by Dwan Abrams
“So it is gray?” Greg said, and held the tweezers up to the light. He squinted and stared hard at the hair. “You sure it’s gray? It doesn’t look off-brown to you?”
Shania stared at him and blinked a few times. “This is pitiful, Greg.” Against his protests, she took the tweezers from him and dropped them back into the pullout drawer.
“Hey!” he said, retrieving the tweezers and glaring at her. “I wasn’t finished.”
“Come on, I cooked you breakfast,” she said, and though he continued to protest, she hooked her arm through his and dragged him out of the bathroom. “You left in such a hurry, you left your phone on the nightstand. It’s been ringing off the hook. Nearly all the calls are from Franklin.”
He knew exactly what his co-worker Franklin was calling for, and it wasn’t just to say happy birthday. About a month ago, he had seen this beautiful BMW motorcycle on a TV commercial. On a whim, he had told Franklin that he was going to treat himself to it for his birthday. Though he had said it half jokingly, Franklin, a die-hard biker and collector of vintage cars, had taken his vow to heart; and from that day forth, he had continually bombarded Greg with enough magazines, brochures, and biker jargon to drive even the savviest motorcycle mechanic insane. He had to admit, though, had it not been for Franklin’s incessant pursuit of the whole bike issue, Greg wouldn’t even be considering slipping off to the BMW dealership to take a look at the motorcycles.
Still tugging at his arm and leading him down the steps into the kitchen, Shania said, “I figure since Franklin was calling so much, you two must have plans for today.”
“Not big plans,” he promised her, being deliberately aloof.
“Well, good, because I want you all to myself today.”
Greg frowned. “But don’t you have that big wedding coming up next weekend?”
“Yes, I do,” she said, “but that big wedding is going on the back burner. I have plans to make your day as special as possible.”
“Just being my wife is special enough.” He pulled her to a stop in the middle of the kitchen floor and tucked her into his arms, kissing her lips repeatedly. He ran a hand through her relaxed hair and gazed into her large, almond eyes. “You look delicious in that little slip.”
She caught his bottom lip between hers and said into his mouth, “Do I?”
His hands slid down to her thighs, and he hooked his thumbs under the hem of her lingerie, lifting it slowly. With his lips close to her ear, he said, “But you’d look even better without it.”
“No, no, no,” she said, laughing, and whisked out of his arms. “You had me up all night, giving you an early birthday present, and I’m still sore. That, my friend, will have to wait until later.”
Still laughing, she opened the oven, and he watched her long, shapely legs, seemingly endless as she bent over much more than was required to remove the domed silver tray. She was teasing him, and it took plenty of willpower to keep from scooping her up and carrying her back to the bedroom, flinging her onto the bed and ravaging her. They’d been at it a lot lately, probably because their wedding was just over three months ago, and technically, they were still in that honeymoon stage.
She pointed at the table. “Have a seat, Mr. Crinkle.”
As if on cue, his stomach growled, and he licked his lips, savoring the taste of their kiss as he strolled to the table and pulled out a cushioned chair. She removed the dome with a theatrical twist of her wrist and held her dainty hand in the air, singing, “Voila!”
Eggs Benedict, three slices of bacon, buttery grits, and mixed fruit. Not too heavy, and not too light—just the way he liked it.
“This looks great, babe. I appreciate it.” He leaned over and puckered his lips for a kiss, and she gave him a peck.
While Greg ate, Shania left the kitchen, then returned moments later with his iPhone. He thanked her and scrolled through his missed calls. Yeah, she was right. Twenty missed calls and fifteen of them were from Franklin, along with about a dozen text messages that all basically said the same thing:
Aye man, we still going? Aye man, answer the phone. Aye man, u ignoring me? Man, I knew u was gonna punk out. U worse than a female.
He laughed at the last text message, then decided to keep Franklin in suspense a little while longer while he returned his parents’ call as well as calls from his brother and sister. After he thanked them for their wellwishes for his birthday, he finally dialed Franklin’s number and held the phone away from his ear as Franklin exploded.
