My annual getaway to Minnesota was supposed to be a time of heavenly peace for me, but this time it started out like hell. In fact, even before it started things went wrong. The friend I always visited was away so I couldn't stay at his cabin. But I decided to go anyway and booked one at a little resort on a neighbor lake where I planned to hear no ring tones, get no e-mails, and have no dealings with any of the rabid individuals it was my job to deal with on a daily basis.
So I went. It was late October and the timing seemed perfect at Camp Chanticleer. It was too late in the season for many tourists or mosquitoes to survive, and close enough to the school year so it wouldn't be crawling with those parasites that metamorphosed into Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, or church youth groups.
No, this was
my
time, the off-season. The crowds were gone, the bugs were gone, and the price was as right as the brisk mornings I'd spend sipping coffee and watching the birds from the cabin porch. I welcomed the stark solitude of the north woods. It was going to be that soul-soothing, spiritual kind of experience I almost never had since life got complicated. Little did I know, life was actually about to get a whole lot more complicated.
That first day on the road almost ruined everything. I pulled into a roadside café – something I almost never did, but this was my vacation and it was going to be as different from real life as I could possibly make it. So there I was at "The Ferns Café" beneath a flashing neon-green fern leaf, when suddenly the birdsong and breeze through gently swaying pines was shattered by the guttural crackling of a Harley-Davidson.
The line of parked cars I'd just pulled into blocked my view of the bike. What I did notice was the curvaceous chassis of a redhead cruising up to the place. Her hair tousled down the back of a black leather jacket and over-filled black jeans with zippers galore. She had size but couldn't have been more than 10 pounds over optimal weight for her frame. Passing a trash can on her way into the cafe she flicked a smoking cigarette onto the ground. That irked me, no matter how hot she was.
"You missed the trash can," I called through my open window.
The redhead looked back for a moment with dark eyes, high cheeks and a nicely pointed chin – a Nordic look – there were a lot of them in Minnesota. Then she went into the café. Though she'd looked in my direction, she apparently missed me there half hidden in my car. Then a gleaming, pink-faced gentleman in black leathers and a blue bandana on his marble head came lumbering up after her.
I went in, sat down, and an actual waitress came to my table. The biker sat down with the redhead, and I saw her lean across the table toward him, glance my way and mouth something hushed.
"Hey," the biker bellowed, "what about us?"
"In a minute," said the waitress.
"The woman was here first," he continued.
After taking my order the waitress stepped over to take theirs. I didn't watch. There was nothing in it for me anymore, seeing the woman was attached. Besides, that thoughtless toss of her burning cigarette was enough to disinterest me. Now the long, fiery hair, those devilish eyes and powerful curves just made me curse the impudent minx all the more. Well, maybe I'd just sneak one more look.
Of course I found myself staring right into the face of her friend, Bubba, or whatever. He was heavy enough to be required to post his gross weight on the Harley, and not one to mince words.
"What you lookin' at, honey?" he asked.
"Nothing," I answered, perhaps truthfully.
"Nothing? You disrespecting this lady, are ya?" The redhead snuck a peek at me.
"Not at all," I said, trying to hold a steady tone despite thinking I might've made a grave mistake.
He turned back to the woman. I appreciated that. He could have her. I just wanted to eat and run before my day, not to mention my vacation, or life, was ruined. But then the brute got up. He sauntered over to my table, chrome dripping from his chains and one incisor, and I didn't know what to do.
"Listen ass-wipe," he said, "I'm going to the head now, and when I get back, you're gonna be gone. Understand?"
I'd snuck one hand around the napkin holder just in case I needed a weapon – not that it would've stopped a guy like that, replying, "Yeah, sure."
He went to the back of the room, leaving me in a quandary. Was I to take the easy way out and leave a perfectly good tenderloin and fries before they were even delivered to me, by a real waitress no less? Or was I to "be a man" and call his bluff, hoping to god it was a bluff.
My eyes wandered in search of god's writing on walls decked with broom-riding witches, black cats, and smiling jack-o-lanterns, but found the redhead raking me with furtive eyes. She was smiling. It was an odd smile like you see on babies that haven't yet mastered their expressions. But for some reason, it hit me right in the pants.
I heard a door open in the back and assumed the worst. Before it was too late, I got up and left the café without looking back. I was outta there. But just to convince myself I was still a man, I copped a plan.
After a couple of minutes' work outside the café, I went back in. Bubba sat with his back to me, but the redhead saw me and looked on as I approached the cash register. The waitress stepped away from the order window to see what I wanted. I told her I'd take my order to go. She asked where I was headed. Canada, I lied.
I don't know if it was the familiar sound of my voice or the familiar sound of the redhead's but something tipped the biker guy that I was back. They had their food now and he turned his fork with his meat hook and pounded the butt of it against the tabletop. The resulting clatter of dish and flatware startled even the redhead.
