The Pick-up Chapter Six: Ghost Riders
As false dawn peeked over the hills, to the east, and that last of the beach fires were wetted down and smoldering out, turned up the volume of 'knuckle's radio so we all could hear Jim Morrison whining out 'Riders on the Storm'.
'Girl you gotta love your man..., Girl you gotta love your man... Take him by the hand..., Make him understand...'.
I turned the switch to off and listened to the sounds of the fast approaching storm. I knew we couldn't outrun it, but the prospect of 'weathering it out' on the beach wasn't appealing. We all had rain gear.
I cast a glance at TFB, leaned out and jerked my chin toward the road. He nodded twice then said, with a firm and commanding tone "Let's saddle up and head out." We did so.
We rolled our little caravan north, taking our time, past Pfeiffer Beach and the Big Sur River Inn, past Notleys Landing, Soberanes Point and up into Carmel Highlands and the Pacific's Edge restaurant, about 20 minutes before it opened.
We parked and locked the bikes, then gathered in the Fury to finish the joint we had started back at Big Sur.
A California state patrol vehicle cruised through the lot, noting the choppers and ignoring us in the car, then left, headed south.
The sign in the restaurant window switched from 'Closed' to 'Open'. We exited the Fury and Raven tossed her over-large 'purse' in the trunk and locked it all up. We went in, just as the front of the storm found us. And began to pound at us.
Breakfast
The wind was buffeting the signs outside and knocked over their large billboard. I was closest to the door, so I stepped out, hauled it upright and dragged it inside where a youngster I presumed to be a busboy, took one side and helped me carry it to the back where he propped it upright against the wall.
He nodded once, tipped an imaginary cap to me and smiled, broadly.
"Thanks" he said. Then he glanced around, held out an opened hand and said "For your help".
It was a 'dime' sized, platic baggie, containing a dark green flower bud, with lots of red hairs growing around it. I took it and slipped it into my vest.
I was aware of the second hand odor of some very potent pot. That and the kid's slightly bloodshot eyeballs told me all I needed to know. Dank indeed.
I grinned right back at him. Then returned to my table.
In my absence, the others had decided they all wanted a short stack of pancakes with an over-easy egg, sausage links, real maple syrup, orange juice and coffee.
"Make it for four" I instructed the departing waitress. She nodded.
The storm seemed to be slowing down a bit. I wasn't convinced. As I turned to the jukebox, I glanced at the menu sign. 'Monday Specials' it pronounced above the item list.
My glance took in the news stand banner: 'Monday Morning Overnight'. I then took in the playlist on the jukebox.
The first selection was 'Monday Monday' by the Mammas & the Papas followed by Fleetwood Mac's 'Monday Morning', then 'Manic Monday' by the Bangles.
I hadn't heard any of these play since we arrived, so I assumed somone had just been wistful thinking.
'Three plays for fifty cents' it said on the side of the box.
Two quarters later, I was pushing playlist combos. It was a Monday morning for sure. The storm was still playing possum. I still wasn't fooled.
The waitress, "Marge", had delivered the setups and the coffees, and one of the cooks had delivered plates of pancakes before I sat down to eat. Once seated I used my fork to lift the cakes and the knife to slather on heaps of half-melted butter, then poured on a copious amount
of 'Genuine Maple Syrup from Vermont'.
Then I proceeded to devour it all, washing it down with alternate sips of orange juice and coffee. I saved the susages for desert.
"Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning, of what was to beeee, oh Monday morning how could you leave and not take meeee.." faded away to be replaced by Christine Mcvie crooning "Monday morning you sure looked fine. By Friday I've got travelling on my mind". By the end of that tune, the winds had picked back up, stronger than before.
I wrapped the last two sausage links in a doubled napkin and stuffed them into the left hand, slit pocket of my cut-off vest. The weed was on the right, along with my roach clip. I was ready to go.
Raven stood and sidled over to me. She slipped two fingers under my chin and tilted my head back. Then she leaned forward engaging my lips with hers and slipped me a healthy seriving of deliciously active tongue.
I started to pull her down, but she laughed impishly and darted away. I started to follow, but then noticed the bill on the table. First things first, as my bitch of a mom used to tell me - too often.
I glanced at the total, then pulled out my roll, peeled off two twenties and a ten and flopped them down on the table. Now I was ready to roll.
I could tell that the Joker contingent was going to take some time, so I edged over to the storm window at the front where Raven was half-perched on the ledge, watching the storm that was no longer approaching, it was here. To emphasize the point, a piece of driftwood was flung against the storm grating, making a quavering metalic 'gong' sound.
It was not fit out there for man nor beast nor motorcycle.
They let us hang out until midnight, then crash out in the back storage room. The storm had misbehaved like a red-headed stepchild until well after Raven and I bedded down, then it too subsided and finally slept.
The following morning was clear and promising to be sunny.
We cleaned up, sponged off and relieved ourselves, restocked our snacks, foodstuffs, and drinks. By 8AM, we were all set to go.
I paid them to 'rent' the use of their air compressor, to blow the dust and sand out of the vehicles, then topped off the fuel, water, and air pressure on each.
I blew out the sand, then rolled up our sleeping bags and strapped them to the backrest. Time to lock and load. Ready to rock and roll.
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