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Vesparados

Russ Doherty

    When I woke in the dark, I didn’t know where I was. Then Rob’s snores reminded me I was in a mess of my own making. I heard a click and saw Madison walk in, outlined against the hallway light. She must’ve come back. I pretended to be asleep as she came toward the bed.
    Madison whisper-spoke as she knelt by my side. “I love you, Scout. I always have. But I hate that you need to be with a man. He’ll never take care of you like I would. Please, let’s go.”
    Ignoring this late-night plea from my ex-lover made me question my honesty. Perhaps I wasn’t good enough to be Madison’s friend and my failure would further ruin our relationship. But it wasn’t the time or place to rehash everything. She was still trying to drag me back to the past. Then I wondered if I’d ever be able to analyze someone and help heal them when it was obvious I couldn’t even figure myself out. What do we really know about ourselves, any of us?
    Madison silently cried and I hoped she wouldn’t wake Rob. Eventually she walked out of the room.
    Shortly after, I heard her Vespa drive away.

* * *

    Madison and I had gone out riding on a crisp, moonlit St. Patrick’s night with our girls’ scooter club, the Vesparados. The two of us had broken up three months ago, and I’d agreed to go cruising with her and the club just to prove we could still be friends.
    A wild crowd filled Marsh Street in front of the Brendan Behan in downtown San Luis Obispo. Madison said, “This pub might work for my Political Science Department fundraiser.”
    Then we met Rob and never rejoined our scooter girls.
    Rob was sitting cross-legged on his Harley—with a teddy bear’s head popping out of his black leather jacket. The contrast was hilarious. It was midnight and he was parked in a red zone, drinking out of a large beer cup, begging to be noticed.
    I pegged him as maybe ten years older. He invited us to join him, saying he could get us right into the pub. It was wall-to-wall dancers inside the window, and the line of green-clad students outside was half a block long. The band was playing crazy-fast Irish music. It reeked of a good time. I wondered how he had the pull to jump the queue.
    Rob set his beer cup down on the sidewalk and said, “Follow me, round back.” His Harley was flashy and loud, chrome and black and angular. After we parked and dismounted, he held up a wooden cigarette case. “Got a light?”
    “Tell me that’s not a pickup line,” I said. Madison flipped her lighter to him.
    His face—half visible in the moonlight—was open, crinkly, and ready to laugh or cry or fight. He was stocky, tall and rugged, black hair and a scruff beard, so different from the usual bikers with their pot bellies, tattoos, and ponytailed hair. Rob was built, but not like a dentist or CPA who’d always dreamed of owning a Harley. He was the Marlboro Man, on a chopper.
    It’d been two years since I’d slept with a guy. And he’d been a boy, not a man.
    A warm smile spread across Rob’s face. “Sorry. It’s not a pickup line, I just ran out of matches.” He slid back the top of the cigarette case and tipped a joint into his hand. After he toked, he held it up to me. “But it could be.” His voice was full of smoke and hope.
    I shook my head no—to both questions—though my mind was churning.
    Madison never cared how she felt when she was riding and, reaching out, took a healthy drag off the joint. She was dressed as usual: dark rumpled hair, sweatshirt, jeans, and hiking boots. Rob raised his eyes at her. “I’d say that’d make a nice selfie—you, the joint, and your green Vespa.”
    He handed the lighter back to Madison. “My name’s Rob.” His Irish lilt was nice to listen to, like a sunlit melody with a dangerous undertone of bedroom. He looked me in the eye, ringing my bell. I decided to push back.
    “So tell me, Rob, what do you do when you’re not loudly riding your Harley around town with that teddy bear popping out of your leather?”
    He shook his head and removed the bear. “Teddy’s my muscular dystrophy mascot. And I own this pub.” He pointed to the back door.
    That stopped me. “Why’s your pub named Brendan Behan?”
    “It seemed to fit. I like books and I sell drinks. Behan called himself ‘a drinker with writing problems.’”
    Rob was funny, the offhand way he talked. “I love to read,” I said. He nodded at me.
    Madison took another puff. “Do you agree with the IRA’s platform of reuniting Ireland?” Madison loved arguing politics.