"I thought I told you to leave," he growled.
"Yeah, and I will," I said, "soon as I get my take-out," – as if I'd planned on take-out all along.
The giant slowly rose to his feet. The waitress mercifully put a brown bag on the counter and rang it up. I reached for my wallet, handed her a ten and told her to keep the change. But just as I grabbed the bag, Bozo was in my face. That wasn't part of my plan.
I faced him while backpedaling toward the door. He just stood there watching, and so did the girl. Those lips weren't smiling anymore, but her eyes were. She looked at me and – and this is no joke – she was sucking on a vanilla shake. She had one finger over the end of the straw and pulled it out of the glass. Then she stuck out her tongue and lifted the finger so the creamy stuff squirted onto her outstretched tongue. She swallowed, and reached down to her half-open pink top that looked like thermal underwear, and opened another button.
Needless to say that sort of distracted my escape. And her partner, who knew nothing about what she was doing behind his back, was now drawing a line in the sand behind me. I tore myself away from the redhead's suggestion.
"Move!" he said, taking off his belt.
"Wait," I said, looking back at the woman. "Would you like to come with me, miss?"
I thought I heard her laugh as he swung the heavy belt buckle at me. I was ready for it and raced out of there with the Buddha chasing me. I made sure the door would slow him down and slipped out, got in my car and pulled away just in time.
Several miles down the road my heart leveled off to double-digit numbers. I was smiling. I'd stood up to that ass, well sort of, and got some nice masturbatory inspiration from his bitch, while leaving him a little surprise: On the seat next to me was one of the spark plug cables from his Harley. He wouldn't be going anywhere for awhile.
That afternoon I pulled into Camp Chanticleer, tired from the drive and the excitement. I'd squirted a lot of adrenalin outsmarting that thug, and I was exhausted. That was the closest I'd come to a fight since high school and, come to think of it, the best outcome.
I picked up the key to my cabin and cruised slowly along through the trees and the cool, scented atmosphere on a shadowy road encrusted with pine needles. All I needed was my duffle bag and laptop. I could do anything I wanted! Nobody was there to interrupt or bleed my time away. I could start a novel or play games, take a walk in the woods or a dip in the lake, or just sit on the porch and watch the sun sink below the pines across the lake. No worries, no nothing, nobody.
After stowing my gear in the cabin, I took a nap that lasted almost three hours, which for me is basically impossible. But I guess the ambience was so relaxing I just zoned out. Later when the sun was settling, I turned the lock on the back door and walked out through the trees to a loon's laughing cackle. The lake was only 20 yards off my back porch and when I got there I spotted the bird snaking along half submerged. It looked primitive, if not evil. That bird kept calling at intervals until I heard a competing sound, an unwelcome one, issuing up through the trees.
I didn't have to look. It was another motorcycle. Why was I being followed by motorcycles all of a sudden? Its slow chugging grew louder and with the sun all but down I figured I'd make my way back and hole up for the night, maybe break out the laptop. I trudged up the slight incline toward the cabin just in time to catch a glimpse of the bike as it went by. Of course, there were two riders: a big oaf in a blue bandana, and a handsome redhead in black. I couldn't believe it.
They
couldn't
have followed me. Then I realized the woman might've recognized my car. But how likely was that, I told myself. She couldn't have seen me sitting in it outside The Ferns, I hoped. But maybe nothing got past those soul-stealing eyes of hers.
Well, I could've left right then, and maybe I should've. I might've gotten my money back, but I doubt it. I could go somewhere else, some dive somewhere, but it wouldn't be Camp Chanticleer on the lake. No, I would have a good time inside my little cabin. And besides, maybe the two bikers were just cruising around. Chances are I would never see them again. It was a chance I took to save what little sanity I had left.
As the guttural roar of the bike faded, it gave way to the mosquito-like whining of female voices. There were three of them coming up the road toward my cabin, hailing and waving at me, which seemed friendly enough, except that they were all dressed in black. One wore a vest over a blouse cut low across her bust and a skirt like a tutu that echoed her haircut. She was more cherub than demon, despite the dark granny glasses, Maltese cross around her neck, and dark wine lipstick. Another was taller, thinner and paler. She looked more like a vampire in a long skirt and sleeveless top with leather straps across the belly like a corset. She wore her hair in long waves, black lipstick and a necklace with a cameo pin at the base of her neck. The third one came with skirt and plunging V-neck blouse with long, pointed lapels and a dog collar with silver spikes around her neck.
I waived back and smiled as they came closer, close enough to see they all used the same makeup artist. The heavy black eye shadow and white face powder made them look half witch, half kabuki dancer.
