I spent the next few minutes in the restroom, remembering bits of the encounter I had just overheard in the hall. I thought of the way the older lady called me by name. I had looked straight at her when she spoke to me, and I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember ever meeting her. I wanted to ask her if we had ever met or if she just knew who I was because of my dad. I wished I had said something to her instead of just standing there with a blank expression on my face, but I didn't have the chance to think of anything because she was in such a big hurry to get back to work.
During the next few hours, I had conversations with what seemed like at least fifty people. I had the same conversation twenty different times. The person would ask me about college, and I would tell them I was making good grades and enjoying my classes. They'd ask when I would be done and if I was planning on moving back home to Memphis when I finished, and I'd tell them I was going into my senior year, and that I hadn't yet decided whether or not I would be moving back home afterward. They would then remark on how quickly the years had gone by, and I would laugh and tell them that I couldn’t agree more. I'd add that I was happy to be done with the semester and home for the summer, and that I was so glad we had the chance to catch up.
I gave out what must have been fifty hugs and even had my cheek pinched three or four times. It was a busy evening, but I still found opportunities to steal glances at the mysterious stranger the lady had called by the name Bishop.
He didn't seem to heed the warnings of his supervisor because every time I glanced in his direction, some female or another was vying for his attention, and it seemed as though he graciously gave it to them. It was annoying if you ask me, and I found myself feeling frustrated that he had been stuck on the opposite side of the room all night.
I had been talking to Stephen, Alice, and everyone else who came up to give their regards, and finally, after an evening of conversation, I sat back in my chair, looking out over the crowd. We had already eaten, and I knew it was getting close to time for my dad to say a few words before inviting me to perform.
I felt a little more nervous than usual, and it was quite clearly the result of the presence of this new guy. I glanced his way, but he was nowhere to be seen at the moment.
I was thinking about him when I heard his name. There was a conversation going on at the other end of my table. I hadn't been paying attention to it, but I tuned in when I heard someone say the word Bishop.
"Well, I think it's an absolute travesty that Mr. Morrow gave his garage to a complete stranger when he has a son! If that doesn't beat all!"
Mrs. Woods was a bit of a busybody, so it didn't surprise me to hear her using the word travesty in regards to someone else's business. I thought I had misheard her, so I started to tune her out, but then I heard her say something else.
"Motorcycles of all things," she added disapprovingly. "Can you just imagine? 'Bishop Motorcycles' painted plain as day right across the whole side of the building."
There was that name again. The sound of it caught my attention, and I turned to face her so I could hear what she was saying. Stephen picked up on the fact that I wanted in on the conversation, and he smiled and shrugged as if demonstrating how cool and laid back he was.
"I saw that painted on Mr. Morrow's building," he said leaning to speak to Mrs. Woods. "I don't think it looks half-bad. I like that logo."
"I don't," Mrs. Woods said, staring at Stephen as if wondering if he could possibly be serious. "Motorcycles, for goodness sake! I just don't know why Mr. Morrow would do something like that. He was a good Christian man. He should have left that business to his son, if you ask me."
"Buddy Morrow's got plenty of money, dear. He didn't want his dad's old garage," Mick Woods said in an effort to calm down his wife.
"What'd Mr. Morrow do? What are y'all talking about?" I asked, feeling confused. I was missing most of a story that I really wanted to hear.
I could tell Mrs. Woods really wanted to give me an earful, but we were sitting at a table with a bunch of important people, and she couldn't let herself gossip like she wanted to."
"Old Mr. Morrow left his body shop to a complete stranger," Stephen said, filling me in from right next to me. "A guy from up north who apparently builds motorcycles. He painted a big ole sign saying 'Bishop Motorcycles' all across Mr. Morrow's body shop."
"I heard his brother met the guy in jail," Bobby whispered.
"Mr. Morrow had a brother up in Detroit," Mr. Woods said. He hadn't heard Bobby, but it seemed as if he thought it was his duty to make the facts clear. "He was connected with this kid somehow. I think he got his start working at Cadillac as a car designer or something."
"I heard it was Chevrolet," Bobby said.
"I thought you heard it was jail," I whispered, leaning over to regard Bobby with wide eyes.
Mr. Woods shook his head. "I talked to Buddy about it," he said, reinstating the fact that he had the most accurate information. "His dad told him before he ever died that he was leaving the garage to this kid. It was someone he knew through his brother up in Detroit." Mr. Woods shook his head. "Buddy wasn't upset about it. I think he's fond of the kid, and he didn't want that old shop, anyway."
"Yeah, but he could have sold it and taken the money," Mrs. Woods said disapprovingly. "Could have turned it into a city park and not a devil's den."
Her husband shrugged. "His dad wanted the boy to have it, honey, that's all I know."
"Well, I think it's a shame," she said, not able to let go of it. "It's right there, a prime location on Highway 70. It's gonna do nothin' but draw hoods."
"I heard his bikes were pretty nice," Stephen said, seeing me getting agitated at Mrs. Woods. "I heard they could beat a Harley or an Indian."