    Rob said, “I try to stay out of politics myself.”
    We entered the pub, crunching on peanut shells covering the floor. It was a kaleidoscope of green: streamers and hanging Guinness signs, blinking lights and hats and leprechauns. Rob seemed to know everyone as we pushed past the toilets, the pool table, and up to the front. He talked into people’s ears, the music and crowd being so loud. Everyone was yelling, clinking glasses, throwing darts and peanut shells, and buying drinks for their friends. The band was playing the usual Irish songs—“Whiskey in the Jar,” “Galway Girl”—but at a frenetic pace, like speed metal.
    The Irish Car Bomb was the St. Paddy’s special. A cluster of people lined up at the bar simultaneously dropped their shot glasses of Baileys Irish Cream into their pints of Guinness and then drank down the foaming, root-beer-looking concoction. I predicted hangovers for everyone the next day.
    Rob grasped our elbows and bellied us up to the bar. Bunches of large paper muscular dystrophy shamrocks, with people’s names and the amount they donated, were taped to the long mirror behind the bar. A severely tattooed, short bartender in a black T-shirt and green-sequined fedora smiled and shook hands with Rob while asking our names; we had to yell them out. Rob ordered Car Bombs for us, but we said no and asked for Guinness. He wouldn’t let us pay.
    We could hardly talk because of the ear-splitting noise. Rob motioned us back outside. On the way Madison tried to hold my hand. I kept moving, acting like I hadn’t felt anything. It was quieter out back. My head was fuzzy from the ride, and the Guinness wasn’t helping.
    When we first came to Cal Poly five years ago, neither of us knew what to study. Eventually Madison honed in on political science after finding a lesbian advisor on the faculty. I decided on psychology to try and figure out who I was. Now we were still there, getting our master’s degrees, and I still didn’t know who I was, though I found myself overanalyzing a lot. I had no idea how I was going to earn a living or who I wanted to love.
    Rob asked me what my favorite book was, and I said, “To Kill a Mockingbird.” His eyebrows went up; Madison snorted.
    “What’s so funny?” he said.
    “That’s why she’s called Scout.” Madison hooked her thumb in my direction.
    He grinned. “That’s how you got your nickname?”
    “My dad was a lawyer. I’ve always wanted justice done from the time I read Mockingbird. Cal Poly’s probably not the best school for me. There’s an undercurrent of racism.”
    “You study law?”
    “No, psychology. I want to know why people misbehave, not convict them.”
    “Well, I’d say there’s a few of them racist yahoos here tonight. I don’t mind taking their money ’cause they drink a lot. But I like to see justice done. I was a guard in Donegal.”
    “A guard?”
    “Sorry. That’s a police officer in Ireland. We have a national police force.”
    That set me back. I could see Madison thinking about that also, smoking pot with an ex-cop. But pot was legal now.
    “Some people are coming back to the house after we close. Me and the girlfriend are throwing a little party. Maybe you two could join us?”
    Perhaps it was the beer or the secondhand pot smoke, but the atmosphere changed. Rob looked me top to bottom: blonde ponytail, pea coat, yoga pants, and sneakers. He smiled. Click.
    Ever since my sixteenth birthday, my body had felt like foreign territory: I owned it and usually somebody valued it, but not me. I’d never understood what people saw when they looked at me. I always thought, Why me? I could just as easily be a cat, a twig, a wave on the ocean. For so long I’d felt like I was ten years old, still a skinny runt of a girl. But my years at Cal Poly had worn away the lonely old questions and replaced them with a fact of my own: I liked sex. And that night the exhilaration had me going. I wanted to throb with the music and drums and shine bright, if only for one night.
    Yet I wasn’t sure how to respond to Muscular-Teddy-Bear Rob with Madison there.
    “Let’s join them,” I said. Madison nodded.
    It was the middle of the semester; no tests or papers were due. I had to teach the next day but not until late. I assumed Madison agreed because of her fundraiser idea. Rob had just said he had a girlfriend, so I couldn’t tell if that affected me. Still, I knew I wouldn’t mind seeing what the inside of his house was like. We headed off.

