by D. J. Wilson
“Next, the chaps,” I instructed. “They have to fit a little tight, because over time they will stretch. Plus, I’ll be staring at them for the first fifty hours or so, at least until the newness wears off. What?” Les chuckled under his breath, while Candi dropped an eyebrow in my direction.
“Here, let’s try these,” announced Les, motioning for her to raise her arms while he prepared to fit her seamlessly. “Same company that made the jacket, made these,” he told her. I couldn’t help noticing he had one hand semi-massaging her crotch, while his other hand was zipping the chaps from the top down.
“How do those fit?” he asked.
“They feel tight.”
“Here, miss, let’s put the other leg on, before we rule these out. We may need to try on three or four pair to make sure we find you the 'purr-fect' fit.”
Same scenario, different leg, but this time Candi pointed at his head as Les kneeled in front of her, “Do you see where his hand is?”
I nodded yes, while biting down on my lip to keep from laughing out loud.
“There, miss, walk around in these for a minute while I go pick out a few more.”
Candi immediately grabbed my arm and dragged me half way across the store. “Listen, D, the last time I was involuntarily felt up like that was at the Atlanta airport, while being patted down by a semi-mustached, female TSA Agent.”
I had to laugh. “Candi, Les is good at what he does. Yep. he just takes a few liberties while fitting you, that’s all. Oh, and just so you know, he does the same thing to guys.”
“I don’t even want to go there…”
“Les,” Candi screamed across the store. “I’ll take these. Don’t bother looking for more. You’ve done well, seeing how it’s your very first time fitting me.”
Les looked like someone just stole his favorite toy, still he reluctantly nodded OK and walked to the register to ring-up our purchases.
Our mission complete, we headed back to the lake, this time with me in the front seat relaxing, instead of distracting. Too much of a good thing, as in lust driven romance, can alter the depth of a somewhat promising relationship. I was hoping to myself, somewhere in our newness, albeit lustfully skewed, we had the inner workings on which to build something solid.
Candi’s phone rang, startling both of us. It was Marcy announcing she was going shopping in Nashville for the rest of the weekend. She invited Candi to join her if she could.
“What do you think, D? I'm sure I'll need a few more clothes for our trip.”
“I think that’s a great idea. Go for it. Tell her you’ll be there in two hours. I’ll drop you off. Besides, I have countless things to deal with before I head out. I haven’t even packed my own stuff!”
We met Marcy off one of the interstate exits near Cookeville, and Candi happily jumped out of her car. She bounced around to my side and stuck her head and ta-tas inside the window. With a big kiss, she rubbed herself against my face and whispered, “I’ll miss you. Bye, bye, baby.” And with that, she was off.
I hope she remembers where to pick up her SUV…
I only had a few days to finish shipping my last few boxes of clothes and, well, other items. My plan was to leave Wednesday and meet Candi in Sioux City by Saturday afternoon. It would take some work on my part to meet that schedule.
Pouring over the current financial records of thousands of potential clients was a long and tedious process. I’d had many of these packages complete and ready for over a year now, and I was finishing up with the last few hundred packages this week. With no one I could trust to assist me, I spent twelve hours a day over the next three days determining who in my recently-acquired circle of friends possibly needed the most assistance. Shipping this many packages, while scheduling their timely pick-up was a major undertaking. Nevertheless, I was up for the job. If I were to ever make amends the way I felt they should be made, I’d have to push my nose up against the old grindstone and get the job done.
Over the last few years, I’d been helping roughly ten to twenty people a month by shipping my priceless care packages of diamonds, along with a few other odd valuables to them. These, of course, were highly controversial and if ever discovered by the government they’d be confiscated and never become beneficial to anyone. Safety for me, and the recipients of my shipments, counted on total anonymity. However, I soon realized that the longer my anonymous financial assistance continued, the greater the possibility of my discovery. I had no intention of going down with this ship, and I didn’t like the possible paper trail that could eventually lead right back to me, so strict adherence to safety accompanied each parcel.
