So I reached.
And then I was yelling something loud and long with lots of mixed-up vowels and extreme punctuation, all nerves and energy and frightened out of my mind. Then I started to laugh. The wind on my face felt magnificent, and the roar and vibration massaged my body and soul in paralyzing waves of bliss. Going from the Great Wherever to the seat of a motorcycle speeding down an interstate is a little like graduating from caffeine directly to crack cocaine dipped in radioactive PCP.
The bike wobbled dangerously, and it was all I could do to keep the front wheel straight. With too much to process at once, my grip started to slip off the accelerator, causing the bike to slow. A quick glance I couldn’t really afford showed plenty of cars on the road. Luckily, the driver behind me noticed something wrong and eased back.
I managed to pull the bike over onto the gravely side of the road without losing control. There, in a fit of inspiration, I squeezed the front brake and found myself slowing—only to have the bike give an unhealthy sounding cough, turn off unexpectedly, and skid to a shuddering stop. I nearly flipped over the handlebars, just barely holding on, but that was the end of my good fortune. In slow motion, I watched the ground rise up to receive me in a jarring crash, bashing my right side hard against the hot, sandy grit and pinning my leg beneath the bike. Desperately, I gasped for breath but couldn’t draw anything.
In no time at all, the euphoria of the ride transformed into this curiously excruciating pain that started from my stomach and ended in the vicinity of everywhere else. In a way, it felt great—it’s wonderful to be alive. No matter how bad it gets, just open your eyes a little wider, that’s all I can tell you.
After freeing my leg, I clambered shakily to my feet and looked with something like wonder at the motorcycle heaped in front of me. A Harley Davidson—all black and chrome and leather and altogether badass. It had gold scrollwork on the side of the gas tank that read, “Whiskey Singer.”
Pulling up a memory from a summer spent in the country, where some kids from a neighboring farm taught me to ride dirt bikes, I realized what had happened: I hit the brake without disengaging the clutch. Just like a stick shift, you can’t leave a bike in gear and slow down like that, not without stalling.
It felt warm out. Pure sunlight, eighteen-wheelers roaring past in a gale of diesel fumes and a hint of tall, dry grass…
Come on, man, focus.
“Hey there, you all right?” someone said. A white guy, middle-aged, walking along the highway from a parked, black Mercedes. Apparently, a Good Samaritan.
“Thanks,” I said. “Yeah, I’m ok. Just a little spill. Happens all the time.”
“Well, do you need me to call anyone? Is your motorcycle all right?”
He stood close now, looking alternately between me and the bike. He seemed oddly cautious. He meant well, but I didn’t want him calling an ambulance. For all I knew my ride had warrants out on him.
“No, I don’t need any help—thanks. I think the bike’s fine. Very nice of you.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
Nodding, hoping he’d just leave, I said, “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll just hang out here a bit till I get my wind back. I’m still learning to ride this thing. Thanks again.”
“Learning to ride, huh?” He forced what may have passed for a laugh in a Russian bread line. “Ok then, take care.”
I watched him scoot back to his car. Once, he cast back a covert glance, as if afraid to turn his back on me. Something didn’t seem right. The entire time, he’d worn that smile you learned to give when someone points a camera at you and makes you say “cheese.”
For the first time since my arrival, I looked myself over. I stood medium height, white but tanned and about fifty pounds overweight. I had on a black t-shirt, a worn leather vest covered with patches, black leather chaps over blue jeans, and leather boots with pointy silver tips.
“I’m in The Village People,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
I limped back to the bike and hauled it up. It weighed a ton, but I managed to right it and engage the kickstand.
A look in one of the mirrors revealed a forty-something face with a long, devilish-looking blond goatee. Fascinated, I watched an unfamiliar hand brush back a streak of thinning hair, then back along thicker sides grown ragged and long. I inched closer to inspect my face: hard, weathered. Someone who lived rough, judging by faint bruising around my left eye that smarted when I rubbed it. Not ugly, exactly, just ax-murderer scary looking.
I closed my eyes and took an inventory. No toothaches, thank God. Full lung capacity. I bent at the waist and did some quick knee bends—nothing wrong there. I seemed healthy enough.