* * *

    When we arrived Madison started back in on Rob. She wanted to know if all Irish cops were supposed to be apolitical. Rob gave me the “help me” look. I didn’t want to get in the middle, so I walked off to explore. The house was male-decorated with polished wood floors, black-and-gray patchwork throw rugs, and leather sofas. I didn’t sense “the girlfriend” lived there.
    On the walls were large paintings with bold colors. One was a collection of nudes called Hidden Landscapes, extreme close-ups of various body parts, necks and thighs and breasts. The others were Cezanne-like landscapes with natural objects—bridges, mountains, trees—reduced to geometric shapes, no people, cars, or weather. Beautiful. I wanted to understand what made an Irish biker/cop/pub owner decide to collect art. And I wanted to explore Rob’s brain, see how he ticked. What would it be like, being with someone who had it together?
    Walking through the hallway I ran into Rob’s girlfriend, Alexis. She asked who I was, and as I tried to explain she interrupted me and said Rob was always bringing stray girls home. She wasn’t happy to meet me. She said she owned a spa that Rob had helped set up. Then she confided they were getting married, but I didn’t see a ring. A tall, loud woman, maybe five years older than I, her dyed-blonde updo was a mess. Most of it had escaped and was trailing down both sides of her face. I wouldn’t have put him with her. Would I look like that in five years?
    In the kitchen I poured a glass of merlot and continued sightseeing until I found the heated garage with Rob and Madison, the tattooed bartender, and two couples smoking more pot. The polished concrete floor gleamed in the low light. Rob looked uncomfortable but smiled when he saw me. Madison was still pontificating. She loved to disagree. That’s one of the reasons I needed to give myself some space from her.
    And I didn’t see how arguing was going to help with her fundraiser.
    “Isn’t the gay prime minister of Ireland, what’s his title, taoiseach?” She pronounced it tee-shock. “Isn’t he committed to reunification?” I was lost as to where she was going.
    Rob said, “Most everyone in the Republic is committed to reunification, but it’s Northern Ireland that has to vote it in. I don’t see that happening any time soon. And I’d like to stop talking politics if we could.” Madison frowned. She never wanted to stop.
    Through the door someone yelled, “We’re dancing.” Everyone left except Rob and me.
    “Can’t go in just yet,” he said. “The girlfriend’s no picnic right now.”
    I had a death grip on my wine glass, as if it would fly away if I relaxed. “She said you were getting married.” I thought I should get that out in the open.
    “In her dreams, maybe.”
    That was a major disconnect. She’s engaged and he’s not.
    “I’m not the marrying kind,” he said. “She’s definitely not happy about that.”
    “She said you’d set her up with a spa business.”
    “That I did but she doesn’t have the head for it. No matter how many customers she gets, they never come back. In business you have to get along with your customers. She likes to tell them what they’re doing wrong and how they should fix themselves. People go to a spa to relax and be pampered, not to find out what you think of them. If I did that with all those eejits from the college, I’d never have any customers. Sorry, I’m just rambling.”
    “You say ‘sorry’ a lot.”
    “Sorry.” He grinned.
    That struck me funny and I started giggling.
    “Now, are you gonna argue politics also?”
    “Nah. I’m easy, I’m just having fun.” I wiped my brow.
    “A little warm in here for you, is it?” he asked.
    “Maybe there’s too much heat, or beer and wine, or the pot smoke. I don’t usually get this high. What else did you and Madison talk about?”
    “Not much. I thought at first she was a curious little sprite of a Vespa girl. But she made it clear she was gay and wasn’t interested in men. I said I was just making friends. Dunno why people attempt to make friends with me. Maybe they want free drinks, maybe they like my accent, or maybe they heard I set women up in business. Then she started back in on politics. No matter how many times I said I don’t do politics, she wouldn’t let it go. Then she asked if her department at Cal Poly could hold a fundraiser at my pub.”
    “Really?” I acted like I knew nothing.
    “Really. I told her I don’t do business at parties, but if she wanted to come round to the pub during the day, we could talk about it. And I’m telling you now, pigs will fly before I host a party for political wankers.” As he was talking he picked up an ice cube from a bucket on the clothes dryer. He touched it to my forehead. “This might cool you off.”
    I didn’t know what was going on. But I liked it. “That feels wonderful.”
    He moved the ice cube around my brow and said, “Are you two a couple?”
    So he thought I was gay also. I’d actually expected another pickup line.
