Full of the joys of spring, he pointed his cruiser from southbound I35 onto 12th Street. The low pitched aggression wailing from the exhaust rose as he revved the engine and bore down on the small car in front. The rising growl brought a smile to his face, and he stayed with the noise a fraction too long, ignoring the rapidly approaching fender of the car, and had to pull the brakes hard at the last instant. He was being silly, and made a mental excuse to his serious side, arguing that the bike’s carbs needed clearing of their winter sludge.
There were people hanging around on corners in this part of town – some had large muscles under taut black skin, others were skinny. The blast from his pipes made faces turn, and one crazy woman starting waving from the side of the street as if to flag him down. He responded with a cheery wave and carried on along the street. His progress and ability to roar down the road was impeded by the car driver in front who appeared determined to travel within the posted speed limits. A taco stand came into his peripheral vision, and he decided to inspect its victuals, pulling a U-turn, which also afforded an opportunity and an excuse to de-clutch and rev the motor mid-turn.
He pulled onto the parking lot, dismounted and walked to the window to inspect the menu. A fat and non too atttractive face appeared and demanded to know what he wanted. He continued to survey the menu, checking his pockets for his wallet. After a few pats on empty pockets, the face disappeared back into the greasy atmosphere of the stand, and his attention was grabbed by the voice at his side.
“Does it go fast?”
He looked around to see the crazy woman who had tried to flag him down. His brain lurched as he realised that she might have thought his presence was related to her frantic waving rather than a rumbling in his tummy-tum.
“Not so fast,” was the best he could come up with. He looked at her briefly, and a few things struck him before he returned to patting his pockets. She had no front teeth, she was slight, and she was dressed in a way that on later reflection he could only describe as haphazardly. It was not that she was not covered up, it was that her clothes seemed to have been selected and put on as an act of rebellion against the general principles of dressing. She had a black shiny shirt under a dark jacket, dark corduroy trousers and some plastic Nikes that indicated either enormous feet for such a wee slip of a girl, or that they had not been selected with size in mind.
“Can you give me a ride?”
He was still trying to decide in which compartment to file her, based on first impressions. Crazy? As in a few primates short of a monkey house, or perhaps deranged like the fiercely addled. Crack whore? That seemed a little harsh, this was not after all some cartoon world where things were so black and white. He looked up at her again, seeing what appeared to be genuine excitement in the way her head bobbed up and down as she shifted weight from one foot to the other. Instinctively, he searched for an excuse. The part of his brain that was responsible for looking away from beggars and offering nothing more than a shrug and a smile to panhandlers lurched into action. He looked at his watch, noticing that despite his hurried riding, he was already seven minutes late for his appointment. The excuse was genuine, but delivered half-heartedly.
“I’m kind of running late…” he trailed off, looking back at her, trying not to stare at the prominent lack of teeth in her smile. It was then that she picked up his accent, and started asking questions about where he was from. She introduced herself as Dawna and thrust forward her left hand. She had both a lit cigarette and a spare in her right, and he shook her hand and introduced himself.
“Can you give me a ride around the block? Can you? Please?” She still had the deranged enthusiasm in every part of her. He realised that he had no way of guessing her age. There were just no clues. Somewhere between 20 and 40 he settled on, and realised the part of his brain responsible for tangents was coming into play.
“Where to?”
“12th and Chicon.”
“Is it far?”
“Just a couple of blocks that way.” she said gesturing wildly with several of her bouncing limbs.
“Sure.”
She let out a little shriek of joy, as he straddled the bike and thumbed it to life.
“Make it go loud!”
He obligingly blipped the throttle.
“Do it again!” She was the living embodiment of an exclamation mark.
“We’d best be going.” She stubbed out her active cigarette on the tarmac and pocketted it. She clambered on behind him, each of her motions an apparently independent act by a different part of her body. It seemed to him that she was a set of rapidly oscillating twitches and spasms that somehow coalesced into something vaguely resembling a human.
“Can we go really fast? Can we?”
“Not too fast.” He resisted his natural tendency to accelerate hard from a standstill with a new pillion, and eased out onto the street, heading off in the way whe had motioned. She was screaming with joy by the time he was out of first gear, and her excitement was infectious. He accelerated harder, the roar of the pipes and the rush of the wind now drowning out his passenger’s screams. For such a skinny girl, she held on tight, her arms constricting around his torso.
When he eased off the throttle, she was still whooping and raving, and her arms were still wrapped around him like baling wire.
“Just here at the lights is fine. Yeeah!”
He pulled gracefully up to a stop, and she virtually stood up on the seat behind him as she dismounted. Her limbs flailed briefly as she gesticulated her way onto the pavement, and finally regaining terra firma, she held both arms in the air in triumph.
“Wow! That was… whheeeeee!” she screamed, laughing and pumping her fists in the air. They smiled at each other and he turned back to the road and raced off, watching her dance with excitement in the street in his left mirror. He went faster and louder than before, spurred on by the little bit of joy that had just been shared.
Later in the day, he reflected on judging people on first impressions. They’re not all they’re cracked up to be.