Page 23 of Road Rash

9

Jonesie

“Where are we heading?” I ask through the mic in my helmet.

“I thought we’d check in on your friends,” he answers. I really wish I could turn the volume down. The wind stings striking my face. He’s going too fast for this time of night. Anything could jump out in front of us. A deer. A possum. A pothole.

“It’s way too late for that.” And it is. Who goes to visit friends who’ve been in the hospital because of being shot and need to recuperate this late? It has to be close to midnight by now.

“Okay. Then I’ll get you something to eat.”

Food. Food might be good. The jury’s still out on that. I’m definitely hungry. My stomach’s been rumbling for a little while now. However, the constant headache keeps me in a perpetual state of nausea. It’s a crap shoot on whether food will actually sit. Maybe just a drink. An iced tea, perhaps.

We’ve traveled quite a way from Backwoods. He turns into a truck stop before we hit the main drag that would take us to the hospital I’d spent two days in.

“You know I don’t have any money, right?” I hold my arms up about shoulder height and spin slowly in order for him to peruse my outfit, such that it is.

“It’s on me, Jonesie,” he says as he reaches to take my hand. I’m not sure if it’s okay to let him hold my hand considering I’m with Dane, but Dane sent me off with him and he’s buying me food, so I assume it’s okay.

I let him lead me inside the stop. But before we turn for the diner, I veer us toward the store side. “My head is killing me. I need Tylenol or something.”

Thank goodness they have a bottle of extra strength Tylenol sitting on the shelf. He pays for it then with his hand to the small of my back, ushers me over to the restaurant. I expect at some point during the meal to get someone wanting to know if I need help given the looks I’m getting from the truckers and the wait staff.

We slide into a booth, Slim and I each taking a side. “What can I get you?” the server asks. She looks tired but pretty. Dark, almost black hair cut into a pixie cut. Killer figure. The kind of curves bikers love to ogle while drinking. I want to ask her if she’s thought about working The Rash. We could use the help. But seeing as a lot of shit has gone down this year—is still going down, I hold off.

Slim waits for me to order first.

“I’ll have an iced tea with lemon and honey and an order of peanut butter toast,” I say. Next, Slim puts in his order for coffee and waffles. The waitress nods then leaves to put our order in.

“Peanut butter toast?” he asks, chuckling.

“I’m hungry but it’ll be easy on my stomach. My headache is making that iffy.”

“Well, I’m sure the headache will go away soon enough.”

“It’s from the concussion. So, don’t really know how long that’ll take to resolve itself. Enough about me, though. How’d you get the name Slim?”

“My real name is Jim. There’s an old song by Jim Croce that says you don’t mess around with Jim.”

I nod because I actually know that song. It’s an oldie but it’s kind of like the “Sweet Caroline” for the biker set. The song is called “You Don’t Mess Around with Jim.” It might not be metal, but probably because it takes place in a pool hall, the bikers love it.

“So anyway,” he continues, “when my friends and I would go out drinking and shooting pool, they’d play that song. One night I was challenged to a game by some guy who’d seen me play. Turned out his name was Jim, too. When I beat him, all my friends started calling me Slim.”

“Because in the song, Slim beat Jim,” I offer.

“Right.”

“Makes sense. You lead a very interesting life,” I then reply, feeling comfortable. “We should probably call Old Man, though. He’ll want to come get me.”

During that whole time he’d been telling his story, the waitress arrived with our drinks, my toast and his waffles. Since toast doesn’t take that long to consume, I finish my last bite, chewing then swallowing. Then I suck my last bit of iced tea through the straw.

It’s been a long night. I’m ready to head to bed.

“Left my phone in my saddle bag.”

Okay. We sit a bit longer while he finishes up his food. This is nice, getting to know someone new. The reason behind it might not be the most favorable, but still… It’s all thanks to Dane. He’s changed my life every year for the last ten years. Subtly. Now this year I’m having a conversation with a regular who I probably wouldn’t have had the chance to converse with on this level if not for the shit storm going on around me.

Once he’s finished, he throws a couple of bills down on the table. Kind of a cheap tipper, I notice. He helps me from my seat and we stop by the register to pay before heading back to his bike.

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