First Time & Other Stories Read online

  First Time & Other Stories

  P X Duke

  Published: 2010

  Tag(s): "first time" "searching for jennifer" "finding amy" "highway to hell" "better than this" "on the road" motorcycles

  First Time

  and other stories

  by

  P X Duke

  Frank is on the road, hitting all the high spots (or the low spots, depending on your point of view). These short stories find him at a peeler bar off the 15 in Montana; encountering a hitch-hiker off the 10 in New Mexico; being sweet-talked by his landlady; romancing a truck-driving sweetheart in a sleeper at a California truck stop; a waitress in a restaurant in the high desert.

  Frank’s weakness for dark-haired, dark-eyed women is often his downfall, but this time he’s just enjoying what life has to offer while he’s on the road.

  First Time and other stories

  Copyright 2010 P X Duke

  All Rights Reserved

  Disclaimer

  What follows are a number of works of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Places mentioned by name are entirely fictitious and purely products of the author's imagination, and are not meant to bear resemblance to actual places or locations.

  The road never ends. Neither does the adventure.

  Crazy Eyes

  I was running hard, headed west on the 10.

  A couple of hours earlier I was out of Alamogordo–where the day before had been hot and dry, just like all the others–and through Las Cruces. I had started today's journey before the heat would set in for the better part of the day, and thankfully it stayed cool into the morning.

  I grabbed a tankful in Deming, and that got me into Willcox at around 0800 in the morning, perhaps 0830.

  Maybe a little later.

  It was still cool, but the sun was getting up and it was looking to be another scorcher. I pulled into a gas 'n' go, picked up some water and pulled out to begin climbing the overpass to get back on the 10, westbound one more time.

  She was leaning against the steel railing. I didn't recognize her right away as a she until I was past, of course, but in the split second when I did I hit the binders and pulled off onto the shoulder. I figured that since she had a small bag I could strap it on the back and we'd be off post-haste.

  I didn't turn the bike around because I changed my mind in that split-second when I decided that I wanted to take my time. I shut down, dismounted and started walking the distance back towards her.

  She was wearing dark sunglasses, which made it impossible for me to see her eyes. I like to be able to see their eyes if they're going to be throwing a leg over. It's a little peeve that I have about women and their eyes.

  I don't like crazy eyes. Crazy eyes spell trouble.

  She was bundled up against the fresh morning air in an old army parka. A scarf covered her head. She had socks and sandals on. She was holding onto a mesh bag filled with what looked like mail, or letters or documents of some kind.

  I didn't ask any questions.

  I pushed my sunglasses onto the top of my head, hoping she'd do the same. Like I said, I wanted to see her eyes. No such luck. She kept them on, revealing nothing.

  Angel.

  She said her name was Angel.

  I took her for a local.

  She told me she was headed west for a bit, and then north to a music festival, of all things.

  Well now, I thought, I could use some entertainment. And it's Friday. I don't need to be in Phoenix until Monday. Why not take a detour and check out the sights and sounds? I might even have a guide.

  "No problem," I told her. "I'm going that way."

  She told me where to pull off the 10 to head north. I don't remember the exact exit now, but I'm certain it was well before Benson, and probably by Johnson. Eventually the road headed west again onto two-lane blacktop.

  Now, I'm a gullible bastard when it comes to women, but I try to keep my eyes open. For a music festival trail, this road was remarkably free of traffic, notwithstanding its closeness to Tucson. In fact, I didn't see any other traffic.

  None at all.

  I mentioned that.

  Well," she said into my ear, "maybe I got the day wrong."

  Oh, okay. Now the hair on the back of my neck was starting to twinge just a bit.

  Let's see if I have this right. I was in the middle of nowhere, having swallowed lock, stock and two smoking barrels a music festival storyline that had started to look and sound more and more like a fairy tale. The woman on the back had her days mixed up and I had no idea where I was headed nor what was waiting for me down the road. I was adventurous, but this was starting to get a little strange.

  I never liked riding into rabbit-holes.

  I rode on for another twenty miles or so, and eventually arrived at a small country store. I pulled off the road and shut down. I was somewhere, finally. The road ahead rose up into the hills, and looked to be gravel. I used that as a perfect opportunity to explain that I couldn't take this heavy decker onto gravel. That's not the truth, of course–I've ridden on plenty of gravel–but it appeared to be the prudent story to stick with at the time.

  Angel seemed happy to be anywhere, so I said goodbye and left her to wander into the store while I backtracked on the music festival route to the 10 and on into Phoenix.

  In retrospect I'm sure she wanted only to get as close to her destination as she could. Selling a story to a stranger about a music festival probably seemed the best way to do that. I'd have preferred the truth, of course, and would have taken her to where she wanted to be anyway.

  I never did get to see her eyes.

  Fast Company

  The first time I see her we’re in some hick town.

