As his boss shrugged with surprise, Dave reiterated the message he had come to deliver. “She’s helping me. I’m doing much better. I just wanted you to know.”
When Dave arrived back at his desk, he stopped just long enough to gather up some papers and his jacket.
“Gloria, I’ll be out the rest of the day.”
• • •
Dave hoped that his suit and tie wouldn’t make him stand out like a tourist. As he approached the building, he regretted not having taken time to go home first and change. He knew, however, that if he was going to convince Ellen to let him handle the BikeHouse account, he’d need to learn everything he could about the company.
Long ago, he’d discovered that the most useful information about an organization always came from the people in the trenches, those working directly with the customer on the front line. The front line was exactly where he was headed.
He expected to find a rundown shop with a greasy mechanic or two milling about working on their hogs, something out of an Easy Rider movie. Instead, the showroom at the Lakeshore BikeHouse location was breathtaking.
It was more reminiscent of Las Vegas than of any biker movie scene. Rows of gleaming customized motorcycles stood in perfect symmetry, each basking in its own halogen spotlight. There were dozens of bikes, various makes and models, all immaculate and begging admiration. It wasn’t a motorcycle shop, it was an art gallery—Michelangelo would have been in awe.
But there was more. Behind the bikes was a store within a store, an area brimming with black leather jackets, shirts, pullovers, sweaters, gloves, socks, and every other imaginable fashion accessory—all branded with popular motorcycle logos. Not only dazzling, it was bustling.
Dave slid quietly around the machines, hoping to not attract attention. His plan was to blend into the background and study the place before asking his questions.
“Hi, can I help you?”
The voice startled him. He’d been so involved in taking in the scene that he hadn’t noticed the salesperson approaching from behind.
“Thanks, but right now I’m just looking.”
“They are okay to touch.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The bikes. They’re okay to touch. I mean, look at them. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?”
Dave scanned the room. The guy had a point—the polished machines were waving for attention.
“I need to be honest with you . . .” Dave leaned over to read the salesman’s tag.
“The name’s Redd. Pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand and Dave shook it. Redd was a large, older man with a round face that matched fat fingers, but he shook hands with authority, or at least enthusiasm. He smiled behind a grey handlebar mustache turned up just enough on the ends to make him look like a circus ringmaster.
“Redd, I’m Dave Riley. It’s nice to meet you, but actually, I’m not here to buy a bike. I’m here to do some market research. I don’t want to waste your time.”
Dave expected a look of disappointment or puzzlement. As near as he could tell, Redd showed neither.
“No waste of my time. I normally work in the shop or at the parts counter. I come out to the sales floor when the regular sales guys are busy.” As if Dave’s comments were just now registering, Redd paused. “Market research . . . what does that mean?”
Though his company technically hadn’t landed the account, Dave decided that for the sake of easy explanation, he would pretend they had. “I work for Strategy Data; we’re a marketing research and opinion firm. We’ve been hired by BikeHouse corporate, and, well . . . I’m here to learn more about the product.”
“Corporate sent you?”
“Not exactly. I picked the closest location and came in on my own.”
Redd seemed intrigued. “What do they want to research?”
The question was a fair one that Dave couldn’t answer. He would be truthful. “I don’t know yet; we haven’t gone that far.”
“Well, if they want to know about the bikes or the people who buy ’em, they can call me. I’ll tell ’em what they need to know for a tenth of what they’re paying you. No offense.”
“None taken. So, you’ve ridden a road bike for a while?”
“As long as I can remember.”
“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“Not at all—I’m paid by the hour.” When he flashed Dave a smile, a silver tooth glistened.
Dave began with a list of questions he’d been forming in his head on the way over. “Tell me about your customers. What type of person buys a customized motorcycle?”
Redd took the question seriously, carefully considering his explanation. “When you look at a person, you can’t tell so much who’s a longtime rider as who’s not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, take you, for example. I’d venture to say you’ve seldom been on a bike, customized or otherwise.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Well, look at you—you’re scared to death.” Redd swung his leg over the machine next to where they were standing and grabbed the handlebars. He looked more comfortable on the bike than off. “Now take a look at the guy there in the suit.” Redd gestured to an older gentleman Dave had noticed earlier. “What would you guess about him?”
Dave shrugged. “He looks to me like a businessman killing time on his lunch hour.”
Redd half-nodded. “He’s a businessman all right, but don’t let the suit fool you. That’s Mason Weller; he’s ridden in a club for years. He comes in from time to time just to check out the new inventory. Not all riders sport tattoos and leather, you know.”
“Fair enough,” Dave conceded. “Why do you ride?”
“Now, that’s a different question altogether.” Redd swung off the bike and motioned for Dave to follow him. They walked past the browsing customers and through a door marked Employees Only. In the back of the open warehouse, next to a partially opened garage door, sat a maroon and silver machine, polished like it was parade day.
“That’s my baby.” Redd talked like a proud father. “It’s an ’83, FXSB Wide Glide, Shovelhead engine, Girling rear disc brake, twin discs up front.”