“Oh, so now you wanna call me back?” Franklin roared into the phone. “Man, forget you! I been calling you all morning. I thought we was gonna leave first thing this morning and get that bike. I knew you was gonna punk out. Something told me you was just spitting out hot air. Man up, Greg. You a thirty-five-year-old, rusty-behind, grown-behind man. Why you gotta get permission from your wife to get a bike? You already know she’s gonna say no. Now, you got me sitting here, all geared up, thinking I’m about to help my man pick out his first bike, and you straight stand me up. So that’s how we do things now, Greg? That’s how we do it?”
Once his friend finished blowing steam, Greg put the phone to his ear and said, “You still coming or what? I can be ready in like fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“A’ight, cool, dog. I’m on the way.”
Greg ended the call and chuckled to himself. That boy was a fool. Even though he had Franklin by two years, he often felt like he had him by twelve. Franklin was irresponsible, wifeless, childless, girlfriendless, only used proper English when he was at work—and even then, slipped in his Southern slang every now and then. And the only things he cared about were his bike and vintage cars. Greg figured that if Franklin could ever find that one good woman, handpicked, packaged, signed, sealed, and delivered to him by God, he would finally grow up and realize that there was so much more to life than toys and laughter.
Greg finished his breakfast and licked his lips. Shania cooked even better than his mother, and that was no easy feat, he surmised. He checked his watch and realized that Franklin would be arriving soon. After taking a quick shower, he tied a towel around his waist, and though he tried his hardest to ignore the mirror, he glimpsed at himself once more. He scratched his scalp and picked up a handheld mirror to check the rest of his head. As far as he could tell, his freshly faded hair was still black. Maybe that hair wasn’t gray, after all; maybe it was off-brown. He considered shaving his head again, but he didn’t have time to deal with that now.
Sighing, he put the mirror down, realizing that aging was inevitable. The only exception was death, and he wasn’t ready to die yet.
He went into the bedroom and changed into a ribbed crew neck shirt, jeans, and motorcycle shoes. The smell of chocolate cake wafted up through the vents, which could only mean one thing. Shania was downstairs in the basement, finishing another batch of those chocolate fudge cupcakes to complete the top tier of her cupcake pyramid. What happened to today being all about me and no work? he thought to himself, chuckling. But that was okay with him. As long as she was occupied, she wouldn’t bombard him with a thousand questions about what Franklin and he were up to.
Two horn toots from outside signified Franklin’s arrival, and Greg peeked his head in the basement, told Shania he was gone, and hurried outside to jump in Franklin’s truck. He prayed that he didn’t punk out.
Two
His butt had barely settled in the seat good before Franklin started in on him with the technicalities of the situation.
“Now I’m just gonna be real with you,” Franklin said, pulling onto the highway. “That bike you saw on TV was the real deal, ain’t no denying that. But that bike had to be at least 1000 cc. You try to drive something like that and you’ll find yourself wrapped around a tree somewhere.”
“Thanks for the encouragement,” Greg said dryly.
“No problem, buddy,” Franklin replied and gave Greg a heavy-handed pat on his back. “Get you something with that same design but shoot for 249 cc,
maybe 449 at the most. And we’re gonna look at the V-twins only, no I4s. Boy, those I4s are like driving a horse! All that power in the head—it ain’t for beginners, you feel me?”
“I’m not a beginner,” Greg reminded him. “I do have my license, and I’ve been riding bikes for years. I just never owned one.”
Greg usually rented a bike every couple of months. He stuck to highway riding or familiar biker trails. He hadn’t rented any bikes since getting married, because Shania didn’t know he had a motorcycle license.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Franklin increased the volume on the radio, nodding and singing off-key to a throwback song from the Commodores. Then he lowered the volume and said, “I can’t believe Shania’s actually cool with you getting a bike.”
“Who said she was cool with it?”
