Old Dog

by Roy F. Chandler

  When he thought about it, Larry supposed a lot of riders were ordinary-looking guys, but to save his life, he could not recall a dozen. The wild role-players were remembered, just the way most of them intended.

  The surprising shared characteristic among the bikers that visited Old Dog was their inherent gentleness. It was as if they went to lengths to show they were not really the bad guys they appeared to be, and Larry learned to enjoy them without trepidation. Arlis never did. They menaced virtually all of her important mores. She was constrained; they gave a damn for very little. Arlis was timid; they hunted adventure. His wife was chaste, circumspect, and modest. The best that could be said was that most bikers were not.

  Larry expected that if you tangled with bikers you would not encounter many Marquis of Queensbury rules, and he knew they stuck together like coat hangers.

  Their stories were filled with incidents of helping out other riders, often on the road, but sometimes in brushes with the law or antagonistic people. Larry planned on avoiding biker wrath.

  Old Dog's riders complained with regularity about their bad press. Movies never had a decent thing to portray, although a famous profile or two did mount Harley-Davidsons to enhance their macho images. Cleaning out biker bars with one-man martial arts performances had become de rigueur, and the cinematic enactments roused both irritation and levity among the real riders.

  To tell the truth, Larry liked Dog's friends, and their presence gave his life emotional uplifts that remained in his memory.

  What he saw in Daytona would stay in Timmy's memory as well. The father expected his son would file it, just as he did, and be richer for the experience and knowledge—without expecting to become a one percenter, any more than he really expected to be a fireman or a professional wrestler.

  Chapter 9

  Old Dog's pickup was outwardly beaten and battered. As far as Timmy knew, it had never been washed. If he had something special to haul, Uncle Dog might "broom-out" the truck bed, but mechanically, the Dodge ticked as if new. "Some things count and need taking care of, but a lot of things don't." Old Dog liked to say that. Obviously, the pickup's exterior was among the latter.

  Dog drove swiftly, usually a little above the speed limit. Everyone knew police never bothered cars running just a little fast. Old Dog had something to say on the subject.

  "In Pennsylvania, it's important to keep an eye out. If you guess wrong and do get pulled over, the fines are painful. Another point we all hate to admit is that most car speedometers run a couple of miles fast, so we either aren't really over the limit or are so darn close it is hard to measure. Most arrests these days are from radar, and police have to worry a little over whether their equipment is all that accurate. So they also give you a little slack.

  "There are weird exceptions, of course. Ross got ticketed on Alligator Alley down in Florida for driving two miles over the limit They got Ross with a radar in a helicopter. They were waiting for him at the west tollbooth. Didn't bother cars passing him the whole way. Some cops like arresting bikers. Really ticked old Ross off.

  "If a trooper tails you at seventy-five miles per hour, you're done. Hell, a driver like that ought to get nailed for being so stupid."

  "Unmarked cars get a lot, Uncle Dog."

  "Yep, to me the risk isn't worth the hour you save in a day's run."

  The pickup got rotten mileage, and the tank was small, so they stopped often to gas up and stretch. Timmy loaded up on Quicky-Mart junk food. Old Dog had a milkshake and said it was awful.

  "Plastic, Tim. I think these fast-food joints have developed a liquid shake plastic by melting down recycled Styrofoam. You notice they call 'em shakes now? Never milkshakes. No cows involved anymore."

  Old Dog reminisced. "My mom, your grandmother, worked in Bowers Restaurant for a while when your Dad and I were real young. That's where Mama's Pizza is now.

  "She was always trying to fatten us up so we'd grow big and strong. Nobody'd heard of cholesterol back then, and eggs and cream were thought to be good stuff.

  "Mom would make us special shakes. She used Half and Half instead of milk and broke a raw egg or two into the mix. Malt was considered healthy, so we usually got that, too. Good rich Hershey's ice cream and a little flavor—man, what a shake! Big, too, at least two glasses. I'd like one of those right now."

  Dog had to take a nap about the time they hit I-95. They pulled into a rest area, and Tim roamed around while Old Dog slept. There wasn't much to see, and Timmy was glad when they got back on the road.

