Ride to Redemption (6 page)

Chapter
8

W
hew!
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 hitchhikers.” 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

O
n 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.

I
drove into the Old City for an early dinner at Sweet Fanny’s Pub. To my pleasant
surprise, Sweet Fanny’s was still thriving. This restaurant, I recalled was
decorated with a heavy touch of WWII memorabilia, including a Luftwaffe
Motorcycle. It became my favorite watering hole while working in Sioux City,
which now seems like a lifetime ago. This pub reminded me of a western version
of the Cheer’s sitcom where everyone there “knows your name.”

Burgers
and beer were what I remembered the most. After finishing a blue cheese bacon
burger and two twenty-ounce drafts, I was grateful to know they still lived up
to my memories.
Maybe Candi and I could make a visit here before we head
west.

Not
ready to call it a night, I made my way to the only game in town, a genuine
floating riverboat casino docked on the Missouri River. After contributing $150
to the local tax base on the craps table and another $50 to the $5 slots, I
readily called it a night. Lately, it doesn’t take much to make me wind down an
evening. Besides, these small floating casinos don’t always offer much in the
way of food or entertainment. Once you’ve given away all you’re willing to
give, it’s best to find the door. I tried to do just that, before being stopped
dead in my tracks.

Before
I could make my way across the catwalk, up walked a stunning redhead I would
soon come to know rather intimately — Victoria. The woman dang near
accosted me. Well, accosted might be a stretch. She did grab my arm, however,
while introducing herself. Then she asked me where I was headed so early. After
all, she insisted, the night was still young.

To
get off subject for a moment, there’s just something about a redhead that
evokes pleasant childhood memories for me. The redhead of my youth was Pam. She
was eighteen and a freshman in college. Me, I was fifteen with a Black Honda
CB750 and a twenty-four hour erection. She loved to ride motorcycles as much as
I loved to ride her. Therefore, we traded out all through her freshman year.
That was a fine arrangement, until the Head Resident RA caught me leaving Pam’s
all-girls dorm early one Sunday morning. Seems the little brother story had
worn far too thin, and I was banned from her building for life.

The
unequivocal passion evoked by Pam, my first redhead, remained forever etched
into my testosterone-driven mind. Pam could and would go all night long, preferring
me to sleep. At fifteen, my recovery rate was about five minutes, and she took
full advantage of it. Thinking back, Pam’s breasts were always perky, her
nether region always wet. With each orgasm … and there were many … I can still
see and feel the beads of perspiration across her back, shoulders, and her
glistening forehead. Ah, to be fifteen again, ‘nuff said, I guess.

Victoria,
with her arm firmly entwined in mine had other ideas than me leaving. “Tell me
your name,” she insisted.

“D,”
I’m not sure what the letter D brought into her mind, but with that answer, she
whispered in my ear. “Do you feel lucky tonight, D?”

“Not
so far,” I confessed, “that’s why I’m leaving.”

Victoria
continued her whispering, “If you’ll come back inside the casino and play with
me, I believe you’ll find your luck may have totally changed for the better.”

Come
to think of it I had to agree, at least for this moment. A voluptuous redhead
whispering seductively in my ear — yep things could be looking up; and by
the current constricted state in my jeans; they were beginning to.

“Please
buy me a drink, D. You know what they say, unlucky in blackjack, lucky in
love,” breathed Victoria, “… at least for tonight.”

A
girl with a price tag,
I mused. I continued processing her words, as she kept luring me into her web.

“Do
you like to play blackjack, craps or Texas Hold ’em?” she asked, sensing my
immediate apprehension and trying to change the subject.

“I guess it depends on how the cards fall on any given night.”

“Would you kindly stake me at the blackjack table, please? I
promise you can have the winnings. I just like to play.”

With that, she led me to the $10 tables. Sitting down, she licked
her lips and looked at me, anticipating just how generous my nature might be
after her grandiose attempt at subtle seduction. I figured it was worth a
couple of Franklins to see how far her ruse would go.

Surprisingly, Victoria played the game extremely well. Over the
course of twenty minutes, she’d returned my investment, while tripling hers.

“Excellent, young lady, I absolutely wasn’t expecting that.”

“What do you mean, D?”

“Truthfully, I just thought you would bet fast and heavy, lose it
all, and stick your hand out for more.”

“Noo … I told you; I just like to play … with other people’s money,
not mine,” she continued. “When I play with my own money, I lose. However, when
I play with someone else’s,” she giggled, “money that is, I’m more cautious and
bet smarter and wiser. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know.”