    “No. We were at one time but it didn’t work out. I’ve decided I like men.” I got quiet, thinking of the midnight talks I used to have with my dad about my alcoholic mom. “Late last year my dad died in a car accident. That triggered my breakup with Madison. My life wasn’t very happy at the time and I needed to work on who I wanted to be. We’ve drifted farther apart ever since I moved out.”
    He pulled the almost-melted cube from my face and stepped forward. “That was some story.” Water was dripping off my nose and chin.
    Madison abruptly walked in and stared at me, then at Rob. We were too close, too serious. I wondered if she’d been listening outside the door. Sometimes she scared me.
    “What’s going on? You okay?” She snapped at me, her eyes bleary from the pot.
    “I’m fine.” I couldn’t tell what agenda she was pushing. But she usually interrupted whenever she thought someone was trying to make a move on me. I was sure she still fantasized about our relationship.
    It had started one night during our third year at Cal Poly. I was drunk and lonely, crying in bed. She crawled in and held me. I told her about the two guys in our coed dorm who tried to get me to go to bed with both of them at the same time. One had insulted me by saying it was probably the only way I’d be getting laid. She calmed me by putting her finger on my lips and whispering in my ear how valuable I was as a human being. She told me to do my inventory and think about all the good qualities I had and how I’d befriended her. Then she said she loved me and replaced her finger on my lips with her own lips. I was so sad I responded. When she started touching my breasts, I gave in. I’d never experienced love with a girl before.
    Often I’d felt inadequate with her, a poor substitute for the girlfriend she really needed.
    Back in Rob’s garage seconds were ticking away on an antique clock on the wall. Madison glared at Rob. “If you hurt her, I’ll fucken kill you.”
    Madison talked like she had nothing to lose. It really put me off.
    “C’mon, let’s go, I want to leave,” she said to me.
    “No, I’m having fun. I’m good. We’ll catch up tomorrow.”
    She frowned and backed out of the garage, giving me a jealous glare. Nothing had happened, yet she had her claws out. I didn’t know if Rob and I would become an item or not, but I knew if we did Madison would be pissed.
    “Madison equates men with abuse,” I said.
    I had my own life to live, and I needed her to know it. I also was aware that if I continued on with Rob, it could undo the remains of our friendship.
    Anyway, I was horny and I wanted to get to know Rob. There comes a time when you measure what you want in the moment against the consequences of actually getting that thing, and then you decide: forward or back? I needed to go forward. My body vibrated. I smiled at Rob to let him know I wasn’t worried about Madison.
    Rob shook his head. “Christ on a camel, she’s no day at the beach. Give me a minute.” As he left the garage I felt I was making the right decision. When he came back he said both Madison and his girlfriend had left.
    “You have a nice art collection. What made you buy those paintings?”
    “My mother painted. She died when I was young. My father burned her paintings when he remarried, said he didn’t want problems with the new wife. I hated him for it. And I didn’t like the new wife much either.”
    He said he was learning to paint and showed me his studio. The painting on his easel was an outdoor scene: an overcast day, a golden field with trees in the distance, and a stone house with a thatched roof. The field sloped down to a shoreline with an abandoned boat and seabirds. The muted watercolors were nicely blended. It was a simpler landscape than those on his walls. But never would I have expected it from a guy driving a Harley. It transported me.
    He pointed to the photo he was using as his model and said, “This is just outside the village where I grew up. My mother used to paint the same scene.”
    When I looked behind his eyes I thought I could see the little boy who’d lost his mother, somehow trying to recreate the memory of her.
    We went to his bedroom.

* * *

    From that night on, Madison never talked to me again. That was her version of justice.
    Later, Rob helped me open a Marriage and Family Counseling practice. We took long rides on his Harley, had picnics and comfortable, romantic dinners. He even said he wanted to show me Ireland. But I was still never quite sure what he saw in me.
    Late one night we were alone in his pub having a drink, the doors were locked and there was just one dim light throwing long shadows. I told him the setting reminded me of a Joni Mitchell song where she sang ‘All romantics make the same mistake.’ How they turn cynical and drunk, boring someone in some dark café.
    I said I hoped I didn’t bore him. He just took my hand and smiled. I felt safe.
    Then eventually he found another girlfriend, breaking my heart.
    Now I’m finally getting better at healing others, but I’m still pretty bad at healing myself.

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