By Jake “Edge” Walker
5/26/2013
I had just escaped the vengeful sun’s malice by slipping into the cool interior of my house. The double thermometer read 85* inside and a searing 114* outside. The almost 30* difference was a welcome change that gave me goose-flesh and I headed for a tall brown bottle of beer that was another 45* cooler than that. I flipped on the turn table and slammed my exhausted body onto the kitchen chair just as ‘Black Dog’ came screaming out of my speakers. “Hey hey mama said the way you move, gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove.”
I was sitting directly in front of the cool, moist airflow from the ‘swamp-box’ and I was thinking about the three hours of work I had just finished. Pulling tough thorny weeds and moving rocks that were so hot I had to use gloves to keep my hands from blistering had put me in a foul mood. As I drained my brew, the music died away and there came a querulous “Hello?” from the front room. I thought “Damn, another ‘escapee’.”
The music cranked back up to Mach 2, I snagged another brew and wandered out to the living room. The front door was open slightly and a small wizened head was peering into the cool gloom of the house. I turned down the stereo and looked at my visitor as he stood hesitantly at the door.
“Well, come on in and close the door before ya let all the hot air out!” I quipped. His face split into a wide grin as he slipped inside, closed the door quickly and stepped towards me on steady legs and held out his hand to me.
“Howdy, my name’s Phil and I really like Led Zeppelin. Robert’s alright but Jimmy is the real artist.” I think my jaw must have been kinda slack right then because he gave a funny wheezy laugh. As we shook hands I looked at my ‘guest’. He was short, maybe 5’6” or so; 100 pounds if he had two beers in him, a few wispy hairs clung to the sides of his head but his grip was firm and his eyes were clear. He was sizing me up too, 6’5” and 190 pounds, long hair and bearded, tattoos completed the picture.
He stared at the brew in my hand like a starving dog looks at a steak and since I had several more, I motioned him towards the kitchen. He popped the fridge and snaked one out and had it opened and had drained half before I could say “Damn!” He drew a deep breath and let it out in one long sigh of contentment. He dragged up a chair and settled himself into it with a slight groan and leaned back.
“Freedom! HA! I knew I could do it!” Then he turned a keen old eye at me and said “Well, you’re probably wondering who I am and what the hell I’m doing in your house, right?” I studied his old crinkled face and figured I was just going to tell him my guess and we’d go from there.
“Well, I know your name is Phil and I figure you have ‘escaped’ from the nursing home across the street. You are a veteran, from the tattoo on your forearm. No desk job for you before you retired, judging from the calluses on your hand and the tan on your ornery old hide. Your wedding ring is on your right hand, so you’re probably a widower and my guess is, your well-meaning but misguided kids have you at the ‘home’ because they think ya can’t take care of yourself. How am I doin’ so far?” I took a long pull on my brew and looked at Phil’s bottle. I snaked out two more and capped them, set his before him and looked into those dark old eyes.
“Don’t miss much, do ya?” he said. I shrugged and he nodded at me. I could tell he was wrestling with himself about how much to say to me. So, I made it real easy for him.
“Ya know what? I don’t really give a damn about any of that. I was a Marine at Swamp LeJeune from ’71 to ’75, they booted me out because I was such a hell-raiser and wouldn’t walk the line. Said I was ‘undesirable’ and I agreed. I rode and hitched around the US for a few years and I’ve settled down here. I build and ride bikes, drink my beer and whisky and I run with a rough crowd and that suits me fine. I ain’t gonna run and ‘tell on ya’ at the home and if you don’t like anything I’ve just said, you know where the door is.” I drank a long guzzle of my brew because talkin is thirsty work and waited for him to reply.
He spent the next twenty minutes telling me about his stint in the Marines, WW II and Korea. His wife of 35 years, their kids and the place they had out in the desert. It was a hard life but satisfying and he said he had no regrets, except that his wife died and he just couldn’t follow her. Said his grip on Life was too firm to just ‘up and leave’. We fell to talking about the Corps, wives and kids. Then he surprised me when he said he had been around when the Galloping Gooses were formed and he knew several of the founding members.
“Are ya working on any builds right now?” he asked.
“Sure, just finished a ’63 Trumpet rigid. Wanna see her?” He nodded eagerly and we headed out into the carport. It was still around 110* out and coming from the cool interior was like walking into an oven. The bike was a beauty; black, low-slung with a 14”over, glide frontend, king-queen seat with a matching 14” sissy bar and duck tail rear fender. He walked around the bike, pointing at things, asking questions and making observations about rake and motor position and gave a correct ID of the frame. I admit, I was impressed with his knowledge and experienced eye.
“Take me for a ride, just once more?” he asked me. I stared at the old man in front of me and remembered his stories he had shared with me. In my mind’s eye I saw a soldier, husband, father and old biker reflected there and I knew that there was only one thing to do. I motioned him inside, gave him a pair of my Levi’s, we rolled up the legs, a belt to cinch them up and a tee shirt. He was wearing tennis shoes and I gave him a bandana to wrap around his old noggin. A pair of spare sunglasses completed the package.
As we left the house he told me “Don’t spare the horses” and I didn’t. We went to three of my favorite ‘twisty’ roads and the end was a long downhill run where we hit 100 mph. That was where he gave a long shout “Yaaaahoooo!” I could tell that it was something he really needed, a desire that transcended ability.
When we rolled back into the carport, it was dusk and there were folks wandering around dressed in the uniform of the ‘home’. We slipped into the house and he shucked out of my clothes but I could see that the ride had sapped his vitality. His hands trembled as he tipped that last beer into his parched mouth. About that time we could hear a ‘chopper in the air and a knock came at the door.
“I want to go back on my own.” He said this in a low voice. I nodded, motioned him out the back door and answered the front. “Nope, ain’t seen him but I’ll let ya know if I do.” She looked at me for a moment and then nodded and went next door. When I went and got him from the back, he was just another used-up old man, shaky and bent. For one moment, he stood up and marshaled himself. He shook my hand and said “Thank you” and we slipped under the cover of darkness across the street. I left him at the sidewalk and he tottered in through the front door, which closed behind him with a loud click.
It was a week later that I walked through the same front door and asked to see Phil. The bored receptionist asked “Family or friend?” in a monotone.
“Family” I replied. She looked up at me questioningly.
“Grandson” I said, in reply to her unasked question.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Phil passed away. Last Thursday, didn’t you know?”
I shook my head and turned to leave and she said “Thank you for what you did.”
“Don’t know what you mean.” I replied. As I walked out that door, I ran a few days through my head and realized that he died two days after his last ride.
RIP Phil… I hope you are where you wanted to be, with your wife and friends.