TEMPUS CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

Apple pie without the cheese is like a kiss without the squeeze.

Henry Schriver

Spending the day on his bagger out in the country helped eased the pain. Every hard curve he leaned into made him forget a little. So many people died right under him. Gracie was his only solace. She was the bravest soul he had ever met before or since.

The straight pipes brought his focus back. He thought, interface on. “Watcher I’m back.”

“Cristian, how are you?”

“Better, much better.”

“What do we have left to do, Watcher?”

“Assume the life of Robert Mitchum, and we have a building opening to go to. After that, we need Robert to die and will the land and business to you, so we can sell them to the condo developer. Cristian, don’t forget Ezra.”

“Is that all?” he thought while gearing down for a hairpin and cracking the throttle and leaning hard at the apex to pull himself around the back end of the curve. He leaned so hard, that his footboard threw a trail of sparks. “Pretty sure I left a little boot leather back on that curve Watcher.” He smiled a little.

“If that was your goal, I think you did that well.”

“Thanks, Watcher.”

Just ahead, he saw a little greasy spoon on the side of the highway. There were a ton of trucks and trailers outside. “Food must be good,” he thought.

“This doesn’t look like a place that would welcome bikers, Cristian.”

“Fuck that, I am hawnngry. I haven’t had a meal since 1914.”

As he sat down, the waitress looked at him like he was a Martian.

“Menu?”

“Nope darlin’ just looking for a cup of coffee and a clubhouse. Maybe add some fries and a smile.”

“Got it biker.”

“Thanks, waitress.” They both smiled.

The truckers had stopped talking when he walked in and placed his beanie, shades, and bandana across from him on the table.

After a nod from the waitress signifying he was all right, the talking continued as if he wasn’t there. One of the truckers walked by on his way out to his 18 wheels, made a comment. “That is a really sweet ride man. You build that yourself.”

“Thanks, I did.”

“Never seen one like it.”

“I like one of a kind. Hate travelling with the herd.”

“I hear you, man. That’s why I travel the highways.”

“Me too, be safe out there.”

“I will, and I will send word that you are okay. Which way will you be travelling?”

“South.”

“South it is. Keep your rubber down, biker.”

“Vaya con Dios trucker.”

“Waitress.” She came over worried he was going to complain.

“Pass a message on to the cook for me.”

“Okay.” Still waiting for the complaint.

“Tell the cook that was” he paused for a quick gulp of coffee, “tell him that was the best fucking clubhouse I have ever eaten in my entire sorry lifetime. Tell him thanks.”

She was surprised at what this biker had said. He meant every word. The clubhouse had been made with fresh cooked turkey and ham, not that regurgitated pre-processed meat made with by-products and chemicals. Instead, of the process almost cheese crap used at most truck stops, there was a good size chunk of real aged cheddar, on hand-cut fresh-baked sourdough bread. He chewed every bit slowly and thoroughly. Cristian really enjoyed good food.

When he was done, the waitress came over carrying a huge chunk of Apple pie, with a fat piece of cheddar melted on the top.

“A gift from the cook, he rarely gets recognition for his cooking.”

“That’s a fucking crime, he puts a lotta love into his cooking.”

“Ya he does.” She was smiling as she walked away. He was the nicest biker she had ever met. Maybe all of them weren’t assholes, she thought to herself, and he was kind of cute.

He left a twenty on the table scooped up his riding gear and started to head out to the bike, before he got out the door the waitress came over.

“You forgot this.” She handed him a piece of paper folded over. He opened it while she was standing there.

The note had her name and number with a little flower doodle.

“Next time I am through Annaliza. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

“Thank you, Biker can’t wait.”

“Cristian.”

“Cristian, will I see you again?” She asked coyly.

“That is a possibility. Maybe we can share breakfast. At your place.”

She blushed a little smile and walked away.

Back on the highway, wind in his face again, he noticed the truckers seemed to wave him through and gave him some room to ride. He would bless them with the sound of wide-open straight pipes as he passed. They would give him a quick blast of the air horns in recognition as he went by.

One trucker was motioning him to slow down, hands pushing air in a downward motion outside his truck window. Cristian pulled up beside him to have a closer look. The trucker was now tapping the top of his head.

Cristian nodded recognition at the trucker. He was speaking highway for police ahead. The tapping was to signify the bubble lights the cop cars of old had on their roofs.

Cristian adjusted his speed and stayed right beside the trucker for a few miles, holding all the traffic back.

When they had all passed the radar trap he sped up a little and pulled in front of the truck to let the others through. No one was upset but waved to him in thanks for keeping their speed down.

A blue minivan passed them and a small boy in the back seat waved and gave him a vigorous thumbs-up as he admired the bike with wide-eyed wonder. Cristian knew a future rider had joined the ranks right at that moment.

Everyone was happy except for the ticket-writing doughnut king, who wouldn’t make his quota that afternoon.

A few hours later, he was back at the cave. He noticed that not many words were thought between  Watcher and himself.

“I thought you could use some quiet time, Cristian.”

“Thanks, Watcher.”

“That fresh air has tuckered me out some, I’m gonna grab some z’s. Wake me if there is anything pressing.”

“Will do Cristian.” Within seconds, he was covered in cats and asleep.