The words could have been Greek. Dave shrugged, half pretending to understand. However, it was Redd’s next instruction that startled him.
“Get on.”
“What?”
“You asked why I ride. I’m gonna show you.”
Dave stepped back. “How about you just tell me?”
The remark caused Redd to laugh aloud. It was a jolly laugh, and had his clothes been red with a white beard attached, Dave could have imagined Redd working the mall in December.
“Look, I’d just hate to get grease on my pants,” Dave added, attempting to save face.
Without uttering a word, Redd snatched a white rag from the adjacent counter. He spread it over his thick fingers and wiped it down one side of the shiny bike. Without looking at it, he held it up for Dave to see that there wasn’t so much as a smudge.
Redd tossed the rag back onto the counter and turned back to Dave.
“Look, I’m not asking you to ride it; I just want you to feel the power of the engine.” In a fluid motion Redd swept his leg over the bike, turned the key, and pressed the start button. The engine rumbled to life.
Dave raised his voice to make sure Redd could hear over the machine. “So you don’t have to kick-start it?”
“Electric start.” Redd stepped off, then motioned for Dave to swing onto the echoing bike. Dave climbed on, then settled down into the leather seat. It was more comfortable than he’d expected. He grabbed the handlebars and pulled the weight off the stand. As he did, Redd kicked the stand up into place against the frame.
“How does she feel?”
“Good.” He couldn’t deny it—
the power that sat beneath him, at his command, was exhilarating, even intimidating. “So, is the clutch in the handle?” Dave posed the question more to make conversation than to suggest any intent to actually ride the machine.
Redd nodded. “You want to inch it forward, just to get the feel?”
“I’m all right, really.”
“Come on, inch it forward.”
It was either peer pressure or salesmanship at its finest. Dave hated to look foolish, so he nodded in the affirmative. Redd explained how to pull in the clutch and drop the bike into first gear.
“Just let it out slowly. Let it roll forward a few feet and then pull her back and apply the brake. It’s simple.”
When Dave eased off the clutch, he released the handle too quickly. The bike lurched forward, and Redd had to grab the machine to keep it from falling. Dave’s cheeks flushed. He looked to Redd expecting to see concern; instead, only excitement stared back—Redd had a new pupil.
“Did you feel that power? And this bike’s nothing compared to a customized Dyna Wide Glide. That one will really get your legs excited, if you know what I mean.”
Redd reached over, switched the key to off, and dropped down the kickstand. He was almost bouncing. Dave stepped off, happy to not embarrass himself further.
“So, you’re saying it’s the power of the bike that attracts people?” Dave asked, picking up the conversation where they’d left off in the showroom.
Redd’s tone hushed. “Oh, these machines certainly have power, Dave, no question about it. But to answer honestly—no.”
“Okay, then what?”
Redd glanced around the garage, as if he were about to reveal the wisdom of ages. “It’s the freedom, Dave,” he answered in a tone so reverently whispered he could have been in church.
“Freedom?”
“Sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll go riding together sometime and I’ll show you.”
“Can’t you just explain it?”
“It’s kinda hard to explain, really.”
“Give it a try.”
“Well, it would go something like this.” Redd leaned against his bike. “When you head out into this great country on your bike, and you watch the stripes of the pavement fly past, and you get to suck in the fresh air and marvel at the expanse of the sky and feel the warmth of the earth and realize there are forces bigger than you . . . well, it gives you a chance to clear your head, to find a place that’s peaceful—that’s meaningful. That’s what I mean by freedom. Isn’t that what everyone is looking for?”
Dave’s intuition had been right. If you want to know about a company or a product, go to the people on the front line.
“You’re not a mechanic,” Dave stated emphatically.
Redd seemed confused, not sure what to make of the remark. “I’m not?”
“No. Not at all.” Dave added, “You’re the best damn salesman I’ve ever met.”
chapter fourteen
Patrick O’Riley was more than an engineer, he was an artist. His drawings are stunning. Beside each one I find meticulous calculations. Most I do not pretend to understand. Instead, what I find intriguing is the personality of the man that shines through his work. His anecdotal wisdom is everywhere, sometimes hidden in a phrase, other times highlighted in notes that span pages. With each discovery, my questions about him grow.
“I calculated the cable’s dead-load stress under normal temperatures, then presumed fully loaded side spans and recomputed the live-load stress for the hottest of days. I was astonished. Stress is less with a live load than with no load at all! The cable is more stressed when the bridge is empty than when it is crowded with autos. I presumed a mistake but checked me figures, and the calculations remain. I was bothered for several days until Mr. Moisseiff explained that the stiffening truss should be a limbering truss and that, in our bridge, the truss literally shirks the load, handing it over to the cables. It is marvelous indeed.
“With Anna and the wee ones distant, I too carry a greater load when empty. At times me emptiness seems unbearable. I miss Anna so and wish I had the means to reunite sooner. At times she is but a distant memory, and I imagine she is not real at all, but the desperate vision of a wanting man. During those times, I stare at her picture, remember her smile, and know that each day I spend working on the bridge is a day closer to our reunion—a day closer to the time our family will be together. Must go now. Have been assigned to an evening crew. But I go with a smile. I go to work on the bridge for Anna.”
