Page 8 of Cassie
Ask for Tugboat
Cassie
Eyes fixed on the screen, she stared for a long moment in confusion at the multitude of makes and models before diving in to build her knowledge base. At her most comfortable in front of the screen, Cassie spent hours on the computer as she reviewed individual specifications and pricing. Online, no one could see or judge you, and sitting at her keyboard was second nature. Her research into motorcycles included in-depth lists and notes on maintenance, as well as detailed information on resell value. Since she had no idea what she was doing, she’d thought it at least prudent to understand what she would get out of the motorcycle if she had to turn around and resell it.At this point, it is still just research. She then laughed aloud at the fallacy.You’ve already moved money over from savings, woman. Stop lying to yourself.
Over the past few days, she had gone back and forth in her head, listing pros and cons of buying a motorcycle, especially when she didn’t know how to ride one. More cons than pros, as to be expected, but there were three things that stood out on that side of the paper. One was a repeat of her thoughts when she had seen Mr. Rogers ride away on his motorcycle: a solitary activity, but forced to be in the world.
Another pro was a memory of being a kid and standing in the back of the farm truck, holding with white-knuckled fists to the headache rack as her friends drove fast down a dirt road. The wind would whip her hair around her face, feeding the feeling of freedom found in that rush of air. Head back, eyes closed, she remembered the blinding flicker of sunlight through trees that lined the road, and the knowledge that the world was rightthere, not separated by a door or pane of glass.
The third was her views on letting fear stop her, because it was one of the things she hated most about her anxiety. Often it wasn’t an anxiety attack that drove her to stay home, behind her door, or sometimes hidden beneath her covers. No, the fear of an anxiety attack could be the biggest impediment to getting out. With people being one of the largest triggers, she’d already found her activities curtailed to what she’d recently deemed an unacceptable level as she unconsciously avoided situations that could set things off.
As she thought this through, it seemed that being afraid of learning to ride a motorcycle would be normal. It was a real fear that most people would have. And as such, it seemed to be something she could tackle. An expected fear of something physical could be surmounted by besting whatever it was, and she saw this as a way to give her a foothold on recovering ground lost to intangible ones.
Staring at the motorcycle on the screen in front of her, she lifted her chin. Picking up the phone, she called the number of the local store and waded through several automatic messages until she could press the appropriate corresponding number for sales. When a man finally answered, she was proud that her voice didn’t quaver when she announced, “Your website has what is generally accepted to be a good starter motorcycle for women for sale. If it’s still available, I’d like to buy it.”
An hour later she received confirmation from her bank that the couriered check had been signed for, and she clicked the button to upgrade her automotive insurance online. Two hours later, she had delivery set for the following day and was immensely glad her garage was two bays, so she didn’t have to decide what to do with her car. As easy as that, she owned a motorcycle. Now she just had to get through the night.
***
She had heard the bewilderment in the salesman’s voice when she arranged delivery, and he had tried to argue the point of signing for the motorcycle. But before making the call yesterday, she had written down how she wanted things to go, so she had a script to refer to when he wanted to push back against what he’d seen as an unreasonable request. Now, today, this morning, she was waiting in the window seat overlooking the backyard, watching anxiously for the truck that would bring her new motorcycle home. “I bought a motorcycle,” she said, testing the words aloud, looking down at her twined fingers and laughing for the hundredth time at the ludicrousness of the statement.
A low rumble came through the windows, and when she turned to look outside again, she saw a motorcycle ridden by an older man coming up the street, followed by a truck with the dealer’s logo on the front door. After a moment, she realized he was riding her motorcycle to deliver it, and she gaped at the sight of the bike turning into her driveway. Belatedly, she hit the button for the garage door, watching through the window in the pass door as he rode it into the open space, making a quick three-point turn to park the machine facing out.
He dismounted and looked around as he pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his jacket. Seeing the envelope where she had laid it on the hood of her car, he stuffed the papers inside and then walked through the pass door, politely hitting the button on the doorframe to close the overhead door on his way through. It seemed only moments later she heard the letterbox on the front door rattle so she stood and made her way into the dining room.Nothing bad will happen. Tentatively approaching the door, she stooped and scooped the envelope from the floor, pulling out the delivery receipt notification. Quickly scribbling her name across the bottom, she shoved it back into the envelope and slipped it outbound through the letterbox.
Long, tan fingers came into view and plucked it from her hand. Cassie jerked back, startled at the nearness. “Ms. Williamson,” the man called, his voice pleasant, and she must have made a noise because he continued. “If you need anything, I wrote a phone number on the card attached to your paperwork. I can come show you how to check the oil, explain the gauges and switches, talk you through your first ride. You need anything, you call and ask for Tugboat, yeah?”
He didn’t wait for her response, and she stood frozen, listening to the sounds of his footsteps moving away.
Then she was alone in the house. Alone in the house, with a motorcycle in her garage.
Shaking her head, she sucked in a big breath and then blew it out slowly. “You did it,” she muttered and turned to walk upstairs.
Where she would stay for two days.
Because there was a motorcycle in her garage.
