Can You Take Me Back To My Car?
I don’t remember much about the ride from the gas station, or about the guy who drove the motorcycle on the night that I erroneously believed I would embrace my independence.
I remember that there was beer at his apartment, so we ended up there: a dirty room with a couch and table, no chairs and nowhere to sleep.
“Turn on the tunes!” I said enthusiastically, wired by the wind in my hair.
“Can’t,” the guy said. “My roommate sold the stereo! Fuckin’ heroin. He sold everything that used to be in here. Sold my amp, too, but not my guitar. I’ve gotta get out of here before he gets my guitar.”
I took another sip of my beer. “Heroin?” I asked, a little afraid.
“Fuckin’ junkie,” he said. “I don’t do that shit. That shit’ll kill ya.”
He stared at me, smiling again.
This guy wasn’t the brightest bulb and I couldn’t imagine continuing to hold a conversation.
Somehow I found him oddly attractive. He was rough and gravelly and swore constantly, wearing Levi’s and leather – my kind of guy. So I decided it would be easier to kiss him than to talk. We messed around until eventually I passed out on the floor.
When I woke up, he was walking into the one-room apartment with two coffees and an already opened pack of Winston cigarettes.
“Thought you’d need this,” he rumbled, trying to hand me a coffee. This guy didn’t know me at all; I couldn’t stand coffee.
And in the light of day, oh my god he was unattractive.
And old. Really old. I needed to get out of there.
“No thanks,” I said, lighting a cigarette.
“Wanna get some breakfast?” he asked cheerily.
“No thanks,” I repeated. “Can you take me back to my car?”
“Only if you give me your phone number first,” he said, laughing that gravelly laugh again.
Dear Lord, I thought. I am not giving this guy my phone number. I don’t even know his name.
“Okay,” I said.
He found a napkin on the table and a pen near the ashtray, and handed them to me. Fully intending to write a fake number but too hungover to think of a good one, I scrawled down some digits.
I laughed nervously. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We walked outside directly into an ancient city block I’d never seen before. I could hear cars nearby; the sun was blazing. My head was pounding and I was dying of thirst. As usual.
I didn’t know how far away the car might be, but I realized that I’d have to ride – sober – on the motorcycle to get there. This wasn’t quite as free-feeling as the night before. The guy had to help me with my helmet again. I climbed on carefully and held onto him, although morning made this feel slimy.
“Ya ready?”
“Yep,” I said, lighting another cigarette. The motorcycle was so loud, we could have woken every sleeping person within a 12-block radius. But apparently he heard me, because he revved the engine and off we went.
We drove down a hill and stopped at a red light. We turned right, drove maybe a hundred yards, then turned left into the gas station where I’d left my car. I was thrilled to be back so quickly but also amazed that I’d had no idea where we were. I could have walked to my car.
I hopped off quickly and handed the helmet to the guy, who started tying it to the back of the bike.
I was already in the car waving goodbye.