  Old Dog wanted to quit early, and Tim could tell he was tired, but the South of the Border signs kept them going.

  Dog said, "I want it on the record that I'm stopping here for you, nephew. I don't want it passed around that I couldn't wait to get to South of the Border."

  "It sounds great, Uncle Dog. Do they have someone dressed up like Pedro?"

  "Hey, I'm not up on South of the Border. It isn't my kind of place. Had a friend . . . who was it . . .? Oh, yeah. Cabinets Jim was his handle. So many Jims around you have to add something to know who you're talking about.

  "Cabinets went to South of the Border on his honeymoon. He's still married, so I guess for him it was tolerable."

  "Why do they call him Cabinets, Uncle Dog?"

  "That Jim had a cabinet shop over in Venice, Florida. Nice looking guy. Resembled Robby Benson, the actor."

  "Robby Benson's pretty old now, Uncle Dog. I haven't seen him in a recent movie."

  "Benson's old, Huh? He's a young guy to me. Depends on where you are looking from, I guess."

  Their room wasn't special, but Old Dog said his milkshake was almost decent. He gave Tim money, took a pair of pills, and went to bed.

  Tim came in quiet and kept the light off, but Old Dog was awake.

  "Can't you sleep, Uncle Dog?"

  "Just laying here resting."

  "When I rest, I sleep."

  "Yeah, well, I do some of both these days."

  "Don't you feel good, Uncle Dog?'

  "Can't say I do, but it's under control. Gets too bad, I've got pills that ease things."

  "You don't have anything real bad, do you Uncle Dog?" Dog could hear the anxiety in Tim's voice.

  "It could be worse, Timmy. I'm on my feet, and we're going to Daytona. I'll give you a real clear description when we get back home."

  Before the boy could answer, Old Dog shifted subjects.

  "How'd you like South of the Border?"

  "It's OK, but I don't think I'll want to stop on the way home."

  "My sentiments exactly. Some things you've got to see just so you know you won't want to come back."

  They got an early start and made good time down the interstate. Old Dog set the needle on 67 mph, and the miles sped by.

  There were motorcycles now. A lot of them on trailers and in the backs of pickups, but riders, too. Sometimes a clot of bikers would appear in the side mirrors. They would sweep by, bundled in leathers because the day was only slightly warm.

  Old Dog recognized a few. More glanced in as they passed and threw Dog a raised thumb salute. Old Dog answered, but often wasn't sure who they were.

  "A lot of riders know you, Uncle Dog."

  "I've been around a long time, Timmy."

  "How's the gas? I'm getting hungry again."

  "My god, you can't be! You just ate a ton at McDonalds."

  "There's a Burger King at this exit, Uncle Dog. They're my favorite."

  Dog flicked on the turn indicator. "I hope they make decent shakes."

  "That all you're going to eat, Uncle Dog? I'd get sick of them."

  "Right now they agree with me."

  They made it a pit stop, and there was a Dairy Queen next to the Burger King.

  Old Dog came back with an ice cream concoction called a Blizzard. "You want one of these, Tim? I'm going to try it instead of a shake."

  He began spooning. "Man, that IS good!" Then, "I just hope it doesn't tear up my guts."

  "What kind di
d you get?"

  "This one has Oreo cookies broken up in it. I figure they couldn't hurt."

  "You'll get fat, Uncle Dog."

  "How I wish it."

  A dozen miles north of Daytona, Old Dog dropped off I-95. "Too much traffic from here on, and it'll be backed up getting into town."

  Dog pointed over a shoulder. "There's the Holiday campground. We'll come up here visiting later on."

  The back way in led through a state park and was a pleasant tree-lined drive. Most of the traffic was motorcycles, and Timmy wished they were on the Harley. Once they got into Daytona, it was virtually all motorcycles.

  Tim's voice was excited. "I never dreamed of so many bikes, Uncle Dog. This place is ALL Harleys."

  "Wait till you see Main Street and wait until Saturday. This is just a preview."

  Old Dog's hotel was, Timmy immediately decided, "something else."

