She Had Dirty Blonde Hair, a Decent Rack, Perfect Ass, and Looked Damn Sexy in Her Faded Dungaree Shorts...

Part 7: Despite the Eye Candy, Cindy and Mary Were Nothing but Trouble...

DKart. Getty Images.

As soon as Cindy and Mary disappeared through the door with Butch, the condo became strangely quiet. Moose and I turned, looked at each other, and burst out laughing. It had been a long, crazy weekend, and with the girls' departure, it was finally over. No one got hurt. No one got laid. And we all lived to party another day…

Moose and I did a thorough clean of the condo and aired out the Lincoln, so when my parents returned they'd have no reason to suspect that anything out of the ordinary took place in their living room or with my father's car, which escaped the wild ride without so much as a scratch. 

After cleaning the condo, we each had a slice of leftover pizza from Sunday and decided we'd roll Moose's motorcycle out of the U-Haul, which was still parked out front in the guest parking lot.

It was a gorgeous 750 Norton Commando and a highly sought-after motorcycle. He bought it from a local guy in Massachusetts who customized it himself. Nortons were one of the few motorcycles that bikers riding Harleys were okay riding with, and that acceptance earned the British motorcycle a good slice of cool that other British motorcycle companies, like Triumph and BSA, weren't able to. 

The bike was a kickstart, and even after sitting for a week in the trailer, with a wide-open choke, it only took a half-dozen kicks to get it going. It had a great sound, especially at idle, and that was probably why the Harley guys accepted it like it was one of their own.

Our only means of transportation was the Norton, and as much as I hated riding "Bitch", if I wanted to go anywhere that's what I had to do. It wasn't a good look for Moose and me…

We were out on the highway one afternoon, cruising well above the speed limit, when we spotted two hippie chicks passing a joint in an older red Volkswagen Beetle. Moose turned his head slightly and told me he was gonna pull up next to them and see if we could get a few hits off the joint. It seemed kinda dangerous to me. The old Beetles had mini floorboards that stuck out a bit.

We pulled up close, and the girl in the passenger seat rolled down her window. Moose asked, "How 'bout a hit off that joint?"

She was high and laughed, but she willingly hung the joint out the car window. Moose pulled ahead enough so I could grab it with my left hand. I figured I'd grab it, take a hit, and hold it for Moose so he could take a hit, and then give it back…

As soon as I had the joint, Moose grabbed a handful of throttle and just took off laughing. I cupped it in my hand, and we finished it on the bike.

Before I left Massachusetts, I sold my '68 Firebird to a friend who was gonna wire me the money after she got a college loan. I trusted her, and I shouldn't have. After several unanswered calls to her at UMass Amherst, I was forced to call her mother, who wired me the money, money I planned on using to buy a motorcycle.

We'd been living at the condo for several weeks when I finally received the money, and that's when I started searching the want ads for a motorcycle. After looking at an older BMW I didn't like, I found an 850 Norton Commando. We went over to take a look. 

It was faster than the 750, but it wasn't as nimble or as cool, so even after the owner, who had a sip of coffee with the Boston Red Sox in the '60s, lowered his price for a quick sale, I decided to keep looking.

I ended up finding a '73 Yamaha TX 650. It was Japan's answer to the British twins, and it was a solid bike. The guy selling it was in his early 40s, and when we arrived, his daughter was the only other person home. She was in her late teens-early twenties, five foot three, with a dark Florida tan, long dirty blonde hair, a decent rack, perfect ass, and looked damn sexy in her faded dungaree shorts. The outfit was innocent enough, but to Moose and me, two guys basting in testosterone, it screamed "fuck me!"

I took the bike for a short ride, and I liked it, so I made an offer. He accepted, and while we were filling out the Bill of Sale, he commented bluntly, "Didn't know Jews rode motorcycles…"

I stopped, looked him in the eyes, and said, "Well, this Jew does…"

"You're gonna drive it home yourself?" he asked mockingly.

Advertisement

"I'm gonna do my fucking best…"

We drove down in the Torino and we had taken the plate off the Norton in case this was the one. After I mounted it and we were ready to leave, the guy's daughter ran over to us and said, "My father's a redneck bigot, and I just want you guys to know I'm not like him…"

She stood there, looking at us like she wanted a ride out of there, out of her miserable life with her bigoted father. We could've kidnapped her, and she wouldn't've resisted, but after our weekend with Cindy and Mary, we knew better… 

The following morning, we went to the RMV, and Moose and I got Florida driver's licenses and I registered the bike.

Everything about the bike was stock except the crash bars. They were wide and definitely took away from the bike's aesthetic. I was gonna remove 'em, but I was too excited; all I wanted to do was ride.

When I asked Moose if he wanted to ride over to the bar in Dania Beach, he said no. Ever since we found that bar, we had a thing for two of the waitresses and began frequenting the place. Because the waitresses wore miniskirts and had outstanding gams, I nicknamed it The Legs Boutique. But Moose didn't want to overreact to my excitement; he instead played it cool and said he wasn't in the mood… I said, "Then how bout we take the bikes to the bar down the street on Biscayne?" He said he'd walk to that one and meet me there…

I rode the bike over, parked it on the sidewalk next to the building, and went in and found Moose already sitting at the bar. I sat on the bar stool next to him, and after we had three beers Moose announced he was heading back to the condo. My parents were away, so he had it to himself. I put on my helmet, started the bike, and headed for Dania Beach and The Legs Boutique.

Once I parked the bike out front by the entrance, I walked in, helmet in hand, feeling badass, like Brando in The Wild One (1953). 

Bettmann. Getty Images.

I took a seat at a table to ensure I'd get a waitress, and my favorite waitress came right over, placed a coaster in front of me, smiled, and asked, "Should I start a tab?" I only wanted to stay for a quick beer or two, but once I saw her smile and those fucking incredible gams, I suddenly became weak, and I smiled, nodded, and said, "Sure…"

I sat there for a couple of hours, drinking alone. My only interaction was with my waitress, who didn't seem to mind talking to me. She knew the more we talked, the more likely I was to keep drinking. I was hoping for something more…

When the bar was ready to close, I paid my tab and tipped her generously. I had at least 10 beers there and three in Miami, and when I walked out into the parking lot, I was feeling it…

Advertisement

I put on my helmet, started the bike, pulled out, and headed back to Miami. I had to take a ramp to get on the highway, and I don't know whether it was the beer or the gams, but my head wasn't in the right place. I didn't lean into the turn enough, and I veered over and hit the farside guardrail with my front wheel and went down.

I was on the ground with the bike on top of me, and in shock and disbelief, I just laid there. After a few minutes, I realized it wasn't a dream, that I had actually crashed. I had to get up off the pavement and off the ramp so I didn't get hit by a car…

Let's swim to the moon, uh huh
Let's climb through the tide
Penetrate the evening that the
City sleeps to hide
Let's swim out tonight, love
It's our turn to try
Parked beside the ocean
On our moonlight drive 

To be continued…

*All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental…