When I first arrived out in Arizona I was pretty naive. Actually I was very naive. You have to understand that I was 17 when I graduated from high school, 17 when I graduated from Basic and Advanced Training, in the military, and 17 when I moved from Pennsylvania to Arizona, 2300 miles and 36 hours from the only place I really remmeber living. Plus I was pretty well sheltered, even though I had gotten slightly drunk and smoked a substantial quantity of marijuana by then.
I was still quite wide-eyed and gullible. Example, When a guy offered to give me a blow, I misentepreted that as do you want to do a line of coke, when actually he wanted to give me a blow job. That second thought never occured to me. I really hadn’t had any encounters with gay people. Or I didn’t realize that I had. I knew a couple gay guys in high school, and looking back, it was pretty obvious they were gay, not a couple or anything, guys from separate aspects of my school years, but gay for sure. And then this guy picked me up hitch hiking in Phoenix and I really had no clue.
But getting on with the real story I wanted to write about today, I got run over once while riding my ten speed home from college one day. Actually that sounds more dramatic than accurate. It was a slow speed demolition of my, oh, let’s just start over at the beginning.
The first college I flunked out of was DeVry in Phoenix. While going to school there, I rode a bicycle back and forth to school. I was the poster child for the poor broke college student. I shared a one bedroom apartment with another guy, twin beds in a small shared bedroom. Looking back, I think eww. But I had shared with brothers growing up so the concept wasn’t too foreign at that point. Cutting to the chase, I was riding my bike home one day and I was riding down the sidewalk. I saw a car starting to pull out, I stopped and she stopped. We made eye contact, both nodded our heads and both proceeded.
It was a slow speed accident. Looking back, it seemed to be in slow motion, (similar to this story you are reading, if I haven’t lost you already) the bumper hit my bike, I jumped clear and the bike was under the front wheels of the car. The woman backed up and got out of the car. I picked up my bike and looked at it. my rear wheel was bent like a horse shoe. The woman walked over to me and asked if I was alright. I was. She asked if my bike was alright, I said it was fine and I could fix it, no big deal. It was obviously beyond repair, but I could barely speak. If memory serves me correct, she was a beautiful blonde woman. Tall long legs, sexy. I was a geeky seventeen year old virgin who was tongue tied. I wanted to be tongue lashed, but that wouldn’t happen for years.
She didn’t try to talk her way out of anything; I recall she offered to pay for a new bike, but chivalry was not dead. My elocution was. My common sense was. My brain certainly was. She smiled and got back in her car with a look of some concern. Enough to make me get on my bike and act like I was getting ready to ride it away. (impossible) She again smiled and I smiled back. She waved and drove off.
I got off the bike and walked it to the nearest dumpster. I was a fucking idiot. Really. I was without any transportation whatsoever, apart from my feet. And that’s what I was stuck with for the next year or so. Shoe leather express.
If this story sounds familiar to you, and you were entering 7th street heading north toward Highland Avenue, North of Indian School Road, on or about some date in November 1980, post a comment, and I’ll let you know what you owe me. I appreciate your honesty.
