For the Rest of My Life Part 2

By four o’clock, I’m bored—with trying to relax—to find peace by the sea—or more precisely, I’m bored with me.

I pack everything up and decide to go into town. I’ll have an early supper, come back and shower and then carry a glass of wine down to the beach and watch the sunset.

I spot Harry, my neighbor from the cottage behind. I shout to him, “Hey, where’s a good place to eat?”

He shouts back. “If you like ribs try Mr. Bones on Gulf Drive.”

Name sounds creepy, but you always ask a local where to eat. I wave back in acknowledgment. Mr. Bones it is.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing outside the eatery, looking up at a dancing skeleton on a slate gray sign. It even looks creepy, but I go in.

The décor is more reminiscent of Haiti with its Voodoo atmosphere. A life-sized clothed skeleton effigy guards the door—hell, even the beer is stored in ice in a coffin.

Like I said, creepy, but the sign above the door says New Orleans Trained Chefs—so, what’s not to like about that?

I pick a window table where I can stare out at the road and wayside parking lot. Sure enough, a biker gang shows up.

My heart sinks, but I already placed my order. I make up my mind to eat my meal and quietly leave.

I’m watching them horsing around in the parking lot and my gaze is drawn to one biker chick. She’s wearing road-tarnished leathers—both jacket and stovepipe chaps.

She’s heartstoppingly beautiful. She draws my soul right out of my body.

“Can I put this down, hon?”

I look up to see the waitress. I color and make room, pushing my beer aside.

Soon, the party spills into the restaurant, and I relax somewhat. The waitress knows the gang members and jokes good-naturedly with them.

Every table quickly fills. I’m staring outside wondering where my girl has gone, when I hear a soft voice.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

It’s the biker chick in all her tooled leather glory. “Sure—please have a seat.”

She sits down and her dark hair spills across her shoulders. She smiles at the antics of the pack leader—an older grizzled guy named Hoss.

I try to go through the motions of eating. Suddenly, she swivels around and smiles at me, “I’m Hettie.”

“Paul Rutledge,” I mumble through a mouthful of ribs.

“That looks good,” she laughs.

I’m feeling self-conscious and lift the napkin to wipe sauce from the corners of my mouth.

“Here,” she says, taking the cloth, and brushing it lightly across my cheek. “That’s got it.”

I’ve never been this close to a mermaid. My head feels like a bathysphere and my ears are singing like the sea.

“You’re not scared are you?” she asks.

I’m not sure if she means her or rat pack friends.

“No,” I lie.

“Some people don’t understand motorcycle culture.”

I nod. I’m one of them.

“Are you visiting?”

I nod again.

“I figured. You don’t look like a local. Where are you from?”

“Toronto. I teach university there.”

Her eyes dance. “Really? What do you teach, Professor?”

My ears are roaring now and my pulse is racing.

“I teach courses on love and romance.”

“Well then, you must be an expert.”

I color up to the roots of my hair.

“I’d hardly say that.”

“Do you believe in soul mates?”

“We get into that with Bronte’s Wuthering heights,” I hedge, “but I suppose I do—I’m idealistic enough.”

“I thought you were,” she smiles. “I saw you through the window and thought you looked interesting.”

I look around and see there were other seats available. She didn't have to sit with me.

I begin to tremble inside and can hardly breathe.

Romance like this happens in books and movies—it happens to other people. It doesn’t happen to me.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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