I started out riding in the breakdown lane before I felt comfortable adding more speed. Even with full memory from my days on the farm, that little dirt bike may as well have been a ten speed compared to the Harley. As my confidence grew, I eased onto the smooth edge of the right lane, trying to balance the Harley’s bulk with its frightening power. And then I was fine. The trick is to not care if you die.
It didn’t take long before I fixed my location: heading west about fifty miles outside Memphis, Tennessee, on Route 40. Memphis seemed as good a destination as any, but I needed to handle a few things first. I took the next exit with a gas station and parked next to a clunky-looking air machine with an OUT OF ORDER sign taped to it.
I removed my vest and examined it. On the back snarled a ferocious wolf’s head with a flaming tongue and the word “Howlers” written above it in lurid, blue, Gothic letters. Underneath the wolf’s head were the initials “MC.” I sifted my memory for anything about biker gangs and immediately recalled secretly flipping through an Easy Rider magazine as a teenager when nobody in the store was looking. Throughout the magazine were various references to motorcycle clubs. Bikers don’t refer to themselves as gangs, but rather as clubs. To me, belonging to a club sounded a whole lot less intimidating than a gang, but I’d never belonged to a gang or a club so it’s not like I was an authority. I did know about the Mickey Mouse Club.
On the front of the vest flew two sets of disembodied wings: one green and one purple. There were other patches, but a skull and crossbones patch with the caption “Respect Few” written above it and “Fear None” below stood out as the scariest. Just looking at the evil little thing gave me an exposed, spooked feeling.
Moving on, I pulled out a wallet connected by a chain to my belt and began emptying the contents onto the seat. I found a Maryland license and learned my ride’s name: Mike Nichols. I also found a couple of credit cards, a social security card, some nude pictures of various women with phone numbers on the backs, a business card for an attorney in New Jersey, some pieces of paper with names and phone numbers written on them and $2,500 in new, hundred-dollar bills.
Mike also had a cell phone with an extensive collection of contacts, nearly all of them obvious nicknames: Toad, Stump and Joker, to name a few.
Inspecting the bike again, I discovered a double satchel straddling the back wheel, secured by thick leather straps and two medium-sized padlocks. I tried all the keys on my keychain and when none of them fit I tried again, just to be sure. Then I checked my pockets and patted myself down—no luck.
“Screw it,” I said. I’d worry about it later.
Since I’m a positive sort of person, I noticed the gas tank floated half-full, so I filled it up at the nearby gas island using Mike’s credit card. Then I went into the adjacent Gas Mart and picked up a quart of whole milk and some personal-sized apple pies.
The pimply kid behind the register said, “Those things’ll kill ya.”
“Nah,” I said. “When I die it’ll be a shootout at a gas station, mark my words.”
That got a nervous laugh from the kid—a little louder than it deserved.
I sat outside next to my new Harley and downed the milk and pies with lusty enthusiasm. There’s nothing in the world like junk food on a road trip. It’s the ultimate affirmation of freedom. T
hough unhealthy and a leading source of heartburn, for that brief few minutes it’s just you and your pie and a million miles behind you, with the promise of more miles and more pie to come. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
Almost as an afterthought, I checked my new cell phone and noted the date: July 16, 2007, 2:37 p.m. Two weeks had passed since I murdered Jake.
“Time pies when you’re having pun,” I said, laughing at my own joke. I was a real riot.
Stomach now happy, triglycerides raging, I got back on the road to Memphis and began puzzling over my new circumstances. I had all the money needed to make the most of my three to four weeks on Earth before Mike Nichols kicked his way free. I loved the motorcycle, so I quietly hoped for a longer trip this time. I’d get around to figuring out just what Mr. Nichols had done to warrant the attention of the Great Whomever later. Maybe next week. For now, I fully intended to enjoy myself.
Chapter 4
I crossed into Memphis and started looking for a likely place to stay. While exiting Route 40, I nearly crashed into a lady driving a dented SUV who didn’t think she could make the red light in time, whereas I and the driver of the minivan behind me did. I realized my attention had been wandering for about the last ten miles. On top of that, I had a familiar tightness in my chest with a strange connection back to my mouth. Not good: ol’ Mike had a serious nicotine addiction. I’ve never much enjoyed tending an open flame with my lips all day, but I’d have to do something about it or go crazy.
