I eyed the stranger across the short distance of black top parking lot. "I wonder if he has any idea how right he is?" I thought to myself as I zeroed in on the point of his chin while making like a steam roller with somewhere to go, or something to do if you prefer. It took a few steps to register the jerk wasn't trying to make me any madder and in fact was trying to be reasonable, in a situation where reasonable wasn't exactly expected. His next words stopped me dead in my tracks.
"What's your problem?" He asked it in dead earnest, making me aware for the first time he really didn't know what the problem was.
He didn't even flinch when I stopped one twitch from rolling over him, probably the only thing that finally made that split second decision not to do what I'd intended at a point where turning back is all but out of the question. "What's the fucking problem?" I nearly screamed in his eye. "Just the, Fucking, truth. That's all!" The whole content of my reply (reply?) hung on that "fucking" word.
Total confusion ran off of him like a river. "Yea," he was almost shouting back across the few inches between us. "What's y'er Fucking problem?" I almost hit him. Almost, and I still don't understand why I didn't.
"Her!" I pointed with my thumb over my shoulder at the woman in her car as she sped out of the parking lot where I'd finally confronted her with the naked truth just by being there in front of her apartment when the two of them left for work at 6:30 that morning. "And the way she's been lying about seeing anyone else, stringing me along with a bunch of fucking stories that don't hold water. Telling me there's no one else, when everything she does says there is." I'd started to notice the other people coming out of their apartments. "How's that for starters?" My voice came down at least twenty decibels at the last.
That would be just what I needed, some neighbor to call the cops. Especially since one had already done that at about midnight when I'd nearly gone through her door, leaving my foot print and a cracked door jamb as my card. Not to mention nearly pulling the old steel frame window out of the brick front wall, cracking three panes and bending the frame so it wouldn't ever seal closed again.
"I've been wondering." Bummer commented. "Now last night makes a lot more sense." There was a break in the conversation while we moved ourselves from the middle of the parking lot entrance to let some of the other tenants leave for work. She'd left in her car, but his was still running where he'd left it in the drive. The looks we got from those people was as varied as there were people, but mostly the looks ran towards contempt for a couple of loud, seemingly violent, wild looking tramps.
While Bummer parked his car I began to wonder if it wouldn't be a good idea if I got scarce, on probation for substances and going on the fourth day of a run I just didn't want to talk to any cops. Those guys have a way of pissing me off, and I was already well pumped, so much so I was shaking from head to toe. I walked over to where Bummer was with his car.
"The truth. Just what the fuck is it?" Bummer asked as I walked up.
"That I'd better get the hell out of here before the cops show up again." I replied, and started to leave.
"NO! We need to talk." He stopped me. "If they come you're not the same guy as last night." That last was low and quiet. So low I had to think about it to piece the words together.
There was a long silence while we eyed each other. Finally his face took on that question kind of look. "Well?"
He and I talked for a while about the woman who had left in such a hurry just a few minutes before.
All that was on Wednesday morning. We didn't talk again until Saturday and that conversation was one hell of a lot different.
Bummer called, then ran the forty some odd miles up to my place Saturday morning. We'd talked for hours and had settled on a plan of action to take with our woman, then got into the more serious business of learning about each other. Actually, he'd already impressed me. There aren't many who could face me in the situation we'd been in Wednesday, and he'd done so with the outward cool of a statue, or fool. I'm still not really sure which. Which ever it was the one thing I am sure of is we became friends that week. Even if I have grown to despise his methods. Bummer. I've never called anyone "friend" who had a more fitting handle. I don't regret it though. Having him around has been entertaining, if not expensive; but the experience has been well worth whatever the cost may have been, and it really hasn't been all that high.
Like the time a couple months later. He had a storage unit full of old 45's and sportsters in Tucson he wanted to go get. It all sounded like a fine idea to me, so off we went in an old 65 dodge pickup I'd borrowed for the purpose. Oh, the truck ran fine, after I tossed the plugged air cleaner and fixed the clutch linkage. All thirteen hundred miles to his storage unit, then back. A total of 2600 miles on bald tires with no gas gauge or speedo. Or money.
Things went fine all the way across Oregon, a corner of California, and Nevada into Las Vegas. Bummer'd taken over driving near Beaty since I'd driven all that night and day to get us there. As long as we were on the open road things were all right too, but when we got into Las Vegas, on the freeway, going in, down hill at about 70 I think, the traffic stopped dead in front of us. I'd told him to slow down just before so he'd let off the gas, but the hill kept us moving even faster. The car ahead was starting to get too close and the brake lights were on.
"Bummer! Slow down." I was still half asleep.
He went for the brakes. The car ahead slid to a stop.
"OH SHIT!" I grabbed the dash, full awake and ready to hit.
We did. Just a glancing blow. Ha. If I'd have been quick I could have reached out and grabbed some of the pieces as they flew by.
Bummer put the truck in the next lane and kept trying to stop. Just then I heard more tires and looked back. The car he'd cut off was sliding out of sight under the tailgate.
"GO! GO!" I must have been shouting over the sounds of tires and metal.
"Why?" he asked, but stuck his foot in it just before the car behind would have crashed into us.
The lane ahead was open for about 300 yards and the truck was back on four wheels, I think, so I looked at the mess behind us again. The car we'd hit wasn't going anywhere, even if it could have. The car that almost hit us was stopped in the lane just ahead of where we'd hit the gas. That was the last I saw of them as we went around a slow right bend on that three lane concrete ribbon of moving metal.