Franklin lifted his eyebrows, then jabbed Greg’s side with his fist. “Let me find out my boy has a little heart! But when you bring that bike home, let’s see how long you keep it before she makes you bring it back.”
“Who said I was bringing a bike home? I said I would look at it. I didn’t say I was going to buy anything.”
“Oh, you’ll buy,” Franklin said, nodding. “You wait until you find that right bike, the one that you can see your reflection in. And you wait until you sit on that seat and put your hands on those bars, and feel as though that very bike was created for no one else on this earth but you. And I guarantee you’ll buy.”
“Okay,” Greg said and popped his lips. “We’ll see.”
“Oh, we will see.”
Though he tried to conceal it, Franklin’s words sent a flood of excitement flowing through Greg’s veins. It was bad enough that he was even considering window-shopping for a bike, but at the thought of feeling that bike beneath him, fitting his body so perfectly, and owning it forever, he began to create drafts of a budget within his mind. As long as it wasn’t more than twelve thousand, he’d at least consider buying it.
His fascination for bikes began a long time ago, on one drafty summer day when he had stumbled upon something covered in tarp near the back of his father’s barn. Curious, he had lifted the tarp, and when he saw his father’s old polished motorcycle gleaming like a forgotten gem, his seven-year-old imagination had run away with him. He had hopped atop that bike and pretended as though he was zooming through a motorcycle marathon; he’d won first place at that marathon and then switched into his imaginative leather gear and taken a cross-country tour. He was halfway across the United States when the barn door flew open, and his mother’s frame appeared at the door, her face twisted in an almost comical expression of horror. She had given him the butt-whooping of his life, and he never got on his father’s old bike again.
After his mother told his father about the bike incident, Greg just knew that his father would give him another whooping on top of what he’d already received from his mother. But instead of beating him too, Mr. Crinkle brought him a load of biker publications and looked through them with him, giving him insight on the different bikes and answering any question that his son posed.
Unbeknownst to his mother, Mr. Crinkle would gather him and his brother, and they would go visit the local bike shops. He never understood why his dad wouldn’t indulge himself and get a newer bike; and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why his father wouldn’t take the bike he had out of the barn, fix whatever was wrong with it, and go riding down the interstate.
It wasn’t until Greg was a senior in high school and begging for a bike as a graduation gift that his dad confessed to him that he had actually owned a bike for many years before getting married. However, when he married Greg’s mom, at her urging, he gave up his biker lifestyle in exchange for a wife and kids. To keep peace in his relationship, he hadn’t ridden a bike since.
“You ain’t listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” Franklin said, snapping his fingers near Greg’s face.
“Yeah, yeah, I was listening,” he said, and he wasn’t completely lying. Even while lost in thought, he could still hear his friend’s ceaseless, never-ending, go-on-for-days—even if not a soul was listening—chatter.
“All I’m saying is this,” he said and put on his turn signal as he waited for traffic to pass so he could turn into the dealership. “Money talks. If you pay cash, you can talk them down on the price, at least ten percent.”
“Okay, Frank, I’ll keep it in mind.”
They pulled into the dealership and went inside with Franklin’s mouth still running a mile a minute. The salesman that approached them didn’t get a chance to speak a word to Greg before Franklin took over. But to Greg’s relief, his friend at least switched to proper grammar, for sake of propriety.
“Listen, sir, uh . . .” Franklin moved the man’s collar out the way so he could see his name tag. “Kyle. My man here is looking for a bike. Now, he’s a new rider, not real experienced, but not a total newbie either. What do you have that’s not too torquey, not too much top-end horsepower? But look, though, if you show us the V-twins, don’t show us something that’s going to vibrate like crazy when he pushes seventy.”
“Okay, okay.” Kyle nodded at Franklin, then said to Greg, “I have a few things you might be interested in. Just let me know the type of bike you’re looking for, throw me a price range, and we’ll make magic happen.”