When it comes to hotels I’m fairly particular, depending on my finances. If money’s no object I like to stay at a Hilton. But with only $2,500 to cover the next few weeks, I opted for the Hampton Inn. I got a nonsmoking suite with a king-size bed at $109 a night and reserved it for three weeks using Mike’s credit card. If I wasted my cash I’d be living off ravioli and hotel TV for the duration. I’m fine with that when I’m broke, but this ride had money. Money means fun.
I wasn’t sure how close to the limit Mike kept his card, so when the card cleared I relaxed a little.
At some point on the way to the room I accidentally got a whiff of myself, or maybe something someone tracked in that smelled like me. One of the things I do after arriving in a new body is take a shower. There’s probably some spiritual symbolism or psychological explanation for the ritual, but I never finished college so I couldn’t tell you.
When I got to the room, I threw my vest on the bed, stepped into the bathroom and started to strip down. Casually, I noted that Mike wasn’t much of a hygiene freak…and he liked white underwear. I also noticed a key hanging from a bootlace looped around my neck, over my T-shirt.
Though my shower beckoned, I dressed again and returned to the parking lot to retry those padlocks. The key worked. Even better—the back right saddlebag contained a couple of thick bricks of $20 bills. Drug money, I assumed.
“Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you,” I whispered to the Great Whomever. I’d ridden some broke SOB’s before.
The other bag had a map, which I grabbed. I took a stack of twenties with me and relocked the bags, placing my trust in the streetlight three spots over to ward off thieves.
Then it occurred to me: whatever Mike’s plans were, they didn’t involve a night at the Hampton Inn. He had to be staying in the area already, else he’d have a change of clothes with him. Then, remembering the underwear, I allowed that I could be wrong about that.
Back in the room, I flipped through Mike’s wallet again, this time looking for a hotel pass but didn’t find one. I closed my eyes and sent a probe to my conscience. If he had a house with kids waiting for him…No, I decided. He didn’t seem like the domestic type. And he had a Maryland license plate. If he had kids then they were someone else’s problem.
The Road Map of the U.S. looked well used and wrinkled, with plenty of markings throughout, mostly in eastern states. I put it away for later, shucked my macho biker getup and resumed my holy quest for a shower.
That’s when I got my first real look at Mike’s tattoos. He was covered near head to toe in them—biker club, hello? And wow, there were some doozies: black roses, an X-rated succubus with a trident, a curious tattoo that read “1%” inside a triangle formed by red lightning bolts. He also liked spiders and spider webs, daggers and skulls and…oh man. On the right side of his chest, big and proud, blazed an evil-looking red and black swastika. The guy was some kind of Nazi biker. I wondered how he’d like coming back with a Star of David tattooed on his face.
After getting the water temperature right, I stepped into the shower. And if I scrubbed more vigorously than I normally would, chalk it up to a need that had nothing to do with mere dirt or bacteria. Happily, I had a jet-powered showerhead with no end in sight to the hot water. Content at last, I wasted no less than four towels drying off.
In the other room, Mike’s phone began to ring. I let it go until it stopped. A minute later, it started again. I clicked the button on the side, dumping it to voicemail. I knew Mike’s wireless carrier required the last four digits of his social security number to reset the password. Since I had his social security card, I could reset it later if I needed to hear it.
Even if Mike had an unfamiliar accent, I could have answered without too much worry. Just because his memories were off limits, it didn’t mean I couldn’t access certain parts of his brain.
Every ride has his own unique speech patterns, integrated so well it takes effort to even notice them. An accent is pretty much the only thing I can’t carry with me when I move on to another body, since it’s not really a product of intellect. If that seems strange, give it a try. Imagine the voice of Arnold Schwarzenegger for a moment. Easy enough. Now try to talk like him—and don’t cheat and use some famous catchphrase like, “I’ll be bock.” Choose something conversational, like, “I am Elmer J. Fudd, millionaire, I own a mansion and a yacht.” Now swap in anyone you know but have never tried to imitate before. Unless you’re an unusually gifted mimic, I’ll bet the results were the same.
