This Month's Story
“I get by with a little help from my friends.” - Old Beatles Song
It’s a two-man shop, and I have brought them the Ford pickup to have it serviced before driving it the 1,100 miles from Blairsville, Pennsylvania to Waveland, Mississippi. It’s mostly oil and grease and a thorough check over since I will be gone several months and service is not as reliable on the coast as it was before the storm.
The shop owner, Denny, and his mechanic, Tommy, have been extremely nice to Stella and me. I have grown in the habit of spending some time talking to them whenever I bring in Stella’s car or my truck.
Today, during the relaxed conversation that usually takes place during my visits, I happen to mention I’m looking to rent a small trailer to take south with me and, also, that I would need to rent one to bring things back when I returned in March.
Tommy pushes himself out from under the truck, wipes his hands, and looks over at me.
“Why rent one? I’ve got a trailer I only use in the summer for shows and stuff. I can let you use it to go down and bring back when you return in March. It might as well sit down there with you where it’s warm as freeze in the snow in my side yard. Bring us back some gulf shrimp to grill here in the shop and it’s a deal.”
It’s an extremely generous offer and, after hesitating a few moments, I decide to take him up on it. Late that afternoon, I follow Tommy in his truck to his house. There, in the side yard, is a white, sparkling clean trailer.
I walk around it.. It is a nice trailer and certainly large enough to accommodate what I want to carry.
I’m impressed and say as much.
“No problem.”
Tommy opens the side door and shows me the spacious interior. “The back door lowers down into a ramp so I can get my bike in without any trouble.”
I stand for a second, looking at the rug that covers the trailer floor. Then his words sink in.
I turn to him, a little bewildered. “Your bike?”
“Yeah, that’s what I got the trailer for. Do you want to see it?”
He stood there beaming proudly, so I politely make my answer be what he wants to hear.
“Why sure! Absolutely!”
We leave the trailer, which he very carefully closes, and go to the garage with him explaining that he takes the bike (which I now understand to be some kind of motorcycle) to different shows all around the country to compete with other bike owners.
I’m not sure what he’s talking about. I mean, to me, a motorcycle is a motorcycle, but I nod agreeably at what I hope are the right times.
At the garage, he keys a button and the garage door swings up.
I gasp!
Sitting there... No! Better, floating there is a light blue dream held up by two absolutely beautiful chrome wheels that seem to have been added almost as an afterthought, but a breathtaking wonderful afterthought.
I slowly walk over to it and gaze at a machine that is even more wondrous in appearance up close. It gleams, light reflecting from its many curved surfaces. I expect it to somehow wink at me.
“Took me two years to build. Thought my wife was going to kill me. I had them mirrors made by M______ just so to fit my handle bars. He liked what I designed so much, he changed the basic design of his own mirrors after that.
“I designed the wheels myself. Sent the design CD to G______ , who sent me back the wheels free, so’s he could keep and sell the design himself. I saw them on his web page, and you won’t believe what he charges for a set like this.”
Tommy goes on, talking about the shows and the first place ribbons he has won. “...almost all firsts. Got a couple seconds, but never any less...”
As he talks, he takes a clean rag from the wall and wipes two invisible smudges from the sky blue, gleaming surface.
He steps back and then wipes another non-existent smudge. He looks it over once again, then satisfied, he climbs on the seat. He touches a small button and the engine starts.
I jump back!
An unbelievable roar fills the garage.
I look furtively down at the twin mufflers and realize I am looking at a straight set of very fancy, but very hollow, pipes.
Later, Tommy carefully hooks the trailer (which I now belatedly begin to understand is the immaculate womb that is used to hold his mechanical dream) to my truck and waves goodbye as I carefully drive off.
* * *
The trip south is uneventful.
Uneventful that is, except for the constant cries from Stella over the cell phone to me from her car (she’s following me) that “we will never get there if you can’t go faster than thirty miles an hour.”
I ignore her and try to figure a better way to grip the wheel of my truck a little tighter. I’m nervous; there’s another car about a half mile away.
It was a very, very long trip.