  She’s parking in an outside slot. That's where I like to be when I’m not hiding. Like me, she prefers to park it alone, with nothing else around.

  It looks like we’re both getting ready to take a break.

  I watch as she strides towards the stop-and-puke in the next building over from where I’m parked. She’s tall and slim and moves with an attitude. Like she knows where she’s going, what she’s doing.

  She turns to check out my ride.

  She can tell that I’m watching her, but then I’ve never been shy about checking out a woman who rides. Some like it. Some don’t. I ignore the ones that don’t, and leave them alone.

  She turns her head back towards the joint and walks in.

  I wait for her to come out, and when she does she has a couple of bottles of water. Smart move in this heat, I think to myself. She’s been down the road a time or two.

  Inside I sit by the window, thinking that I’ll have time to amble over and check out her ride in a bit. Then she chugs both bottles and pulls out before I can finish my bowl of soup.

  When next I see her, it’s down the road.

  Yeah, okay, I had to ride like hell to catch up, but she’s not exactly riding the fastest either. She’s easy to catch.

  I trail for half-a-dozen miles–flying in formation–before pulling up closer. She slows momentarily to let me get even, and I can see that she’s taking a closer look. Checking. Evaluating. Is this guy okay? How is he sitting? Relaxed? Tense? How is he dressed? RUB? Biker?

  I let her take her time, because I’m doing the same.

  She’s riding a black Softail. It’s dirty, like mine. She’s been on the road in the same weather.

  Windshield. None but the dwindling greybeards put on the miles without one.

  Piled high with bags.

  A second helmet hanging off the back. Full-face.

  Dressed in black.

  Well-worn boots, laced high.

  Tribal tattoos up and do
wn her arms, neck. Probably all over.

  She’s seen lots of sun.

  A small nose ring.

  Mid-thirties. Maybe pushing 40. No girl on a motorcycle, this.

  She is pure riding woman.

  I pull ahead for three or four miles, and give her the option of catching up.

  She does.

  When she goes by she arcs towards me and then pulls back and slightly ahead. That’s the sign I’m waiting for, so I pull in close behind and we fly in formation for a hundred miles, positioning back and forth.

  I get the feeling that we’re doing the dance.

  That, and easy company on the road when both know how to ride.

  When we hit the city lights it’s side-by-side through the streets. Through the corners she’s on the inside for some, me outside for some. Still side-by-side.

  Conversation at each light. When the lights change we block traffic as we continue talking. We don't care.

  More sizing each other up.

  Where are you headed, chica?

  Where are you from?

  You put a lot of miles on that thing?

  Are you running from or running to?

  That’s always my question.

  It gets a grin this time, because she knows exactly what I mean, and when she nods, I know exactly what she means.

  I grin back.

  We look at each other when we finally figure out we’re both drifting, and we grin together. Then she tells me where she’ll be camping out for the night.

  I know the place. Its north of the city by about five miles.

  I break off and get gas on the edge of the city, and then head north.

  I think I'll stop here for the night.

  Marked For Life

  It was a Saturday and I was stopped in Grand Forks. I don’t know how many miles of two-lane flat-top were behind me. Heat and distance had gotten the better of me, so I was sitting in the shade at a gas 'n' go drinking water and taking a break. Another hundred and a half and I’d be home.

  A beater pulled up to the air pump in front of me. The right front tire was low and needed air. The windows were rolled down. Obviously the air conditioning wasn’t doing its duty–if it was even working.

  I watched the driver get out.

  She was young–maybe mid-twenties at the most. Pretty, too. And with dark hair–my nemesis. She was wearing a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up to just above her elbows. Dark slacks. Well-worn brown shoes. Probably on her way to start her shift as a bartender or a waiter.

  In her haste to get some air for the tire I think she forgot about those rolled-up sleeves.

  It looked like she was having some trouble getting the tire to take air, so I ambled over and offered to help. She explained that she was on her way to a wedding reception and was already late.

  I took the air hose from her and bent to air up the tire. As she stood up, I saw the track marks running up both of her arms. They were healed over and scarred–definitely not fresh by a long shot.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see that she was watching me notice them.

  I looked up at her.

  "Are you all right?" I asked.

  "I am now," was her reply.

  Searching For Jennifer

  Like an apparition she appeared, alone, in the velvety darkness of night.

  Dressed in black, almost invisible, I wouldn't have seen her were it not for the shadow cast by my headlights as the light poured around her. Someone must have thought that she could be little more than window dressing and dumped her on the curb. She was in the middle of nowhere.

  Since I was going nowhere, I pulled up beside her.

  Who was she?

  Where was she going?

  Why was she alone in the night?

  I figured I had to find out.

  "Get in," I commanded through the open window.

  She flicked her cigarette onto the ground, picked up her bag and stood up. Without so much as a word she opened the door, climbed in and tossed the bag into the back seat.

  She sat with her back half-against the seat, leaning on the door.

  Wary.

