The Pick-up
Part One - Heading out to Big Sur
I leaned the old knucklehead chopper (I had named her 'Lucky's Knuckle', shortened to 'the Knuckle') and merged onto the southbound lanes of Highway 1, near San Bruno, passing under the overpass, preparing to roll on some power to get me down to Big Sur as quickly as possible.
As I emerged from shade into the vibrant California sunshine, I saw her: thumb out, leaning against the guardrail in her ripped and faded, well-worn, baby-blue jeans with a maroon, midriff cut tank top and knee-high, black boots.
She was a vision I had seen before, but couldn't recall just when or where.
As I eased the Knuckle toward her, she was taking a hit from a small joint, gripped in the teeth of an aluminum alligator clip, which was adorned by a ragged peacock feather.
As she exhaled, she nodded her head slightly and tipped the joint out toward me, both a salute and an offering I couldn't refuse.
I grinned at her. She was smiling back. I pulled off my helmet and slung it from its holder, dislodging my Ray-Bans and allowing a brief shaft of sunlight to hit my eye, making me wince. And that's when I remembered.
The memory wasn't all mine. It was a half-forgotten vision from an old MTV video.
I could hear the Silver Bullet Band coming on strong and Bob Seger singing, 'Who wants to tell poor aunt Sarah, Joe's run off to Fire Lake.'
And suddenly I felt like 'Uncle Joe', just about to make his big mistake.
I took the joint from her warm fingers, calloused from life on the road, and sucked in a drag, deep enough to burn.
That good smoke hit me like a hammer, sweet and sharp, with an edge of gasoline, hot tar, and the scent of freedom.
I coughed once, hard, then passed the clip back, watching her lips curve into a grin that said she’d seen me do that a thousand times before.
“Headed south?” she asked, voice low and husky, carrying the wear of those thousand late nights of no regrets.
“Big Sur,” I responded, rolling the throttle just enough to remind her of the kind of ride I was offering. Her smile broadened, and her eyes grew bigger.
She stubbed the roach out on the rail, tucked the feathered clip into her pocket like a relic, swung one long leg over the saddle behind me, then locked her boots around my waist, pulling herself firmly against me.
I could feel the swell of her breasts against my cutoff vest. Almost, I thought, I could feel her heartbeat.
I unclipped the leather, half-head helmet from its mount, and passed it to her. She brushed back her long, sun-bleached hair and put it on, fastening it in place and slipping her sunglasses into position.
She leaned back and settled in comfortably. We were ready to roll.
One quick twist of the wrist and suddenly, it was the two of us, blasting out onto Highway 1, the wind tearing at everything except the magic of the moment.
The road unwound before us like some holy ribbon, cliffs down to the right falling to the coast below; the salt spray mixing with the smell of oil and smoke.
The tires hummed their gypsy tune, and through it all, I could hear Bob Seger, now singing 'Roll Me Away', pushing us south toward whatever mistake was awaiting us. At least it wasn't Fire Lake.
She leaned close, lips brushing my ear under the half-helm. Above the Harley's growling, she said breathlessly, “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Her voice cut through the wind, low but sharp, like it carried a weight I wasn’t ready for.
The question hung there, heavy, even as the road curved tight along the cliffs. I felt her fingers curl against my chest, not clinging, not afraid, more like she was staking a claim.
A face flickered in my mind, half-formed; maybe a dream, one of those smoky bar nights lost in a bourbon haze, perhaps chewed away by too much speed and acid.
Or maybe even older, something buried deeper.
Déjà vu with teeth.
The Silver Bullet Band faded out, replaced by the crash of surf below and the hiss of wind rushing through the bars and past my ears, with 'her' breath ghosting against my skin.
I wanted to ask her who she was, but some part of me already knew the answer would not be clean.
“You’ll remember,” she whispered finally, like a promise. Or a warning.
We roared past a turnout, the Pacific blazing silver under the sun, and for the first time, I wondered, was I riding toward Big Sur… or straight into a past I didn’t know I had.
End Part One
Start Part Two
Part Two: Ghosts on the Road
The noises of the road were swallowed by The Knuckle's gnarly voice, pipes loud and proud. But I could hear her breath, feel it close to my ear as she leaned in closer; I felt the heat of her lips against my skin.
“Name’s Raven,” she breathed finally, heavily, her voice carrying the weight of smoke and secrets.
“The one you gave me back then; the one I wear now.”
The way she said 'you' gave me shivers and sent chills down my spine. I liked it.
I twisted the throttle harder, as if trying to outrun the words or the name, but they stuck, clinging to me like oil. I realized they would never go away again; never be forgotten.
The vague remnant of a memory began to stir, then emerge, a full-featured, acid flashback, complete with sounds and smells. I had to pull The Knuckle off the highway and park.
Raven: A name, or perhaps a curse. Either way, it fit.
She looked as if she belonged to the night sky, wings spread wide, flying just ahead of trouble. Rhiannon reborn.
I knew it was the name I had pinned to her the night we met, high as kites on free-based meth and Captain Morgan's finest Jamaican rum.
“Where are you from?” I asked, voice couched against the coastal wind.
She laughed low, wickedly, a sound that came from a place far older than this one. Again, I shivered.
“From where you left me”, was the soft reply.
Memory tugged at me once more, stubbornly refusing to clear.
I started to ask more, but she cut me off with a light, fleeting kiss. “You’ll remember when we get there.”
“Get where?” I asked.
“Our destination, the Big Sur,” she said, “where it started, and where it will conclude. Don’t you feel it?”
I did.
That stretch of coast had always pulled at me, like gravity. Like fate.
Her arms tightened around me, and I swear I felt her heartbeat syncing with mine, steady, heavy, undeniable. It was like she was pulling me into her rhythm. Into her time.
And that’s when I realized this wasn’t about picking up a stranger on the side of the road.
This was about something I’d left undone, not just years, but a couple of lifetimes ago.
We made it to Big Sur at sundown.
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