Oh well, I was now a civilian. No longer did I have to pretend to be a soldier by day. I could be myself.
No orders to follow. No one to order around. No need to wake up at 5:00 AM. Now I could be a full time biker and collage student. For the first time in my adult life I was responsible to no one and no one was responsible for me. I could stay up as late as I wanted. I could close the bars and head to the mountains on a whim. I could grow a beard and let my hair grow long.
I met Sheryl (later my wife) in 1987. It wasn’t exactly “Love at First Sight.” I met her at my favorite watering hole - the Junction Café. My favorite bartender at the time, a very attractive and personable red head, wanted me to meet her sister. Great, if they are anything alike.
Sheryl was sitting at the bar, looking mean as hell and nursing a draft beer. She was not unattractive, rather plain and solid. She worked various construction type jobs. I asked if I could buy her a beer. Big Mistake.
“I don’t need any fat fuckin’ redneck biker to buy my beer!”
“Hey I was just being friendly.”
“I don’t like Fat Fuckin’ Redneck Bikers!”
Oh well, things happen. I bought a beer for myself and watched the dancing girls for a while before remembering who Sheryl was. She is the woman who hit a friend of mine – Greg White, the Road Captain for a local motorcycle club - over the head with a barstool because he offered to buy her a beer. Guess I was lucky. Maybe my good looks and charm impressed her? Several days later I was there again shooting pool. She came in and I asked her to shoot a game - but I wasn’t about to buy her a beer. She accepted and bought my beer. Much better.
We shot and talked and she impressed me. She actually was Good People. Before I left, I gave her my card, telling her that if she ever needed my help she should get in touch. We saw each other a few more times in there, talked and shot pool.
I was at times a pushover. Sheryl had been bugging me for a while about getting a dog. Not a “real” dog but just a little apartment-sized dog. I had no use for “imitation” dogs. If we were to get a dog it would have to be after we moved to a house with a big fenced in yard and we would have a “real” dog. It would be a Shepherd or a Rott, you know, a “real” dog.
One of her girl friends came to take her bar hopping one day, I could tell by their demeanor and the time of day – 8 AM - that something was up between them and they were about to pull a fast one on me. All I could do was wait and see what it was. They were gone several hours. I am sitting on the patio drinking a beer and listening to Pavarotti when they returned.
“Honey?”
“Yes dear.”
“Could you come in?”
“Yes dear.” Oh boy, here it comes. “Anita! I see you picked up another dog!”
“Well…uh… He’s not mine.”
“Sheryl, I will not have a little imitation dog! And that’s final!”
As if my word was ever final on anything she wanted. She knew what buttons to push, fortunately for me she saved them for “emergencies,” like now.
Anita had taken Sheryl to a friend’s house and showed her this woefully neglected Pomeranian. Its fur was matted, it had bald spots and its nails were so long they had curled under and the dog could walk only with pain. It had developed an obsessive-compulsive disorder causing it to lick its paws so much the bone was showing. It was a real mess. They took it to a vet when the owner decided she didn’t really want it any more. By the time I saw him, he was pretty well cleaned up but still looked woeful.
I grabbed another beer and gulped a shot of Jack Daniel’s for good measure. I stepped around them and returned to the patio and Pavarotti. I cranked up the volume.
“Honey”
Oh well, it’s time to put my foot down. Sometimes I get my way. I turned around to face the trio.
Anita (wearing a low cut top especially for the occasion, knowing I was a sucker for big breasts) had tears rolling down her cheeks and splashing on her tits. I looked at Sheryl and of course she too was crying. Why do women’s tears have such an effect on men? Is it some exotic chemical? I looked at the little dog. He was sitting up straight, in his best begging position and he had tears running down his furry little cheeks! Two out of three I might have been able to handle but the dog was actually crying real tears! That’s the first time I had ever heard of it! I couldn’t hold out.
All I could say was, “OK.”
Immediately the dog stopped his tears and leaped to the back of the couch and looked around as if to say, “This place will do!” He then gave me a look that could only be interpreted as “sucker!,” as he stuck his tongue out.
Sheryl’s little dog, “The Boogie”.
I gave up on ever getting a “real” job and being in need of money I started delivering pizza for Channello’s – a company that doesn’t believe in redlining any neighborhoods and will deliver anywhere. It was a very interesting experience.
One customer in particular stands out in memory. She was a very good looking woman – no, make that outstandingly beautiful woman. Gigi would order a sub everyday at noon, then take her shower. I would always arrive with her sub about fifteen minutes later and she would still be in the shower. This pinnacle of female beauty would answer the door dripping wet, trying to hold a small towel in front of her body. She always used a large bill and I would have to hand her the sub and change and she would hand back a tip. In the process the towel would always fall. We called such incidents “fringe benefits.”
Such cases were far from rare. There seem to be a lot of female exhibitionists out there and pizza delivery drivers are a ready target.
Sheryl didn’t like the idea of me delivering pizza – too many drivers were getting shot and killed. Once again I was job hunting, once again I gave up. Might as well be a cab driver – which really made her day! I went from the second most dangerous job in the area to the most dangerous job.
4:00 AM can be an interesting time to be driving a cab. Anything can and does happen. Nothing is surprising after a couple of years.
I took a call at an EconoLodge Motel, pulled up to the room number and sounded the horn. I hoped I woke everyone in the place. A very attractive lady walked out and sat in the cab's front seat beside me. She was holding a motel towel in front, nothing else. It was too small to cover everything or wrap around - not much bigger than a hand towel. She gave me an address in Hampton, about a twenty dollar trip.
"I don't think you have enough money with you for a cab."
"I hope you'll trust me for the money. I have to go into the house to get it."
Ordinarily I wouldn't but you have to be nice now and then - and it was a slow morning. I didn't ask about her attire, she didn't volunteer anything. Half way to her home she gave up on the towel and just held it on her lap.
"Will we get there by 5?"
"No problem, your husband get home around then?"
"Yes."
Nothing else was said, when we arrived she climbed a fence and a few minutes later came out the front door (I was concerned about her being a runner -- naked or not) and paid the fare. With a tip. Still naked.
One customer in particular stands out in memory. She was a very good looking woman – no, make that outstandingly beautiful woman. Gigi would order a sub everyday at noon, then take her shower. I would always arrive with her sub about fifteen minutes later and she would still be in the shower. This pinnacle of female beauty would answer the door dripping wet, trying to hold a small towel in front of her body. She always used a large bill and I would have to hand her the sub and change and she would hand back a tip. In the process the towel would always fall. We called such incidents “fringe benefits.” 