They followed Kyle into his office, where Greg filled out some paperwork; then Kyle grabbed a set of keys and told them to follow him outside. A look of wanderlust appeared on Greg’s face as they walked behind Kyle, watching and listening as he pointed at the bikes and gave them a brief, but succinct explanation of each. The moment his eyes landed on the sparkly black BMW motorcycle with shiny chrome, he knew it was the bike for him.
“Excuse me,” Greg said, getting Kyle’s attention. “I don’t mean to cut you off, but tell me about this bike right here.”
“Yes,” Kyle said, nodding, “she’s a beauty, isn’t she? She catches a lot of eyes.”
While Franklin bombarded the man with the specifics, Greg walked circles around the bike, admiring its sleek design and the detail that was put into its manufacturing.
“Can I?” Greg asked Kyle and motioned at the bike seat.
“Sure, not a problem.”
Greg steadied himself on the handlebars and flung one leg over the bike. When he slid back onto the seat and let one foot slide atop the pedal, he felt like he had meshed with a half of him that he never knew was missing. A smile tugged at his lips as he thought about Franklin’s earlier words. He was right. There was no way that he could walk away from this dealership without this one.
“That’s the one,” Franklin said, smiling at Greg’s face and nodding. “It’s all over your face, boy. That’s your baby.” He turned to Kyle and said, “How big of a dent are we looking at here?”
“Well . . .” Kyle shoved his hands into his pockets and straightened his back. “That one’s sixteen.”
“Thousand?” Franklin and Greg asked at the same time.
Instead of answering their question, Kyle nodded his head and said, “But I guarantee you, it’s worth every penny.”
Franklin put a hand on Kyle’s shoulder and leaned in close. “Listen to me, bro,” he said, giving Kyle’s shoulder a little shake. “You can tell my man really likes this bike, right? So what if he gives you big faces right now, twelve fresh ones straight from the bank? You think you can shave some off that asking price?”
“Uhh . . .” Kyle’s face didn’t seem optimistic. “I don’t know if I can do that . . .”
“Yeah, you can do it,” Franklin assured him. “If Greg drives out of this parking lot with a bike that you sold him, that’s commission, baby. Your money doesn’t come from a paycheck. It comes from making sales. Don’t you want to make a sale? I’ll tell you this much. Twelve in the hand is better than sixteen in a bush.”
“Well . . .” Kyle’s face seemed a smidgen more optimistic. “Let me go talk to my boss. Then I’ll tell you what we can do.”
Once Kyle was out of listening distance, Greg slapped hands with Franklin, then gave him their brotherly handshake that they’d been doing for years. “Man, you are good!”
Franklin grinned and popped his collar. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a’ight.”
“See,” Greg continued, “that’s why you don’t ever have to worry about Mutual Living letting you go. Boy, you sell people insurance like you’re selling them chocolate cake.”
“Oh, you heard the rumor about the possible downsizing too?”
Greg sat back on the bike and crossed his arms. “Who couldn’t have heard the rumor? That’s all everybody’s been talking about at the job.”
“Are you worried?”
“Nope.”
“You sure look worried.”
Greg sighed and uncrossed his arms. He leaned forward and held on to the handlebars, pretending to rev up the motorcycle. “Maybe a tiny bit. But you know what?” He didn’t wait for Franklin to respond. “As much as I like the stability of having a nine-to-five, I wouldn’t be opposed to starting my own business.”
Franklin stood there in thought; then he put his hands in his back pockets and leaned against the glass siding of the dealership building. “We’re children of God, right?”
Surprised at his words, Greg looked over at his friend and frowned, then nodded. “Yeah, we are.”
“Then we ain’t got nothing to worry about.” He pointed up at the sky, at a black bird that was coasting just below the clouds. “If He takes care of the birds . . .” Franklin held his hands out and shrugged.
Greg knew his friend was right, and though he tried his best not to think about the possible downsizing, the question always seemed to linger somewhere in the nether regions of his mind. But before he could ponder the situation longer, Kyle appeared with the motorcycle key, and his smile was blinding.
