Tate

I leaned against the light post and watched the cars pass for almost an hour. It came as no surprise that no one offered me a ride. I wondered if I was dressed differently if someone would have. If I didn’t have tattoos. If my face was shaved clean and my hair was neatly combed.

My first tattoos were on my forearms. I got them in hope of warning those who would otherwise want to strike up a conversation not to bother. It discouraged a few, but not everyone. It seemed the ink was an invitation for people to ask me questions about the tattoo’s meaning or my thought process in getting them. The more ink I got, the fewer questions were asked. Now? People avoided me like the plague.

The unmistakable sound from a muscle car’s exhaust caused me to look up. A black 1971 Chevelle with white racing stripes came around the corner at the end of the block. The rumpity-rump from the racing cam and the sound of more than four hundred horsepower from the big block Chevy engine was music to my ears. One of my all-time favorite cars, the iconic machine was on my bucket list of things to own one day.

The engine accelerated, paused, and then accelerated again after the driver shifted gears. I gawked in admiration at the quality of the bodywork and the mirror-like reflection the black paint provided.

The driver shifted another gear. There was no showboating, no spinning the tires, and no overrevving the engine. It was apparent the owner admired the car as much as I did. Completely lost in admiring the piece of machinery, I gazed blankly as the car approached. When it rolled to a stop at my side, I blinked a few times and stared in disbelief.

The passenger side window opened halfway.

“Hey mister, want a ride?”

I wiped my hands on the thighs of my jeans and reached for the door handle. After opening the door and peering inside, I realized traffic was backing up behind her.

I hopped inside and pulled the door closed. “Holy fucking shit. This thing is spotless.”

Her mouth curled into a prideful grin. Her dirty blond hair was no longer twisted into a bun. It was loose, curly, and tumbled over her shoulders and onto her chest. Wearing a fitted Heather Gray dress with pink accent stripes, she looked nothing like she did at work, and everything like I imagined she would.

She checked over her shoulder, saw a break in traffic, and let out the clutch. As the car lurched forward, she pressed the gas and merged into the long line of cars.

“My dad gave it to me as a graduation gift.”

The interior of the car looked – and smelled – new. “Whoever restored it did a great job.”

“He did it. Even the paint work.”

I buckled my seatbelt and then shot her a look. “Your dad?”

“Every nut, every bolt. In his shop.”

“Holy shit. What did he do for a living?”

She grinned. “Restored muscle cars. He retired a few years ago.”

“That’s a shame he retired. There’s not very many men around that do work like this.” I wiped my hand along the dash. “It’s a lost art. Everyone wants a BMW or a Benz these days. No one wants to spend sixty grand on a Chevelle.”

As she merged into the freeway’s traffic, she pressed a cassette in the cassette player. After a few seconds of silence, the Chi Lites Oh Girl began to play.

The song took me back to my childhood. Although it wasn’t of my era, my father listened to it when I was a kid. He believed all of the good music was recorded prior to the 1980’s. His record collection and turntable came into my possession upon my parent’s passing, and I listened to his records while I wrote.

“I love this song,” I said.

“It was one of my mom’s favorites.” She laughed and motioned behind her. “My dad made this mix tape for me. It’s a bunch of her favorite songs.”

I glanced over my shoulder. A large case of what I assumed was cassettes sat in the center of the rear seat.

“No CD player, no iPod, and no automatic transmission.” I closed my eyes and became immersed in the music. “This is fucking awesome.”

“Are you like Becker Wallace? Do you hate technology?”

I opened my eyes and looked at her. “I don’t hate it. I just haven’t embraced it yet.”

“Will you?”

“Why don’t you have a CD player or some Bluetooth bullshit?” I asked.

“It wouldn’t be era correct,” she said. “My father would crucify me if I did.”

“I’m going to fight it as long as I can. For now, I like my life just the way it is. If I want to do a status update, I roll into the shop and announce it.”

She chuckled. “That’s funny.”

The song ended, and Bob Dylan’s Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door began. “You know what? Things were simple back then. A man just lived his life, had whatever he surrounded himself with at his disposal, and didn’t have to worry about being inundated with everything that happened on earth. If some kid got shot by a cop in Mississippi, people in that town knew about it, but the world didn’t. Now, anything that happens is plastered all over the internet. Instantly, people are depressed about something they’d otherwise know nothing about. I can’t see that there’s any good that comes from it.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Awareness?”

“Awareness of what?” I laughed. “That mankind has the capacity to be evil? Cane proved that long ago. Now we’ve got Blue Whale Challenges that encourage people to commit suicide, Facebook live feeds of people drowning or being shot by cops, and kids with smart phones recording car wrecks and watching people die instead of administering aid. I want it to be 1960 again.”

I looked at her. Her eyes shifted back and forth between the road and me. I waved my hand toward the cassette player. “Right now? It’s about as close as it can get. That’s why I ride a bike, don’t have a smart phone, and don’t use social media. For me, it’ll always be 1960. Close as I can get, anyway.”

She smiled. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Are you Becker Wallace?”

I snickered. “Pretty much.”

She nodded lightly. “I thought so.”

The songs of the 1970’s continued to play, each of which were on my list of favorites. I found it awkwardly reassuring that we shared the same taste in music and that she was driving my dream car.

One day, when I hit it big, I’d own a 1970’s Chevelle. For the time being, I’d decided to simply sit back and enjoy Mr. Madden’s handiwork.

As we rolled down highway 5, just outside of San Clemente, I recalled the day I went for a ride while I was writing the book. It was the day I realized who Becker Wallace was. For me, it was the turning point. The day the book made sense to me. Every book I’d written had one, but, no differently than the readers, I was in the dark until that moment came.

I gazed out the window, fixed my eyes on the ocean, and mouthed the words to The Weight, by The Band.

My mind drifted to thoughts of how things had changed for my closest friends, for the club, and for our future. Most of the men had Ol’ Ladies, kids, or kids on the way. The club’s biggest rival, Satan’s Savages, was now defunct.

It was the dawn of a new generation, no doubt.

The thought of the men having families, commitments, and loyalty outside the club was oddly rewarding. Knowing the men as well as I did, I realized in some ways, the commitment of a relationship and of a family would take each of them back to the 1960s.

Kids gathering at Cholo’s house playing baseball and running along the beach. I could see our resident surfer, Pee Bee, teaching them to surf.

“Which Oceanside exit?” she asked.

I looked at her, unaware that we’d made the entire trip. It seemed like only minutes had passed. “54-A”

She changed lanes. “Almost missed it. Where from here?’

“Follow it to Mission, and then hang a left.”

I gazed out the window as she drove through town. It seemed I was seeing everything for the first time. During my recent trip to prison, something had changed, that much was clear. I didn’t know exactly what it was, or why. The not knowing troubled me.

Maybe with MS-13 being gone from our city, and Satan’s Savages now locked away for a lifetime, I realized our club could simply exist doing what we did best.

Living each day as if it was our last.

I pointed to the left. “Turn here. It’s right here on the left. Cream colored building.”

Her eyes went wide. “I’m guessing they know you’re coming.”

“I called ahead, yeah.”

Amidst eighteen Harleys, seventeen men, and half a dozen Ol’ Ladies, she rolled to a stop. “Do they know I’m coming?”

“They do now.” I opened my door. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you.”