My plan is this: my bike trip is to be my coup de grace. I would be mailing over one thousand individual packages from six separate cities, spread out over eighteen hundred miles across the U.S. and possibly Canada. Using this adventure to accomplish such a major undertaking was something I’d dreamed up last year. Going west to Sturgis and beyond with 300,000 other bikers would help me get lost in the crowd … with the powers-that-be none the wiser. Thus, I had grown a beard, added some pronounced tattoos, and let my hair grow long. If you’re trying to blend in, as well as fit in, you might as well look like you’re enjoying the ride.
… Trust me, now that Candi is onboard, I planned to.
Chapter 8
Whew! Wednesday morning finally arrived. With the bike secured on the trailer, I dropped Major off at the kennel and swung through FedEx where I shipped the last of our “clothes.” I specifically chose cities I was familiar with, having worked in them years ago. They each had to have a secure FedEx Center, which would hold my packages for pick up, until I arrived. It was a very well orchestrated plan, if I do say so myself.
I texted Candi:
On the road. You had better be in Sioux City Saturday, cannot wait.
She replied:
Ready to leave with u today, swing through Chattanooga and pick me up!
I typed:
Ha! Patience, baby! Patience! Saturday will be here before you know it. Then your next adventure begins!
On the ramp to I-40 West, I immediately came upon a well-groomed man standing beside an oversized suitcase, clutching a pet carrier and holding a handmade sign. The sign simply said: “Oregon”. I could have easily bypassed him, but not the two of them. Besides, it looked like rain and I was already missing Major, my co-pilot. What can I say? I’m easy.
“Hop in, sir. I’m not going to Oregon, but I’ll take you as far as I can.”
“Thank you for stopping. Looks like the weather might get ugly. My name is Frank, and this here is Jake,” he said while pointing to the small mixed breed dog in the fiberglass crate.
“Nice to meet you both,” I replied.
During our first thirty miles of conversation, I learned he was an Iraqi war vet — a Marine, no less. He was currently a contract carpenter from Oregon, who had been working in northern Virginia, at least until his recent fall off a roof. With no worker’s comp or personal insurance to cover his injuries, he’d decided to hitch his way back home. He and his poor canine were on their way back to somewhere in Oregon.
“If you can’t work, you don’t get paid,” he confessed. “And if you don’t get paid, you can’t eat. Hopefully, there is still work and food back in Silverton …”
There was sadness in his eyes, so deeply sad that I dared not press further for answers. As I understood, six weeks ago he started home and made it as far south as Roanoke, when his truck blew up on I-81. The highway patrol stopped and told him it had to be moved off the highway. With no money to repair it, the towing company hauled it away, along with all the tools that were his self-sustaining lifeline, and he couldn’t pay to get them back.
“It’s taken you six weeks just to get to Cookeville?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yes, sir. Every bit of it,” he replied. “Oh, I’ve picked up an odd job every now and then to feed the dog and me, but that’s about it. Everybody today is just too afraid to stop and pick up hitchh
ikers.” Frank shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “All I know to do is keep walking.”
“At this rate, Frank, you won’t make it home until Christmas.”
“It is what it is, I’m afraid. I have no close family to speak of, except Jake here. I guess I will get there when I get there. On the brighter side, I do have a few friends back home. They’ll put me up until I can get back on my feet. I don’t know what I’ll do without tools, though. It’s hard to show up to the 'man's' job-site with nothing to work with.”
Starting over is relative, I thought. Just what do I have to complain about, compared to Frank’s current odyssey?
“How about I get you a bus ticket in Nashville so you can get home?”
“You know, someone else offered me a ticket a few weeks ago, after I picked up an odd job in Bristol, VA. But they won’t let me take the dog on the bus.”
“I didn’t even think about that, Frank. I’m sorry.” I pondered on it a bit. “Okay. I’ve got another idea. Just tell me what big city in Oregon, Silverton is near.”