Anyway, knowing how to talk like a ride is nice, but knowing what to say is a whole ’nother ball game. For that, I was on my own.
When the phone stopped ringing, I flipped it open and clicked around until I found Mike’s number. Then I called it from the hotel landline. Mike’s recorded voice sounded vanilla Midwest or variety thereof, and mean: “Leave a message or fuck off.”
I squinted, biker-style, and tried again. “This is Mike. Hitler was a dummkopf and I’m thinking of joining a boy band.”
I felt sure I could do it. The thing is, I didn’t want to. What I wanted was to go to a nice restaurant, order anything that looked good and then catch a movie, but I felt uncomfortable going out in Mike’s Mad Max costume. Until I did some shopping, I decided to hold off eating anywhere fancy.
The nervous guy at the front desk directed me to a nearby steakhouse that he swore by. I told him I’d let him know if I liked it or not and barely managed to keep from laughing as he shakily scrawled out the directions for me.
Later at the restaurant, a few bites into my steak, I leaned back and looked over to the nearly empty bar. I couldn’t help notice a lady perched nicely on a stool at one of the overflow tables along the wall. She was something. Correction—she was take-your-breath-away gorgeous. One of those impossibly pretty women you remember for a while and almost suspect of being a dream. Maybe thirty years old and wearing a royal blue business jacket and matching skirt. She had glossy, shoulder-length black hair, full lips and sea-green eyes that threatened to drown mere mud puddles like me.
I noticed she liked to cut each piece of her steak while she ate, rather than all at once, and despite it being perfectly normal I found it fascinating for some reason. She was no waiflike skinny thing with too many bones and undeserved pretensions. No, she filled her suit nicely, and unlike most pretty girls, she didn’t mind looking around once
in a while—and that’s how I caught her eye. Not that I had any chance of hooking up with someone in my current state. I looked like a crazy killer and a forty-something one at that, with white-trash facial hair and a bruised eye. Also, call me a pessimist, but I didn’t think she’d be up for my brand of long-distance relationship. So I looked away, like I always do.
I paid for my food and left a good tip in the sensible range.
It had grown dark outside, cooling down considerably from the dry July heat. I didn’t feel like a movie anymore, so I shot over to Walgreen’s and picked up some toothpaste, a razor, and some cherry flavored gum to mask the taste of the nicotine gum I added for Mike’s addiction. Then I roared back to the hotel, chewing happily, even blowing the odd bubble. I must have been a sight.
That night in bed, I watched half a movie where a gorilla the size of a two-story house runs loose in New York carrying a screaming white girl. Thus ended my first day back from the Great Wherever in the body of a biker name Mike. My last thoughts before drifting off were of smooth lips and green-eyed glances and being lost happily at sea.
***
The clock on the stand displayed 8:55 a.m. in big red letters. Mike’s cell phone had started ringing again. It would ring eight times and stop, then eight more times and stop, then on and on like that until I couldn’t sleep anymore.
“Christ,” I said, answering it. “Is that you, Jake?”
“No man, it’s me, Stump,” he said. “Where you at anyway? I need you here. Who the hell’s Jake?”
“Never mind. I got sidetracked.”
“What’d you do, scrape something stinky off the road? When you got prime meat right here? Damn man, you’re worse than me.”
Maybe Mike had a girlfriend—either that or he and Stump were lovers. But I didn’t think so, what with the nudie pictures in Mike’s wallet.
Girlfriends and wives have always been a problem for me, and I still haven’t worked out a way to sleep with someone and not feel guilty of something like rape at the same time. My solution is to avoid the thorny moral dilemma and remain celibate. If I have to be around someone’s significant other, I play cold fish. It isn’t easy. There’s something about bad boys that attracts the lookers—and let’s be honest, there’s nothing sexier than a strange woman with lots of problems trying to get in your pants. But I’m sure if the Great Whomever can come up with the Great Wherever for a suicide like me, he could also come up with The Place Where You Burn Forever, or The Place That Plays Reruns of “Full House” For All Eternity.