Mrs. Woods shook her head. "I don't know what a Harley is—or an Indian, but I sure hope you're not referring to racing."
Stephen nodded. "I heard there was a Harley out in Utah that rode a-hundred-and-eighty miles an hour." He was pushing Mrs. Woods buttons because he could see my interest in the conversation and knew I would be entertained.
Mrs. Woods glared at Stephen with disapproval for his comment, which made me smile.
"A-hundred-and-eighty! Lord almighty!" Mrs. Woods said, fanning herself and looking like she might pass out. "I hope that young man is not planning on bringing that trash around here—drag racing in our streets. This isn't Detroit, you know."
"That old junk he builds in Mr. Morrow's garage could never go that fast, anyway," Bobby said, chiming in. "It wouldn't even come close," he added, looking completely sure of himself. "That land speed record Stephen was talking about happened out in Utah where there's a whole lake of pure salt that makes you go really fast."
"I have a friend who has one of those Bishop bikes. My uncle does, too. I don't know how fast they go, but I've never seen this guy lose. Not to anyone in Memphis, anyway." The comment came from our waiter and was directed at Bobby, but Bobby was sitting very close to me, and I overheard.
I glanced at the waiter who was picking up our empty dessert plates while staring straight at Bobby. No one else at the other end of table had heard the guy's comment, but Bobby certainly had, and he looked up at the guy like he had some nerve.
"He must be racing go-carts and bumper cars," Bobby returned.
The waiter shook his head as he continued to clear our table.
"Did you say you knew someone who bought one of those Bishop motorcycles?" Stephen asked, overhearing Bobby's conversation.
"I know a couple of guys who have one, actually, and I'm saving up for one of my own. They're quality bikes."
He leaned over to clear a few more dishes from the table. He seemed a little nervous about speaking up, but he shook it off. "And Michael Bishop is a decent human being," he added with a slightly reluctant sneer in the direction of the gossip that was still going on at the other end of the table.
"Did you really see one of those bikes race a Harley?" Stephen asked.
The waiter nodded. "They're nice bikes, and they're fast. My uncle bought one of his street cruisers when he first moved into town, and he loves it. I even heard he might build one for Elvis."
"Elvis?" Stephen asked skeptically. He squinted at the waiter. "Elvis Presley?"
"What other Elvis is there?" the waiter asked.
"You're telling me Elvis Presley hired this kid to build him a motorcycle?" Stephen asked.
The waiter shrugged. "Don't go repeating it, but that's what I heard. I wouldn't be surprised if it's true. I've seen his bikes; I've even ridden one. Like I told you, they're nice. My uncle's been really happy with his."
"I'll have to see one to be convinced," Bobby said.
"Well, there's one in the parking lot if you want to come look at it," the waiter said. He had moved further down the table, continuing to clear plates and flatware.
"One what?" Mr. Woods asked, picking up on the conversation.
"A Bishop motorcycle," the waiter said.
"Lord, goodness, I hope you young men aren't trying to convince each other to take part in motorcycle racing this evening," Mrs. Woods said, leaning over to stare at Bobby and Stephen.
"No ma'am, we're not," Stephen said.
"I am," Bobby said, causing a few of the men at the table to laugh.
My dad didn't seem to be amused by the conversation, and he used the opportunity to stand up and make a speech, after which he asked me to play a special selection on the piano. I agreed as I always did, and I crossed from my table to the piano that was sitting on a low stage on the right hand side of the room. It was closer to the place where Bishop was working, and I made eye contact with him on my way to the piano.
Locking eyes with him made my heart begin to pound, and I had to stare downward in an effort to stay focused on the task at hand. I was rarely nervous to play the piano, but tonight was different. I shook like a leaf as I sat on the bench, trying to stay in constant motion by adjusting my dress and posture so that my shaking wouldn't be obvious.
I remembered the conversation I heard in the hallway and then the one I heard at the table, and I was left with no other choice but to believe that the stunningly handsome fill-in waiter was the same Bishop that had taken over Mr. Morrow's body shop. Maybe I was assuming all the wrong things, but I really felt like it had to be the same guy.
I sat down at the piano, wondering whether or not the mystery guy was paying attention to what I was doing, and if so, whether or not he would like it. I started playing a classical rendition of Amazing Grace just like I did every time—out of routine duty, or just because people expected me to do it, but then (just like every other time) somewhere in the midst of playing it, my heart shifted gears. I had started playing the song while thinking about whether or not Michael Bishop was watching me, and by the time I finished, I didn't care if he was looking. By the time I finished, it was just me and God. I was singing to God with my fingers, and I was grateful for the change of heart that I somehow miraculously experienced every time I really let the lyrics of the song hit me. I sang the words in my mind as I played.
I knew I had been feeling the performance, but it still came as a surprise when I finished playing and got a standing ovation. I had gotten a few of them over the years, but I wasn't expecting it to happen this evening, and when it happened, I suddenly felt embarrassed and shy. I blushed as I stood, smiling and bowing quickly but graciously as I left the stage.