Another note is written in the margin.
“With this heart, I give you mine.”
I sense these expressions hold a deeper meaning. When all three are strung together, they sound almost like a wedding vow. Could it be so simple? Below the last phrase is a final plea, a mystery that confuses me further. “I pray, Anna, that your crown be left and out—that is me heart’s deepest desire.”
I’m curious by nature, and while I do find the words comforting, I also find myself wondering. Crown? Left and out? What in the world could this possibly mean?
• • •
Professor Winston calls our meetings “employee evaluations.” Our conversations, however, feel more like father-daughter talks. He said that he’s been thrilled with my attitude as of late, though I hadn’t realized I was any different. He accused me of secretly dating, and when I told him I hadn’t, he promised he’d arrange something for me. I almost slapped him on the spot. Let me explain why.
Four months ago I asked the professor to recommend an accountant. With a gleam in his eye, he set me up with his own accountant, a man who’d recently been divorced. When I say “set me up,” I don’t mean for a tax consultation. At first I refused, but the professor often gets his way. He’s a man who loves to get in the last word.
As it turned out, his accountant was a good ten years older than me, and certainly not my type—neither for dating nor for accounting. To be polite, I forged ahead with the evening. He took me first to a movie and then to dinner, both nice enough, but afterward we drove to his apartment, where I was under the impression we would meet the professor and his wife for drinks. It turned out the professor wasn’t coming, and I was alone with Napoleon Dynamite.
He was nervous and trying way too hard, which in turn made me uneasy. He put on some soft mood music, poured each of us a drink, then pointed me toward the couch to sit and talk. He began by relating details of his divorce, but then clued in from my manner that he was making a huge mistake. He fumbled for a bit; then, as a last resort, he reverted to a subject he knew well: “Tax Law Changes and the Middle Class.” When I couldn’t endure another moment, I excused myself and headed to the bathroom.
Looking back, I’ll admit that I was nervous and thus irrational. But while in the bathroom, I noticed his toilet was running. When I say running, I mean that the float inside the tank that shuts off the water desperately needed an adjustment. Even after I’d flushed and waited, it still sounded like a river flowing down into the drain—and in a city where water conservation is pounded into the head of every child from birth, it grated on my nerves.
I returned to the couch where my date hadn’t missed a beat, but all I could hear was the toilet in the background. I couldn’t decide which was worse: water torture or tax law.
I can’t pin down the exact moment when I snapped, but I believe it was between “Depreciating Assets for Maximum Tax Benefit” and “Increasing the Effective Yield on After-Tax Earnings.” I raised my hand, as if in school, and when he paused, I asked for a screwdriver.
In my defense, I was raised by an ironworker, a man who spent his days maintaining the bridge, and he’d taught me well—leaky toilets were my specialty. I’m sure my date was shocked at my request, but he obliged and then followed me into the bathroom, where I removed the lid on the toilet tank and adjusted the float. When
I looked up, he mumbled something about the kitchen sink, and when I followed him there, sure enough, his faucet was dripping. I asked for a crescent wrench; he gave me pliers. I made do, and fifteen minutes later that drip was also fixed. My hands were now greasy, and I don’t know if it was shock or intimidation, but as he watched, he was unable to form any words—totally stumped as to where to pick up the conversation.
His romantic background music now stood out like hip-hop at a bar mitzvah, so he hurried into the living room to shut it off. I followed and extended my hand in preparation for my polite departure. He shook it and then checked his own to see if the grease had rubbed off. I turned, expecting him to open the door for me, but he stood frozen, with his eyes locked on my hands. I shrugged, opened the door myself, and escaped into the sanity of the hall. As I walked toward the street to grab a cab, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream, until I realized the reason for his stare—I was still holding his rusty pliers. I chose to laugh.
The next day, as I protested to the professor while describing the evening’s events, he chuckled so hard he snorted. I threatened him with bodily harm if he ever set me up again, but I must not have been convincing—he’s been trying ever since. As a reminder to just say no, I still have those rusty pliers.
Before I left the professor’s office, he said something that I can’t get out of my head.
Next weekend the Golden Gate Commemorative Society will hold a banquet that I’ll need to attend. I dread the thought. The finicky old society ladies remind me of fancy house cats, but since they are paying for the study, I understand.
That’s not what has me curious and nervous. As I stood to leave, the smiling professor added, “Don’t be late! I will have a surprise for you that evening, Katie. Trust me when I tell you, it’s something you’ll remember for the rest of your life.”
Just in case, I’m going to take my pliers.
chapter fifteen
“David, good morning.” Dr. Jaspers reached out and shook Dave’s hand.
“Good morning to you,” Dave replied as he settled in. He hated the small talk. She seemed to enjoy it. Today he stepped around it. “So, what do we talk about?”
The Other Side of the Bridge Page 8