“If I can get to Portland, I promise you I can get home,” offered Frank, somewhat puzzled.
“No problem. I think I’ve got this.” Picking up my cell, I dialed Southwest Airlines, which has a major hub in Nashville. I booked two tickets to Portland leaving at 1 p.m. “Jake can ride beside you, sir. Just make sure you keep him in the crate most of the time.” I winked.
“You’re buying me two tickets to Portland? I … I…” Tears began streaming down his rugged, weatherworn face. “How can I ever repay you?” he asked. “I have nothing right now, but I promise you, I will pay you back when I get back on my feet.”
“Whether you believe me or not, Frank, you’ve given me a greater appreciation for my own current circumstance. That, sir, is payment enough. Someday soon, when you get back to working, perhaps you’ll find a way to help someone else in need.” We rode the rest of the way in silence.
A little over an hour later, we found ourselves at Nashville Municipal Airport. Dropping Frank at the Southwest departure gate, I stuffed ten Franklins in his pocket to cover his tickets and food, with a couple to spare. “Good luck starting over. Trust me, Frank, it can be done. Hey, it’s a whole lot easier when people believe in you.” My last words to you are these: “When good things come your way — and they will — pay it forward. That way you’ll never forget where you came from and you’ll remember those who helped you along the way.”
What am I saying? Here is someone I know for a fact is in need of re-compensation. “Hang on, Frank. Here’s a little something I need to give you.”
Reaching into my backpack, I pulled out a small, brown paper-wrapped box and shoved it into his calloused, leathery hands. “Bury this box deep inside your checked luggage. Best you do not carry it onboard.”
“Why? Just what is it?” asked Frank, looking as if I had given him something illegal to transport. “It’s more than a little something to help you get back on your feet.” Resting my hand on his shoulder, “Promise me you won’t open it until you get home. I want you to use all you need to get up and going and when you can, pay the rest forward. That’s all I ask of you.”
“After all you’ve just done, I promise to do just that. You never did tell me your name.”
“D. Just D,” I confided in a whisper. “God Bless you, Frank.”
I pulled from the curb, waved goodbye, and headed westward again. I couldn’t help wondering, How do I meet such extraordinary people?
Chapter 9
On the road again, I had one more stop to make before I left Nashville. Second Harvest Food Banks, with outlets in Nashville and Knoxville, were all that stood between tens of thousands of Tennesseans and hunger on a daily basis. Even in my little piece of Heaven, hundreds of people lined up monthly for the food truck deliveries that helped them stretch one dollar into five. My friend, Lane, works tirelessly to continue to raise enough capital to meet every need that comes their way. She and her staff are the unsung heroes of the forgotten few who are lost in the throes of our current financial uncertainty. Somehow, someway, Second Harvest has managed to purchase three meals for every dollar donated. Just imagine if one hundred dollars can buy three hundred meals, that would feed a family of four for one month, imagine what five thousand dollars or even a million dollars can do.
Grabbing two unmarked packages from my bag, I put them in a big brown envelope and dropped them by the Nashville center, along with a note that read,
Please deliver this envelope directly to Lane. Keep up the good work. Your tireless efforts do not go unnoticed. All that I ask is that you and your staff go to Hawaii for a week — on me. Use the rest as the needs arise.
From a friend
I’m thankful that I’ve been able to right many a wrong, as of late. I pray I can until I can't.
Daydreaming through Kentucky and Illinois, I wished I could be there to see Lane’s, as well as her staff’s reaction, when she announces that everyone is going to Hawaii. Priceless. I’ve learned in my lifetime that selfless people make the world a better place and they need pampered, too.
Thrust back into reality, eight hours into the drive, in an almost 360 degree turn of circumstance, I inadvertently met my next “exceptional” person of the day. And, this time it was a rather stunning female.
Note to self: Looks, however, can be deceiving.
