The Pick-up Chapter One: Heading out to Big Sur
The Pick-up
Chapter One - Heading out to Big Sur
I leaned the old knucklehead chopper (I had named her '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. It hit me hard; the leaf, sweet and sharp, with a taint of gasoline, hot tar and sweat. The taste of freedom.
I coughed once, hard, then passed it back, watching her lips curve into a grin that said "I've seen you do that a thousand times".
“Headed south?” she asked, voice low and husky, carrying the wear of a thousand late nights of no regrets."Of course you are" she answered herself sotto voce.
“Big Sur,” I responded, rolling the throttle just enough to remind her what kind of ride I was offering. Her smile broadend 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 her 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 skull cap helmet from it's 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 against, the rest, and settled in comfortably. We were ready to roll.
One 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 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 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 growl of the Knuckle, 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. She was staking a claim.
A scene flickered dimly in my mind, half-formed. Maybe a dream, maybe one of those smoky bar nights lost in a bourbon haze, chewed away by too much speed and acid. Or maybe something even older, buried deeper.
Déjà vu with teeth.
Seger faded out, replaced by the crash of surf below, the hiss of wind rushing past my ears, and her breath ghosting against my skin.
I wanted to ask who she was, but some part of me already knew the answer wouldn't 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, not for the first time, I wondered, was I riding toward Big Sur, or straight into a past I didn’t remember.
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