“I didn’t see that one coming,” I quipped.

“What? Did you think I was just trying to take your money by
promising you my exquisite company?”

“Something
like that.”

“What
kind of girl do you think I am, D?”

“Truthfully,
I thought I’d already determined that, and we were just in the middle of negotiating
a price.” I haven’t been slapped in the face in quite a while, so it was
sobering — especially since I didn’t see it coming.

“It’s
your eyes asshole; your bedroom brown eyes that initially drew me to you. Plus,
you looked sad. And you have the audacity to think that just because I hit on
you, I’m a hooker? Jeez!”

“Victoria,
dear,” I said, rubbing my now sore face. “It crossed my mind more than once or
twice. What would cause someone as bodacious as you to be in a casino late at
night hitting on a man who is by no means a prize?”

“Why
do you say that about yourself, D? Besides your eyes, you’re a handsome man. I
like your beard. It’s distinguished. Or it would be if you were decked out in a
three-piece suit, rather than your ratty old jeans and scuffed up cowboy
boots.”

“Thank
you for the compliments, Vic … I can call you Vic. Can’t I?”

“You
may. Thank you for asking first, otherwise I might have been offended. … Just
kidding.”

“Forgive
my rush to judgment. Just so you understand, it’s been a while since I’ve been
in the presence of a redhead as beautiful as you.

“You
don’t have a significant other?”

“Maybe,
possibly, I have something wonderful currently in the making. You?”

“I
did for eight long years, but thankfully … hmmmm.... no more.”

“The
way you said that makes me think there’s some bitterness there.”

“You
don’t need to hear my life story. We just met, and I bet you still think I’m
some kind of lady of the evening trying to seduce you so I can steal you
blind.”

“It’s
your hair, asshole,” I imitating her. “Your luxurious red hair says I want to
know more about you.” Laughing, I continued. “I’m sorry, Vic. I just couldn’t
resist that one.”

“You
have to put on your big-boy pants if you’re going to play with me. You asked
for it. Buckle your seatbelt. Here goes:

“I
met the love of my life while we were in college. I was a sophomore in
political science, and he was a senior in pre-med. We married. I dropped out of
school and worked full time while putting him through his last year of college
and then all the way through med school. The deal was, when he started his
residency program and was producing an income, I would go back to school and
finish my degree. At least that was the deal until he met this blond bimbo with
round heels, a Hoover mouth, and bigger tits than mine. Since then, I’ve made
it all the way through college and law school on my own. I had to work two
jobs, but this time it was for me.

“Funny
thing is, now that I’ve graduated at the top of my class and I’m licensed to
practice law in Canada, as well as Mexico, I can’t find a decent paying job.
Lawyers are a dime a dozen here in Iowa. I don’t have the money right now to
start my own practice, so I’m doing contract paralegal work for three different
firms, hoping to get my foot in the door somewhere.”

I
stared as she spoke again, “Got enough yet, D?”

“Wow,
did I misjudge you, Vic. Who would’ve thought I’d mistake you for a high class
working girl, sporting a Gucci price tag?”

Laughing,
Victoria continued. “It’s your turn, D. Tell me about you. I must warn you,
before you start blabbering B.S., I can tell you have a sullen past you’re
'Hell Bent' to keep hidden. Behind your mask, your wall or whatever it is
you’re hiding behind, I sense a sincere, caring person who is extremely lonely.
How am I doing so far?”

“Pretty
good,” I confessed, not knowing what to say next or where this conversation was
heading. “Maybe you should just tell me about me.”

“Fat
chance, Mr. Secretive. I’m listening.”

“Fair
enough. I’m a home designer by day and a freelance financial advisor by night.
I live on a lake in Tennessee with Major, my labradoodle.”

“What
about children? You can’t have come this far without a family.”

“I
have three, successful, intelligent sons: one in law enforcement, one on the
verge of law school, and one in college with a business on the side.”

“Do
you see them often?”

“I
haven’t seen them in quite a while. The divorce, as well as this mask I now
wear, has kept me at a distance. I’m hoping and praying to reconnect some time
soon and speak to them as emotionally mature men, rather than resentful,
disappointed children of divorced parents.”

“Time
heals all wounds, D. Trust me, I know. I’ve managed to forgive my ex-husband
and have even developed a cordial relationship with his bimbo.”

“Yep,”
I chuckled,
 
“it sounds like all is
well in your world.”