Nick's Note: While I may write about my erotic interludes with a variety of women, I am not promiscuous. I do not 'hunt' women, visit brothels, or solicit streetwalkers. My stories cross a time line of thirty years or so, and my relationships with the ladies in these stories have lasted for any number of years; one in particular has continued off and on for the last twenty-five. I had the honor of being allowed to carry one of these true friends to her grave. All of these beautiful ladies know that all they have to do is call, and I will be there, as a friend. However, with that being said, if one calls wanting my body, I'm always early.
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It was early Sunday morning of the long Labor Day weekend. El and I were headed south out of the eastern part of Iowa. Headed south to hot water, clean clothes and a good meal for me, a bath and probably some wax for her.
We were both covered with the sandy dirt of the campground. I could feel it in the creases of my skin; like extra fine sandpaper, slowly working its way in. I could see it on El's paint, laying in clouds across her tank, changing shape with the light, a line of it on her speedometer glass, trapped against the bezel.
It promised to be a hot one, just like yesterday, but it was cool now, the dew still heavy, and the sun barely up. El and I seemed alone with earth and sky for the most part, so I gave her some leash, and she ran with it, wound tight, begging for the other gear I'd promised but never delivered, reining her in as we approached small towns and their limits, exhaust popping her complaint.
She never asked for much, did El. Just for me to hang on and to let her run. Her usual complaint being that I shut her down or was too long from her.
Some thought I had gone off the deep end with El. I've noticed that these are the same people that can't see or even look for an unspoken thought or desire in the faces of their loved ones or friends. I feel sorry for them. Over the years, I've learned that you can help, but you can't make people feel; they have to find their own way; they have to find their own salvation.
We crossed the line into Missouri at a small toll bridge on the Des Moines River. A four-lane highway is being built across the river now; you can see the new piers from the tollbooth. I'll miss this bridge, the toll taker always wanting to talk, never caring if you have to dig for change, asking your health, wishing you safe journey. Progress isn't all it should be.
Missouri is a 'helmet law state' so I always stop at the small gas station on this end of the bridge, get gas, on or off with the helmet, and smoke. I've earned a nodding relationship with the owner over the years, and he doesn't care if I loiter when it's cold or raining as long as I don't block the pumps or the door. On the southern run, I always get coffee, hunker down and lean back, catching the heat reflected from the block of the building and watch the big rigs cross the bridge silhouetted by the rising sun.
As El and I continued south, I let my thoughts drift around the curves of my mind, thinking about stories and poems, things I need to get done, things said or implied, sometimes silently singing, or listening to El's song, and then it came to rest on Maggie.
I had met Maggie and her husband Jim up in Sturgis about seven years ago; camping next to them, we just seemed to hit it off even though they were both at least ten years younger than me. Sharing whatever we had that the other needed, doing the rides together; Needles Highway, Crazy Horse, Devil's Tower; watching all the crazy shit go down in the campground at night, gambling in Deadwood, and whatever else took our fancy. I met them up there every year since, even rode home with them; spending the night at their place in K.C. before heading across the state to my home. Until two years ago, anyway.
Maggie showed up alone that year and only stayed part of the one day. Jim died that January. Maggie looked used up; no tears left, and in a monotone told me that she was only there to spread his ashes and wanted me to go with her, that it was one of his wishes. I followed her to the western approach to the Badlands and watched her offer him to the winds on the grasslands.
As I watched her head east, I couldn't ever remember feeling that much pain for a fellow human being.
I stopped on my way back from Sturgis, she wasn't home, and so I left her a note to call me. She never did. I tried calling her from time to time, but the phone just rang. I let it go.
Maggie kept crossing my thoughts as El and I headed down the road, just wondering how she was, wondering why I never heard from her, wondering why I never tried to contact her again.
El and I hit Hannibal, stopping for gas. I remembered hearing that the northern east/west highway was a good run across the state, so for grins I checked my map. I thought, 'Fuck it', I'd know how she was and be done with it. El and I headed west for K.C.
It was a good run until we got past Chillicothe where we caught some hard-hitting rain. I had to slow down for a chance to guess where we were on the road with the passing cars kicking up spray and coating the inside of my glasses. I finally stopped under an overpass and put on goggles as much as I hate them; feeling like my head is in a fishbowl, like I may as well be driving a cage.
It rained all the way to the interstate and sporadically into north K.C.
I pulled up to an overgrown yard, flowerbeds choked with weeds, and soggy newspapers littering the driveway. Maggie answered the door in a robe, very pale, almost ashen, hair a mess, dark circles under her eyes. Gone was the girl that had to have makeup to leave the campground, had to brush out her hair at every stop, always wanting to look her best. She just walked away from the open door, didn't even say hi.
She had given up. I won't describe it.
I followed her into the kitchen, found her smoking, drinking coffee, table littered with crap.
"Is this one of Jim's last wishes, Maggie?"
"Aw fuck you, what do you care? Nobody else does, why should you?"
"Don't hand me that. You only had to call. I would've listened. I would've cared."
She snorted at me.
"You know, it doesn't have to be like this Maggie. I know it hurts. I know it hurts so fucking bad you want to die. But you don't have the guts to do it quick, do you? I didn't either."
She finally looked at me. I gave her a small smile and nodded at her.
"Yeah, me too, Maggie. Come on, get dressed, let's get you out of here, get something to eat."
She came out after awhile, dressed in jeans and a blouse, no makeup, but she had brushed out her hair.
We took her truck to a Denny's, where she mostly stared out the window and pushed her food around, until I kicked her in the shin.
"Yeah, I'm still here. I never knew you were this ignorant to people. Now look, I'm paying for this crap, so eat up. Now."
We talked on the way back to her place. She told me that Jim's parents didn't want her around, didn't want the reminder, and didn't care for her to begin with. Told me that she had no kin, no one to fall back on. She couldn't find it in her to start over. She quit her job, lived off the insurance, and just waited.
We spent the night talking. I listened to her talk about Jim and their plans, held her when she cried, tried to make her feel that I understood her pain and that I cared. I told her a little about Annie, how friends found me and helped me on my way.
The sun found us still talking.
"You know I can't just leave you here to start this all over again, don't you? It would make me feel better if you'd stay with me for a spell. I've got the room, and the price is right, so go pack up some stuff and we'll be on our way. We'll take your truck, you can come back to this whenever you want, ok?"
Maggie hesitated and started to object claiming she'd be a burden, that she was ok now, that... I stopped her with one word, "Bullshit." She got up to pack.