  Their beat up old pickup with the sheeted over Harley was rolled under a two story high canopy, and uniformed attendants appeared. One took their names and flight bags and disappeared inside the hotel. Another jumped behind the wheel. Old Dog said, "I want to be parked up front where I can roll the scooter off without holding up traffic."

  The attendant appeared doubtful. Old Dog tucked a five dollar bill into the man's jacket pocket, and the attendant said, "Well . . ." in a dubious tone. Dog delivered a second bill, and the driver lit up like neon. "Of course, sir. I just thought of the perfect spot." The truck was swallowed by the maw of the parking garage.

  Dog looked after the truck, then shook his head in discouragement. "Money talks, doesn't it Tim? Let's go in."

  Their room was way up, but the elevator was fast and didn't stink of people and stale smoke the way some did.

  Their guide with the bags led into a veritable palace, but Tim hot footed through to the balcony. A sea breeze blew his hair awry, and he could see for a million miles to the north.

  Below, an almost too wide to believe beach was awash with people, vendors, and two way traffic. Bathers were way out and still only waist deep. Timmy could barely wait to hit the water.

  They each had a bedroom and a shared living room with a TV the size of a wall. The carpet felt like it had no bottom, and the bathroom was enormous. It was tiled to the ceiling and had both shower and whirlpool bath. There was a strange fixture that looked like a commode without a seat. Tim couldn't figure its use. He would ask Old Dog later on.

  Dog tipped their "bellhop" and looked around.

  "Reckon it'll do?"

  Tim did not hide his impression. "It looks like a movie, Uncle Dog. Wow, this must cost a mint."

  "Sure doesn't come free, but I'm not up to camping right now."

  They went together to study the view. Timmy said, "A lot of bikes on the beach."

  "Yeah, we'll be down there later on. We've got a lot of time, and we are right in the middle of things.

  "You want to go swimming?"

  "Yeah."

  "OK, get into your suit. Has it got a pocket? Put in a room key and fistful of quarters so you can get something to eat."

  Dog did a little warning. "It's late in the day, so the sun won't eat you up, but come back in an hour, agreed?"

  "I'll watch the time, Uncle Dog. My Timex is good down to one hundred meters."

  Dog said, "Don't test it. I'll get up after a while. You can watch the tube until then. They've probably got every channel in the world."

  The boy took about two minutes and was off. Old Dog swallowed pain pills and slid between the cool sheets. He didn't feel all that bad considering—just bushed. He set his mental clock for not more than two hours and hoped that the dope wouldn't throw him off.

  It sure was comfortable, with the breeze blowing through. It had cost like hell, but it was a one-time luxury, something for Tim to remember and tell about. It was worth the money. He wouldn't be needing a lot more anyway.

  Money was funny stuff, important as hell when you didn't have it. Not even interesting when there was enough.

  Old Dog had never worried about money. When he had gone to war he was just out of high school, and even a private's fifty dollars per month had been sufficient. Dollars had been a little short when he had rumbled out of Bloomfield on his first panhead, but only because he was waiting for Rocky Marciano's next fight.

  Rocky Marciano, maybe the greatest heavyweight champion of all time. Killed in a light plane crash . . . God, it must have been twenty-five years back . . . Marciano had been Dog Carlisle's road to financial solvency.

  There was a draftee in his basic training outfit out of Brockton, Massachusetts. They had become friends, and the soldier claimed he was close to Rocko Marchegiano, the hard-hitting heavyweight fighter.

  The soldier said, "I'll tell you straight out, Dog. Rocky is going to make me rich. Every time he fights, I'm betting every nickel I can beg on him." He whispered confidentially, "I've already got fifteen thousand dollars stashed from it."

  Dog was intrigued, but he wasn't much of a betting man. His friend was insistent.

  "Look, Dog, you get together all you can and bet with me. All on Rocky winning. No rounds or fancy stuff, just winning. If you lose, I'll pay you back, guaranteed. We're friends, and I want to see you get rich too."

  Dog had done it and won, of course, because Marciano never did lose. His friend had gotten out of the service, kept borrowing to the hilt and betting it all. The friend lived in Palm Springs, California now and knew famous personalities.

  The winnings were nice, but Dog could not risk the way his Brockton friend could. He banked some and invested in things he thought might get valuable.