  "Going anywhere?" I asked.

  "Yeah. As far away from here as I can get," she replied.

  That was my cue to point the car south and head for the open road. I tuned the radio to some mellow 40s music and lost myself in the cigarette-and-whiskey-coated voice drifting up from the speakers.

  I looked over at her from time to time. She was fast asleep; her head back, resting against the rolled-up window. Long dark hair spilled over the seat.

  I let her sleep.

  Next stop, gas, I said to myself, and a hundred miles later turned in and tanked up. When I walked back to the car, she was just getting out.

  She looked up at me.

  "Where are we?"

  "About a hundred miles from nowhere. You slept all the way," I said. "You passed out almost as soon as the door closed."

  "Yeah, I was beat. I needed sleep," she said. "Where are you going?"

  "Anywhere but here," I said, and grinned at her.

  "I'm with you," she said, and got back in. "Let's go."

  She put her feet up on the dash and pushed back into the seat.

  "Mind if I smoke?" she asked.

  "No, go ahead."

  She pulled a pack of Newports from her jean-jacket pocket and bumped a cigarette out between her fingers.

  "You want one?"

  "No thanks."

  I watched as she flicked a wooden match with the thumb of her other hand to light her cigarette.

  "Where did you learn to do that?" I asked.

  "What? The match trick? Some guy at a club I used to work in showed me how to do it."

  "A club? Are you a dancer?"

  "Was," she replied.

  And that's all she said. I had my own secrets, so I let it go at that and pretended to concentrate on driving.

  When I looked across at her again, her eyes were closed and the cigarette was still burning. I slipped it out of her fingers and tossed it. Either she was dead tired or my company bored the hell out of her. I turned off the radio and put on some Nina Simone. If she didn't like my music, she was in the wrong place.

  She woke up with at start and looked across at me.

  "Bad dream?" I asked.

  "Sort of. You ever have them?"

  "Not for about the last two hundred miles. Why? You have them a lot?"

  "I have lots of shit going on in my life right now," she said.

  "I hear that," I said, and didn't ask any questions. "You didn't tell me your name."

  "I'm Jennifer."

  "Well, Jennifer, I'm glad we ran into each other. I'm Frank."

  We were passing the occasional light in the distance on either side of the highway. Single houses, probably. Sometimes clusters of lights. I could see her head turning to gaze after them as they went by in the night.

  "Ever wonder what it would be like to settle down into one of those places?" I asked her.

  "Yeah, sometimes. But not for long. You?"

  "I tried that for a while. Always something coming at you out of nowhere. More bills to pay, furniture to buy, keeping up with the neighbors. I got tired of it all after a while," I told her.

  She didn't answer, and kept on staring out the side window into the dark.

  "I need to stop for some gas and a bathroom break. There's a truck stop a few miles down the road where the Interstate crosses this one."

  "Sure," she said.

  Twenty minutes later I pulled into the white-light jungle of semi-trailers and gas pumps. I filled up, then went in to pay and walked back out to the car.

  Jennifer was gone.

  I waited a few minutes at the pumps, then parked the car under a light and walked to the restaurant for a cup of coffee. An hour later she still hadn't found me, so I strolled back to my car. As I approached, I noticed a piece of paper that had been slipped under a wiper blade.

  It wasn't
there earlier.

  Thanks for the miles between here and there, Frank. Maybe I'll see you again sometime. –Jennifer

  Well, that was short and sweet, I thought to myself. I wondered where the line "anywhere but here" would get her in a place like this.

  I got in and pointed the car south. Daylight was beginning to break in the east. When I pulled out onto the Interstate I looked over my shoulder and saw a dark shape draped across the back seat.

  I pulled over and got in the back. It was her bag.

  No name tag. No wallet. No credit card receipts. I did find a manila envelope with several photos done in black and white. All of them were of Jennifer, and they looked almost professionally done. Taken in a loft.

  All black and white. Nude, but not nude if you get the idea. Long hair and arms covering the strategic parts. She looked pretty good in them, actually.

  I was never able to return them to her. There was no ID.

  If you see her out there, tell her I'm looking for her. I'd like to return the photos.

  Epilogue

  She called from a pay phone in Nara Visa a few days ago. How she got my number I'll never know.

  She told me that she had to get far away in a hurry.

  I just listened. I didn't ask any questions. I barely knew her, and I certainly didn't need any more heartache in my life. I knew she'd be capable of giving me a belly-full.

  When I hung up I got back in the car and headed west.

  Life is good out there.

  So I hear.

  First Time

  I noticed her right away. Her brown hair was piled on top of her head and fastened at the back with a dark comb. The effect emphasized her slender neck and the strong profile of her face. I liked that.

  She was setting tables—napkin, knife, fork, spoon, glass. I heard her mumble to herself as she dropped something. Nothing broke, but she looked around, and I smiled at her. She smiled back.

  –I hope you didn't hear that.