a sloppy grin and sloshed a beer towards Tripp. The beer, foam and all, rose up like a busted water fountain and began dripping right over the edge and onto Tripp’s thighs.
The first of the deluge caught him before he could move off the way, dripping over his thighs, “Shit, man, what the hell?” Tripp leaped back to salvage his pants from any more beer.
Mitch had really perfected the move over the years. He was able to spill enough beer to look dramatic, but not so much to actually get Tripp sopping wet.
“Sorry, bro,” Mitch said. “I’m a bit wrecked.”
“I’ll be back. I gotta go clean this shit off, man,” he said, feigning hostility. Tripp stormed off to the bathroom to “clean himself up.” He would hang in there for about five minutes. Hopefully that would be enough time for the woman to give up on him and chase after some other biker. There were small bands scattered here and there, making their rounds, enjoying their wild selves and the company of all these ‘do-gooders.’
When Tripp returned to the bar, Mitch had another beer waiting for him. Sandy was gone. Immediately an air of relief washed through him.
“Thanks,” Tripp said.
“She was cute,” Mitch said.
Tripp shrugged. “Yeah. Just... Shit, she’s just not my type,” he said.
“No one is your type,” Mitch said. “Man, you go through girls like changing underwear—not that you change yours all that often.” He said laughing.
Tripp shoved him, with a laugh, “Asshole.” He brought his beer up and clinked it with Mitch,’ the feigned hostility replaced with a much clearer and jovial air. He took a sip. “That’s not true,” Tripp said.
“What, that you don’t change your underwear often, or-”
“That I go through women, like that.”
“Come on, man...! You do so go through women like that. Like a wildfire out of control.”
It was a familiar conversation. One they had many times. Mitch took another sip, “Bro, you’re just too picky.”
“I am not,” Tripp retorted. “I just... Man, I’m just looking for something...you know...good, meaningful. Someone I can relate to. Someone more like me.”
Mitch nodded across the bar at a pair of women in tank tops and spray tans. “What about them?”
Tripp looked them over. True, they were decent enough looking, yet...just by looking at them with their skimpy shirts and extra tight jeans, and the way they carried themselves, like a couple of mares that had broken free from the corral... He could tell at once they were nothing special. “Dude, no way,” he said.
Mitch, with a slight batting of the eyes and a ‘puffing’ out of his chest, worked his way into their field of vision, putting on the best flirty eyes that he could muster. “Come one, there’s two of them,” he said with a shady grin. “And two of us. Come on, bro...it’s destiny. Let’s go for it, bro. Come on, they’re looking at us.”
Tripp let out a grin that bordered on both laughter and boredom. “Your standards for destiny are way too low,” Tripp said.
Mitch chuckled and continued to appraise the options in the crowded bar.
“I’m not really trying to hook up tonight anyway,” Tripp said. “I’ve gotta spend the night at my parents’ house to prep for their anniversary tomorrow.”
“You’re not bailing on me yet,” Mitch said, waving down the bartender. “Not before you have a couple of Tequila shots with me.” Tripp sighed as Mitch gestured at the bartender. He had known this was unavoidable. A part of him knew that he had said ‘yes’ to going out with Mitch just because he knew the drinking would numb his tumultuous feelings. Besides, Mitch was a blast to be with, even if his vision of life was to work, drink and play without all the extra work that ‘dreaming’ and ‘ambitions’ led to. That was Tripp’s deal, dreaming, working on a life plan with big goals and high aspirations.
“What’ll it be?” said Jesse, the bartender, a gorgeous young fox, with blond hair, perfect breasts and long legs. “Four Camarena’s Jesse.” Mitch said.
“Coming right up,” she said. In a moment she was pouring in that same way she always did, with that look of professionalism dancing along the border of fun and excitement.
Mitch took up his shot, “Bottoms up, bro!” And together, they took the first of them down. At the same time they slammed their shot glasses down and inhaled, the raw flavor of the Camarena Tequila racing down their throats like a blaze. “Damn, how big is this party anyway?” Mitch asked.
“Everyone they’ve ever met, seems like,” Tripp said. “It’s going to be hell.”
Mitch grinned and lifted his second shot glass to that. The two friends downed the shots.
“You should come,” Tripp said. “Save me from going insane.”
Mitch laughed.
“I’ll pass,” Mitch said. “Rich people parties aren’t really my thing.”
“We’re not rich,” Tripp said.
“You don’t think so? Your dad has roofing crews in multiple cities. He has several work trucks, front-loaders and a shitload of guys all working for his company. Cost a lot of money to operate that kind of operation. I’m sure he makes much more than it cost, so don’t give me that.”
Mitch had a point. Tripp knew his father had worked hard to build up his construction company, and it paid off many times over. His father was proud of the business he built from the ground up. From one truck to a fleet. From a small group of dedicated guys to a workforce that was still growing and taking on major contracts from luxury mansions to small apartment blocks. From framing to roofing to siding and onto completing major contracts with beautiful interiors. Heck they put up homes all over the place from Fresno to Oakland to LA. They even operated as far north as Portland. And to be frank, Tripp was lucky to have been born into a comfortable family. Mitch had grown up with a single mom and had to start bagging groceries at 13 just to help make ends meet. Tripp never held those facts against him. Growing up on the lower scale workforce in Linden wasn’t all that bad. The hard work had given Mitch a savage work ethic. He was always working. Always playing. Hard work didn’t bother him. That’s all he knew. And he was happy about it.
It made Tripp feel guilty. Here he was whining about how he hated working for his dad, but t
he reality was, Tripp had plenty of opportunities. He wasn’t in debt, thanks to his dad’s company, and he could pursue whatever he wanted. He was just scared. Scared of letting his dad down—perhaps breaking the old man’s heart. Scared of really trying. Scared of failing. Scared that his dreams were so far beyond his league; it was the one reason he didn’t just go for it already. But the thought of working his own company building and restoring tough bikes was always on the edge of his mind, kissing his heart. “You’re right, man,” Tripp said.
“I’m always right,” Mitch said with a grin.
“I just wish I could transition,” Tripp said. “From dad's company to my bikes.” He slapped Mitch on the back, “Really, that’s all I want to do.”
Mitch nodded as he took a swing of his beer. “I don’t blame you, man. It’s a damn fine dream.” Mitch was in the Road Warriors as well, and he knew how much Tripp loved to design bikes.
As Tripp finished his drink and ordered another one, he could feel the room getting blurry. He knew he should stop, but he didn’t want to. He just wanted to sit and drink with Mitch and talk about his passion. “I drew up this absolute beauty the other day,” he said. “I know it could go for a huge amount, but I need an investor so I can set up a space and marketing.”
“You’ve gotta keep working the guys in the club,” Mitch said. “Somebody in the Warriors has to know someone who would be willing to put money into a bike designer. But you don’t want any of that underground money, man. That shit will only get you into serious trouble. You need someone with solid cash. Legit cash. Paper-trails and everything. You know?”