Hey Baby.
At 3 o’clock in the morning, I pulled into a gas station and sat for a moment, staring at the guy in front of me. He was pumping gas into his motorcycle, facing away from me. All I could see was long, brown hair sticking out from under his helmet.
I almost stayed in the car, a little afraid that I wasn’t alone at the station at that ungodly hour. But I needed gas, the stereo was still blasting, and Van Halen made me feel brave. I clicked off the car but turned the key backwards, the “music only” gear.
Wearing my typical attire – cutoff jean shorts and a t-shirt that went well past the shorts – I hopped out in bare feet and went straight to the pump. I kept my head down and avoided eye contact, also typical.
This did not deter the motorcyclist. “Hey Baby,” he said, in a gruff, growly tone.
I looked up. He had bright green eyes, a very full beard, and a wide smile in spite of his truly awful tooth alignment.
“Hey,” I said, way too quiet for anyone to hear over Eddie Van Halen’s guitar riffs. I looked down again.
He took two steps closer, but didn’t quite reach my car. “What’s your name?”
After one look at his teeth, I decided he was too stupid to properly pronounce “Kirsten,” which is Keer-stin. It would have taken 10 minutes for me to give him the tutorial about my name.
“Kris,” I said, using my standard name for stupid people.
“Okay Kris,” he smiled again, his voice growly enough to be almost creepy. But it was happy-creepy. “Ya wanna go for a ride?”
I looked at him again. He could probably see the wheels turning in my brain.
Do I want to go for a ride? YES I want to go for a ride! A motorcycle ride in the middle of the night? YES, YES, YES! But this guy is a moron.
I made this judgment after he’d spoken only 13 words.
Then I remembered: I have literally nothing to do and nowhere to go and a whole night to kill.
“I could do that.” The words came out of my mouth almost without my permission and certainly without any forethought about danger.
“I’ve gotta get another helmet,” he said. “Ya wanna wait here while I grab one? I only live right over there.”
“Okay,” I said.
And here’s the really, really stupid part: That’s what I did.
I finished filling up the car with gas, pulled over to the empty space by the tire pump, and sat there for 10 minutes while he went and got another helmet for me to wear.
He came back with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He smiled when he saw me sitting there. This guy smiled all the time. It was gross.
He pulled up next to my car. “Ya ready, Kris?”
“Yep,” I said, trying to be cool. I wanted the ride, but I did not want to be with this guy.
He helped me strap on my helmet, told me where to put my feet on his very old Harley, and pulled my arms around his waist.
“Ya don’t wanna fall off!” he said, and laughed a gravelly laugh.
I grabbed my left wrist with my right hand and hung on. I didn’t want to actually touch the guy.
I didn’t get back to my parents’ car until almost noon the next day.