  Richard S. Otto had been selling house lots at Morro Bay, California. People were flocking to the state, so Dog bought three adjoining properties right over the water for $l,000. Dog got rid of them in 1985 because the taxes were eating him up. They sold as a unit for just under $350,000. The capital gains tax was awful, but Dog didn't care. The investment had been far beyond his expectations. He could not complain, and he didn't really give a damn about the money anyway.

  While Rocky was still pounding out opponents, Dog roamed around Florida. He bought a few cheap, but high above sea level lots in the Keys and some others near Tampa. Dog always bought waterfront. It cost a little more, but he figured people liked boats and fishing, and a view ought to bring more down the road. It did. Some sage coined the popular, "They aren't making any more waterfront." The property took off.

  Old Dog sold when it seemed right. Probably too soon it turned out, but the money was still nice. Dog tried the stock market in small amounts, but he was just guessing. He settled on ATT for security and IBM for big profit hopes. The gods smiled, and Old Dog lived off his interest.

  All because of Rocky Marciano and his 49 consecutive wins. Astonishing how it had turned out. Old Dog claimed no special credit. He had taken chances and been lucky. One solid right cross from any of a dozen opponents might have dumped the Rock and changed it all.

  Chapter 10

  When Old Dog got up, Timmy had a local station on the TV. In his background the announcer had a motorcycle wreck with emergency vehicles, lights flashing, and police directing. The anchor intoned caution and sobriety.

  Tim said, "Somebody got hit hard, Uncle Dog. Looks like he ran smack into the side of a car."

  Old Dog swore. "Those bastards, they've been showing that clip for three years now. A Pontiac backed out right in front of the rider. Biker never had a chance. Killed him dead. Car driver was legally drunk and had no insurance. The pictures are damned graphic, so they haul them out every year, but they don't mention that the car was at fault. Hell, they never do."

  Old Dog turned away. "Ready to look at bikes?"

  "You bet. I've seen a thousand already. The beach is full of them. From all over, too, Uncle Dog. I saw an Oregon plate."

  "You'll probably see Alaska. Riders come in from everywhere."

  Old Dog slid into his worn leather jacket. It hung on his leaned frame like
an old sack.

  Timmy said, "You keep losing weight, you'll have to buy a new jacket, Uncle Dog."

  "Guess I'll stick with this one a while. We've come a long way together."

  Timmy did not have real leathers, but he donned his vinyl jacket with the Harley eagle that Old Dog favored.

  "We going to get out the Harley, Uncle Dog?"

  "Not tonight. We'll unload in the morning. Tonight's for looking, not riding."

  Atlantic Avenue paralleled the beach and Main Street crossed Atlantic. Their hotel lay within spitting distance of the action, so Dog and Timmy skipped through backed up motorcycle traffic to the west side of Atlantic and walked south to Main Street

  On the beach side, Main ended abruptly at a pier that cost money to get out on. Heading west, Main Street traffic jerked, started, and halted. The clog of motorcycles was mind boggling.

  The traffic was ALL motorcycles—with a few uncomfortable and leery-eyed tourists trapped within the press. An occasional pickup, usually loaded with girls, made the scene and Daytona police were there on foot and astride their own Harley-Davidsons.

  Sidewalks were jammed with jacketed lookers. Old Dog said, "If we get separated and can't find each other, I'll meet you on this corner as soon as I can get here, OK?"

  "Right, Uncle Dog." Tim's eyes were darting sight to sight.

  Police allowed only southbound, right turn traffic onto Main Street. Northbound riders had to pass Main, then "U" turn a few blocks up and blend into the barely-moving south lanes.

  Riders trying for Main Street rode feet down, working throttle, clutch, and front brake, staying in low gear, starting and stopping every few feet. The thunder of revving engines was deafening, but to those involved, the ear-shattering decibels were sweet music.

  On Main Street, the traffic was as slow as it could get without permanent halting. Few cared; they had come to see and be seen. The usual drill was to ride Main Street a time or two, then park and walk the same few blocks looking at motorcycles, other riders, and lots of scantily-clad motorcycle girls.