Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
They traded another glance, seemingly asking each other,
Eina grossa moto? Vas is los?
“A moto. Varoom! A BSA. Six-fifty. Lightning Rocket.”
“Ah!”
“Ya!”
They looked around, puzzled. Where did I park? I told them it was getting an oil change
and would be ready tomorrow or the day after. So Erik leaned in close to confide like men in
the bond, that he and Gretchen were travel companions, but he would at that point be forced
to leave, but she wanted more, so to speak, so if I wanted her—his words—she would be my
travel companion.
Wait a minute. If I wanted her? Who wouldn't want Gretchen? Who wouldn't crave two
out of three falls with Gretchen and a sure loss? Or three out of five? Or some mud wrestling
and feather dusting? “Yes. Okay.” And so it was set. Gretchen gathered her things and moved
them the few feet from where they'd been alongside Erik over to the snuggle place next to me.
I hadn't yet experimented with psychedelic drugs in the summer of '69, but Gretchen's will-
ingness to let me “have her” felt as removed from reality as anything I'd known. Erik watched
and smiled, perhaps recalling his own disbelief at this sudden jackpot. I imagined the works
yet wondered why Erik looked so relieved.
Well, he was obviously not up to the challenge. So much woman requires a hefty hunk
o' man to balance the needs of the first party with the supply of the second. I felt confident,
pushing twenty maybe but feeling seventeen—twice a night or a baker's dozen would not chal-
lenge the catering department. I wanted to clarify that we would, you know, do everything,
but it seemed obvious that we would, and clarifying seemed so . . . American. She held my
arm with two hands and rubbed it. A guy came around hawking sandwiches, so we bought
sandwiches. Erik excused himself to go down the street for some wine, and the evening was
made. Gretchen showed me a pose, twisting her torso to advantage, though I could not ima-
gine a disadvantage. She stared at me. She batted her lashes. She blushed at will. She caught
my eye and glanced at my crotch. I lay back as Erik returned with the wine. We drank. We
moaned and agreed that things were good and we were part of it.
I woke up with Gretchen clinging to me. I caressed her hair. She smiled. I touched her
cheek. She murmured. I reached . . . under her blouse. She giggled. Then it was time to rise.
Back at the moto shop in the alley my motorcycle lay splayed, disemboweled. Then came
the news: total annihilation. The oil pump had stopped. I was consoled by assurance that it
could happen to anyone at any time—that an engine running dry would last a mile or two be-
fore seizing or throwing a push rod through a cylinder wall. The mechanic lifted my mangled
engine from the workbench, grunting and huffing to say it would make a nice pendant, and
he had a chain big enough to hang it around my neck. he assistant mechanics laughed. On
the bright side, he could make it new for a hundred sixty-five dollars, about a third the cost of
