It was a cold day in Tacoma. Vashon Island was hidden in it’s own blue-gray haze and the wind found the open spaces of my red ski jacket. I had already walked around my house and yard four times. Five times was a good goal. Just plain gave up and settled for four and went back inside.
Inside I started to take off my jacket, but stopped. I thought to myself, why not just wear it and lie down on your bed and nap. I entered the bedroom only to see Rose, my wife, asleep and curled up at an angle on top of the bedspread with a wool blanked wrapped around her and a slight contented smile on her face. I slowly backed out of the room and wandered toward the living room couch only to find a short flimsy blanket covering barely two cushions. I told myself, “This is just not your day.”
“Well”, I said, “I don’t have to stay here I’ll go for a drive.” I turned to our mail table to pick up the keys for my classic GTO and remembered my car was getting tuned and a beauty treatment. I looked at the Chrysler Pacifica key from the shop, shrugged my shoulders, grabbed a house key, locked the front door and got into the silver loaner. It warmed up faster than I expected, and that made me smile.
I got to Pearl Street and thought about going to Pt. Defiance or driving onto the ferry and driving around Vashon. I didn’t think long, it looked as if there was a multitude of cars heading in the direction where I was looking at going. Instead I took a left, jumped at the chance to be second in line at the coffee stand in the grocery store parking lot across the street, and then headed to nowhere in particular . . . making good time and sipping a decently large container of coffee.
If I can’t go to Vashon I can certainly make it to Gig Harbor. I hit the freeway so proud of myself until I saw the Narrow’s Bridge disappear in the fog. Everyone was being so careful . . . and slow, but once over I took the first exit and turned around and headed back to Tacoma. Off the bridge I took the next first exit and turned right to Sixth Avenue. I knew where I was going. I pulled into the driveway of Pao’s my favorite coffee and donut house, only to realize that it was Sunday and they were closed. I settled on the to-go driveway of McDonald’s for two large coffees and four orders of fries. I only planned on telling Rose about two orders.
I drove through the foggy slow traffic and finally, took a right, figuring I could stop at a small park. I gave up again and turned around, parked illegally, half on the sidewalk, kept the engine running and sipped coffee and ate a fry. I was warm and cozy. I was maybe a hundred yards from the freeway. I enjoyed myself, content in the Pacifica.
As I ate my fries and drank my coffee I realized that I needed to pee. Out of the car, I moseyed around and walked up a little hill among the evergreens. Done, zipped up and looked around at the scenery and moving fog. At one point I did a little double-take. I saw two figures moving around in the bracken this side of the freeway. The two were involved in something. They had a rope and an electrical cord. Just beyond the two was a drainage pond that is fed by rain running off from the freeway, which keeps the freeway safer to drive. I had seen the pond before. Rose and I had stopped the car once there in the middle of the road to allow a mother duck and her ducklings to cross the road safely.
I sipped my coffee, ate my fries, and watched the show play out. The two guys were seriously working at something. I decided to find out what was going on. Yes, I know . . . it was stupid, but I couldn’t leave it alone. I simply walked across the street carrying my second cup of coffee. The two guys stopped and watched me as I approached. I nodded at them and said, “Just curious. Would you like some coffee? It’s still kinda warm.” Keeping an eye on me they shared the cup and became more at ease.
One spoke: “I’m Jerry and this is Frank.” I said, “It looks like you found something.” Frank smiled and said, “Yeah, we don’t know what we found, but some time ago we saw someone chucking stuff into the lake here. It’s light, there ain’t much traffic, and we had nothing better to do. We took the rope off our little tent, and grabbed some electrical wiring some worker threw away and thought we would take a look.”
“What do you think you found?” I asked . . . “I know nothing and don’t care legally, I’m just wondering. You don’t have to tell me anything.” They laughed and shrugged their shoulders. Frank said, “I think it’s a stolen motorcycle.” I asked, “Why do you think that? Jerry disappeared in the brush for about 15 seconds and returned with the front wheel fender of an azure blue Harley. I nearly choked.
Frank said, “We don’t think it’s all there. I guess that most of the bike is scattered from here to god knows where.” I agreed, but said, “I have a friend who had special blue Harley last year. His wife bought it for him as a gift. Before they got it insured, someone spirited the bike away and it was never seen again. It liked to broke both their hearts. The two shook their heads. They understood.
I pulled out my wallet. “I’ve got a hundred dollar bill here. It’s yours for the fender.” Their eyes widened and in unison said, “Deal!” I added, “Keep looking and I’ll buy what you find that looks like it belongs to the complete bike.”
The next day I had a waterlogged saddlebag, a boot, and a number of other flotsam. I paid. The two were thrilled. My friends, Marie and Scott were thrilled . . . and Rose and I were thrilled. I gave them the fender and the rest of the booty. They were overjoyed. They didn’t get their bike back, but they did get something solid they could touch as a remembrance. Sometimes, it’s the little things that matter.
