Man on a Motorcycle

Just a sideways glance at an older man riding by on a motorcycle. Had to be going around 90 miles per hour, tattered khaki coat flapping in the wind. Full head of white hair the only visible helmet. ” No helmet, wow, and passing me going 90 mph, what a badass.” Not factoring in the black orthopedic shoes, full to the brim with the mans calloused, bunion plagued feet.   Black orthopedic shoes, seemingly the only clothing item that has never been cool, never will be cool, but yet have remained unchanged throughout the years. “Million dollar idea, patent and sell orthopedic shoes for the older crowd that don’t look as though they are constructed of play-doh. Stash that thought away, remember to possibly ask Dad about that later, response most likely will be “The fuck do you care what his shoes look like , he ain’t asking you to wear em, matter of fact I have (insert generic dad shoe here, all white with a blue logo, Nike or New balance doesn’t matter) in the garage…..”” Eyes glaze over just thinking about it, but back to the motorcycle man.

The shoes are what kept me thinking about the motorcycle man long after he sped by. Why black orthopedic shoes? For some reason these black orthopedic shoes gave me an uneasy feeling. The image of shoes with a sheen being placed in a plastic bag kept playing over and over again in my head. Where the shoes in this daydream or premonition wet? Was that blood? Why would it be blood, could be water, could be any other liquid why do you feel so strongly that it is blood? Jesus, snap out of it Mr.over-thinker, probably just some stupid bit from a T.V. show that you are making into some sinister connection to that old gentleman’s poor taste in footwear. Okay, your right the motorcycle man is nothing to worry about and did you seriously call the shoes in the plastic bag image a premonition? Might as well call thinking about a McDouble and seeing myself eating a Mcdouble in my mind a premonition. I guess, but a McDouble doesn’t look like it just got done stomping around in blood. Okay, again with the blood, we don’t know that it was blood. True, okay back to driving. Dang I really need to pee, ruminations on the motorcycle man’s clodhoppers can take a backseat. Okay, I’ll pull over at a rest stop. No reason to go to a gas station, whenever I am there to just use the bathroom I feel guilty and end up buying a drink I don’t need. Not too mention the awkwardness  in interacting with whoever happens to be behind the counter. I always seem to answer the question of have a good day wrong, my response  normally being ” Thanks Talk to ya later “( what the fuck no you won’t) or ” HAHA Absolutely. ” Notice the extra loud laugh before the second one which adds to the overall uncomfortableness of the situation. The bad part is my brain seems preprogrammed to do this, there is no getting around it. I guess I have always been a bit neurotic and more than a bit socially awkward. Any way moral of the story is gas stations=small talk= no bueno. So I guess the best place to go would be a rest stop.

Perfect, rest stop coming up on the right. Rest stops have always held a special place in my heart ever since I was a kid. Rest stops are where I first learned about blowjobs. Blowsjobs at a rest stop? Pretty cliche, everybody knows that rest stops are notorious for the random hooker blowjob; although I have never actually seen a lady of the night anywhere near a rest stop. Either way, irrelevant to why rest stops conjure up thoughts of bj’s in my erratic brain. Allow me to digress for a second, I did tell you earlier that I am neurotic and if you let me get this out of the way I will just feel a lot better. Anyway, back to blow jobs.

It’s early 2000’s, I am around 12 years old and we are on a family road trip. Cant’t really recall where or why, either way irrelevant. We pull over at a rest top, I get out, my dad gets out. Unspoken he moves toward the bathroom and I follow. If Dad has to piss, I have to piss obviously. Its a man thing, I am showing my respect for the alpha male, he decided it was a good time to stop to answer natures call, who am I to say it isn’t? I am only ten, one day it will be my decision to decide when it is time to urinate and when it isn’t, but for now I leave it up to my superior. On the walk over my brain suddenly decides that I need to go and I need to go now. Dad graciously allows me to enter the single person porta-potty alone. As the door swings shut, and I catch the last glimpse of my dads over worn and faded t-shirt, I smile, not knowing my lie is going to never be the same again( hyperbole, but maybe not).

I turn to the intimidating toilet, only a few visible pubic hairs around the rim. no visible fecal matter anywhere that I can see.  By now I have to pee so badly my little pre-pubescent balls are aching, so much so that when I get the honor of my first pair of blue balls freshman year of high school I suffered from a massive feeling of melancholy and deja-vu. Finally I get up to the toilet, get my zipper undone and I get my little guy flowing steady. I quickly lost interest in the act of and or course my little friend and I were on regular speaking terms and our relationship would only move on to its next phase on the fateful day I discovered masturbation. I began scanning the plain white walls and I noticed a spot to the right of the toilet and at eye level where somebody had written something. As I read what was written on the wall, my little jaw dropped open. Not until I got to the drawing,  did I realize I had stopped mid-stream.