I had no more than stopped outside Kansas City, Missouri, for my third fuel stop when a girl, projecting the allure of Ana, straight out of 50 Shades of Grey and the confidence of a brass-balled monkey, pulled up beside me at the pump. She shouted through the window glass. “I’m on empty. I left my wallet at home. I’m late for my baby’s first doctor’s appointment.” She pointed to something or someone unseen through the dark tinted windows in the back seat. “Just go ahead and fill me up, too.”
The was no “please, sir,” no “will you help me,” no “can I borrow twenty dollars?” no “please give me your name and address so I can repay you.” Just “fill my car up while you’re filling yours.”
Dumbfounded by her audacity, I immediately complied, driven by an innate gonad-driven instinct, and moved the nozzle from my truck to her car and continued pumping.
Once twelve gallons of fuel had been pumped, with her gauge leaning towards full, she said, “That’s enough. Please put the cap back on securely.”
I did, and she just drove away, her only form of thanks was a wave in her rear view mirror as she disappeared down the road.
It was during this brief interlude, that once again I fell prey to the woman with the willing woo-hoo.
Let there be no mistake, she, who willingly shares it, controls he who graciously receives it, whether he knows it or not. To be clear, this particular young lady, offered me nothing, but she projected overwhelming confidence that I would never say no, historically created by the enduring usefulness of her own woo-hoo.
I guess I’m like the alcoholic blaming whiskey.
Chapter 10
I spent the next eight hours on the road reflecting on the overwhelming power that women with willing woo-hoos possess, while vaguely listening to Sirrus Radio. Dale Hollow to Sioux City has taken me just under eighteen hours, and that is pulling a trailer. I’m pleased to be making such good time with such a heavy load.
After checking in at a hotel, not too far off the interstate and unloading what little luggage I needed, I did a little skipping from floor to floor to see what the hotel offered. While waiting for the elevator to descend, the oddest-dressed group of guys walked up and joined me. Their long beards and biker attire sparked my interest. Not one for tact, especially at 4 a.m., I said, “Ya’ll look like you just stepped off the stage at Woodstock … about forty years late.”
They all laughed and then goaded me about trying to act all cool and mean at the same time, while speaking with a mixed southern drawl.
“You win,” I said, “I’m sure I’m not what you’re used to seeing in your neck of the woods, either. I’
m D.”
“I’m Billy,” said the first of the group, pointing to the other two, “This is Frank, and back there is Dusty. It’s nice to meet you, D. Are you going to Sturgis?”
“Yes, sir, I am … and on to Wyoming, Montana and Canada.”
“No kidding,” he continued. “We’re gonna play in Sturgis on Tuesday at the Campground. I’m not sure what time we hit the stage, but you’re welcome to look us up if you like,” said Frank.
“I might just do that! I’m sure my girlfriend would love to hear you play, as well.”
“Hey, if she’s pretty with big hooters, we’ll leave you two back stage passes at ‘will call.’”
“Wow. Awesome, guys. Thanks! Double Ds they are not, but I can put both both those pink things in my mouth at one time,” I said rather proudly.
“That’s great! Reckon I could try?”
“If you’re around tomorrow afternoon when Candi gets in, you can buy her a drink and at least see if she’ll show them to you. That’s the least I can do for the tickets. Besides, ya’ll look like you could stand to see a nice pair, since you’re too old to do anything more than watch.”
“That’s cold, D. Damn cold,” Frank mused with a smile.
“I guess we’ll catch ya’ll then.”
“Your ass can stay in the room,” I heard them say as they went about their way and I searched to find my bed to get some much-deserved shut-eye.
I slept sound until noon with a “do not disturb” sign on the door. Evidently, after 12 p.m. it doesn’t matter to housekeeping. They disturb you anyway. With a shower, two black and green teas down my throat, and a breve latte on the way, I made it to the FedEx office by 2 p.m. Waiting for me was my first box of clothes. Taking it to the truck, I unpacked the jeans and tees, as well as a two hundred and fifty pre-labeled and postage paid boxes. I dropped those thirty at a time in different post office boxes scattered throughout the city. “Stop one is done,” I said to myself.