We pulled off at the next exit, found a phone and called the cops, just like good citizens. Right! Bummer didn't have a license and thought he was wanted in Nevada, maybe. Right! Not only hit and run, but in a borrowed pick up from two states away. Things are looking better all the time and I've already made the call. While we waited for the man we cooked up our story and looked at the front of our truck. At least it was built out of some steel. A bent bracket and tweaked fender was all that showed. I crossed my fingers as the cop pulled in. Just as he pulled up I leaned over to Bummer and said, "Thanks, Bummer." Little did I know I'd repeat the phrase almost every day from then until we got home. "Thanks, Bummer."
The officer might have been a scooter tramp because he swallowed our story without batting an eye. After asking all the right questions and getting all the wrong answers, he grinned and asked if we wanted to press charges for hit and run. I must have dropped my jaw because he continued. "Sure, you reported it, the other car hasn't. They're late, which makes them wrong in the eyes of the law." Right... Wrong... Which is it?
Next stop, Phoenix, Az. Not for two more days. First we had to fuck off the rest of our money, then try to make Phoenix after spending the next day at Lake Mead and crisscrossing Las Vegas every which way. We had fun there, but that's another story.
We finally crossed the Boulder dam after dusk the next night, and drove on until we ran out of gas going up the last hill to Kingman. Right. Malice aforthought had provided us with a half can of gas, which I poured in the tank while standing on the center line. We finally started the old Dodge, crested the hill, pulled into the first open gas station and spent all but 30 cents of our money. It didn't even fill the damned thing. That's how the rest of the trip to Tucson and back went. Always out of money, nearly (nearly?) out of gas, and Bummer hitting everyone he could think of for a few bucks.
I think I really took a set about him when we got to the storage shed after picking up the paperwork and key from his parents (not to mention money). It was Sunday, the gate was open but no one was around. We tried the key, but it wouldn't even go into the lock. Shit. I'd brought everything in the way of tools and could have overhauled any part of the old Dodge, but I'd foolishly left my lock picks at home. Silly me. Not to be undone after 1300 miles, I used a scraper for a chisel and took the lock apart. I still have it. Need a good, slightly damaged lock, without key?
Yea, now we're into burglary and if that's not bad enough, we load that pickup to the top of the cab with assorted parts and pieces of no less than four Harley Davidsons, one almost completely assembled Sportster and a complete Servi-Car! All in broad daylight with the disassembled lock laying right there. He's on Parole, I'm on probation, three states from home and for all the world it looked like we were boosting the scooters.
I felt a head ache coming on. A big one. Oh Well.
We had a tough time getting it all in the truck, let alone covered. (Us? A tarp? What's that?) I think the only time I saw Bummer look worried was when I told him the spare he'd borrowed from his boss was on a ford six lug rim and our Dodge was five lug. I wanted to leave it to make room, but Oh No. He got it in the load somehow. I think he wanted it for ballast because it was useless as a spare!
Seven P.M. Sunday night and we hit the road back to Phoenix, where we had to stop and put the touch on his parents for gas money. Again. Even his mom calls him Bummer. Real Bummer. Then off we went for Las Vegas. At least I got to SEE the Boulder Dam since we crossed into Nevada after sunrise Monday morning.
After only three stops in Vegas and there was a serious lack of funds again.
"With a little luck we can make Reno, and I'll have my boss wire us some money there."
Right. We went hungry to Reno, rolled in on fumes, and no money in sight. His "Boss" suddenly forgot to answer his phone too, or rather refused the collect call from Bummer. That did it. Out of gas and out of food with only one blanket between us. I'd had it. This is it, Bummer. So, I called my woman and had her hit my man for a couple hundred and wire it to Susanville. Then I jumped in the truck drove up to the pumps and put in the faded twenty I've carried for ten years. Shit. Then drove all night again, picked up the Western Union Money Order and then found out nobody in Susanville would cash it for me without three major credit cards. Boiling? More like a runaway boiler.
After I finally talked the woman at Western Union into going to the bank at Ten O'Clock and getting my money, we had our first meal since Sunday night, and it was late Tuesday morning. That doesn't sound too long when you talk about it, but to say meals had been sparse since last Thursday morning, before we left, would be an understatement. Next was gas, then on to the Willamette.
On the way I let Bummer drive a ways again. Bummer. He almost ran over a covered wagon because he has no sense of speed (he said he couldn't feel the wind). We must have been doing 75 before he tried to slow up, but by then we were already by the old thing. The last I saw of them, the Mule Skinner had his hands full with six spooked Mules each trying to go it's own way. When he finally got it stopped it was all I could do to keep from choking the jerk.
Bummer. God what an appropriate name.
We stopped at the Oregon Logging Museum on Hwy 97 early that afternoon. I needed a break, and the peace and quiet of the woods seemed inviting. That worked well to until Bummer realized one of the antique chain saws displayed there was powered by a Harley 45. It's a damned good thing it's inside a 15 foot chain link fence with a double row of wire around the top. Rest. Unwind. Take a break. Not with Bummer along.
We finally made it home Tuesday night with all those scooter parts. We'd done it in a heavy half ton worn out Dodge on bald tires and a line of bull. Bummer. I know how he got his name. He lives up to it in every sense of the word. But, it was fun and we made it without killing anyone. We'd only destroyed one car along the way, and some how managed to slide by.