” Sarah S. will give you a blowjob for $5″ the wall read. The words did not register, however, the picture did. Smack dab below was a picture of what looked like a replica of my little guy (twas’ a tad larger though), peeing into the mouth of what appeared to be a girl.  I was appalled and slightly excited. ” So a blowjob is peeing in somebody’s mouth? ” my little mind thought.  I don’t mean to reference my discovery of masturbation again, but that is also when I came to the realization that what was depicted on that wall when I was 12 was definitely not pee. Well at this point I have gone on long enough, you get the idea of why I associated blow jobs with rest stop bathrooms.

During that last insight into my thinking, in this story I had actually exited my car and had entered to the bathroom. As I was thinking of long ago bathroom graffiti that had helped to form my sexual identity, I failed to hear the door to the bathroom open behind. I was huddled close up to the urinal I was peeing in just in case some weirdo saddled up next to me they wouldn’t be able to get a full peak at my intimates. What came as a real  surprise was the brilliant crimson that spotted the bleach white of the urinal as my head rebounded off the tile wall.

The blood bloomed outward as blood tends to do when it hits a clean smooth,  surface like the urinal . It was a strangely beautiful thing to see, so out of context with the rest of the drab bathroom. ” You know, maybe what this bathroom needs is a little more blood to spice it up. ” My assailant thought so, as well. When I hit the floor, eyes hazy from the my head hitting and rebounding off the wall,  I could only see shoes, one of which seemed to be moving swiftly towards my already mangled face.

The series of kicks raining on my face from the black orthopedic shoes, effectively knocked me unconscious and also worked to re decorate a large portion of the bathroom in crimson.  Huh this guy is a real artist with his foot. A real Jackson Pollack type, splatter artist, with a little practice this guy could really be something. If it wasn’t my blood being used as the medium,  I would definitely represent this guy. Wait what, I’m not an agent and I don’t know a thing about art. Come to think of it, this must be what the professionals call an “out of body” experience.  Conveniently while I was assessing my assailants artistic abilities my consciousness had moved about 8 Feet vertically. I was now peering down at what seemed to be my lifeless body and you know what I was not very concerned. I kept thinking, that this must be what my very religious mother must have meant when she told me, ” Satan has a special place in hell for practicers of the masturbatory arts.” Satan had finally come for my eternal soul and all for the lowly crime of enjoying a wank every once in a while.

Huh white hair and camouflage. Seems vaguely familiar, at this point it doesn’t really matter. The shock of white hair above the camo makes my attacker look like a troll doll from my top down view. I chuckle to myself about being killed by a wrinkly troll and get back to watching the action unfold over my body.  Is that my body? suddenly I am not so sure. Everything in my mind seems to be getting fuzzier and fuzzier in regards to whose body was laying in the pooling blood below me. The action below remains clear, the killer had positioned a trashcan under the doorknob at an angle to keep it jammed shut for the time being. Nobody seemed very concerned about getting into the bathroom, which in my experience if a public restroom door does not open at first push it is best to walk away. If you force the door, the best case scenario is being yelled at by a flustered patron who thought they could have a bowel movement in piece and worst case is you witness a human troll doll kill someone with a few well aimed kicks to the face. Bad all around. The troll starts doing a funny dance, bouncing on one foot and putting the other foot in his hand. I start to laugh, what a time to interpretative dance, although the blood spattered tile does make a rather avant garde back drop to the whole thing. Again, not an art critic just being observational. I would not dare interpret this dance, but all the same it is comical. Ahh I see the troll is pulling what appears to be melted black licorice off of his foot. Oh wait it is just one of those ridiculous orthopedic shoes, after each shoe is off the dance is done. The troll then appears to sit cross legged on the ground and places the shoes into a plastic Wal-Mart bag.

At this point I noticed my viewpoint seemed to pull another couple feet back and I was about 15 feet away now. I also noticed black creeping in on both sides of the scene. I thought it was my vision, but it wasn’t, it was as if I was watching the Killer and the body with close captioning on. The Killer stood up placed the shoes into the propped trashcan, he did not seem to be worried about the sloppy kill scene. He removed the trash can and exited the bathroom in an entirely nonchalant way.

The body lay motionless, it looked as though the individual had simply decided to nap in the middle of the bathroom floor. The blood surrounding the head almost looked like a crimson pillow. The body looked comfortable, relaxed probably having a vivid dream, the type that only a nap in the middle of the day can bring. I began to notice the bathroom walls receding and green creeping in from the sides, the spot of crimson seemed to gain depth and puffed up noticeably which shifted the bodies head slightly upward. The artificial bathroom lighting seemed to be replaced by natural, bright sunlight. The body stirred, almost as if its sleep had become disturbed. Without warning the small body of a young girl ran into the scene and fell over the sleepers legs. The sleeper, a young man with slightly rumpled curly brown hair, turned over and sat up, pushing the crimson pillow to the side. The sleeper had been resting on a red and white picnic blanket in the middle of a green field. The young girl appeared to begin to cry animatedly, big gulping breaths and a wave of tears. The young man  looked at the young girl with the curly brown hair and wet face, he smiled in a perfectly content, don’t worry sort of way. He tilted his head back and looked directly upward.

I had not noticed how small the scene had become before me. With the tilt of the head and skyward glance of the formerly sleeping young man the scene snapped shut and was no more. All that was left was black.

 

 

 

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