him. I will try too, after I get hold of Max. I think he is at the garage working on the Duc,” I said as I threw a handful of underwear into one of the side bags I planned to strap to my KLR650 momentarily.
“I will be at the garage as soon as I can get there. Maybe ’bout fifteen minutes,” answered Buell. “Laters, Rem.”
I hung up without further adieu and went to the pantry. I stuffed my other side bag with assorted staples, breakfast bars, chips, sundry canned goods, and anything else I could fit in my bag.
“Bring any food you can,” I texted Buell.
I was still monitoring the TV as I packed, and paused when I heard the Martial Law announcement again. This time from another talking head who was sharing gruesome images of Chicago.
It seemed to become more chaotic in the streets every moment the broadcast went on. I saw a tank retreating, for Christ’s sake. What the fuck? How could that be? As a reflex, I picked up my landline.
No dial tone.
Time to hit the road.
My garage wasn’t a downtown location, but it wasn’t in the sticks either. It was located in the Campbell foothills. Campbell, California, is small town just off Highway 17, about twenty-five miles inland from Santa Cruz Beach on the beautiful Pacific. The garage was in an industrial zone, on a cul-de-sac off a frontage road that led to the highway. It was a pain in the ass to find for some customers and hopefully it would be for these fucking monsters too. Plus, the area was usually deserted on Sundays.
I dialed Max on my cell and sure enough, he was in the garage. Max was my only employee. He worked under the table for me and had a day job as a County Transit bus driver. Max was an invaluable asset and a loyal friend of ten years. He had a knack for fixing cars, and an even greater propensity for making people feel at ease. You know the type, Max can walk into a room and blend right in, instantly finding someone to chat with. He is the only guy I know with a Facebook page that doesn’t look like a fucking douche. I feel lucky just to know him.
Max and I met a decade ago at a bar in downtown San Jose. The Cardiff was the name, if memory serves. It was my turn up at darts as Max had beaten the previous guy. We were chatting during a friendly game of Cricket when a young, Corona-drinking wannabe tough guy decided he did not like my T-shirt. I don’t remember the shirt, but I am sure it was sarcastic as I often wear those ironic tees. However, I am a lover not a fighter, and so tried to ignore his alcohol-induced comments.
After tossing my last dart of the game I turned to sit down and concede my defeat to Max. Before I could take a seat, the aforementioned wardrobe critic intentionally bumped the beer out of my hand in a not-so-subtle move. He and a few of his buddies got a good laugh out of it and I was stunned for a moment, the loss of an adult beverage always hits me hard. Before I recovered enough to turn toward him, Max had strategically placed the fleshy part of his calloused hand between his thumb and forefinger just below the punk’s larynx. He then proceeded to redirect him rather forcefully against the electronic dartboard. I think I actually saw the asshole’s feet leave the floor for a second.
“You owe my buddy…um…wait…what’s your name?” Max said as he glanced over his shoulder at me.
“Remy.” I laughed.
“Get my buddy Remy here another beer, and not one of those sissy Coronas you are drinking!” Max said in a calm but authoritative tone.
I had a fresh Samuel Adams in my hand three minutes later.
Despite this smooth move, Max was not a large guy. He was a drink coaster short of six feet, though he always insisted he was six feet. Regardless, he was a strong, sturdy son of a bitch. What he lacked in height and reach, he made up with leverage. If you ever accidentally bumped into that guy, you would bounce off him like a pinball. He had his dad’s Italian skin and Italian affectations. What was left of
“I will be at the garage as soon as I can get there. Maybe ’bout fifteen minutes,” answered Buell. “Laters, Rem.”
I hung up without further adieu and went to the pantry. I stuffed my other side bag with assorted staples, breakfast bars, chips, sundry canned goods, and anything else I could fit in my bag.
“Bring any food you can,” I texted Buell.
I was still monitoring the TV as I packed, and paused when I heard the Martial Law announcement again. This time from another talking head who was sharing gruesome images of Chicago.
It seemed to become more chaotic in the streets every moment the broadcast went on. I saw a tank retreating, for Christ’s sake. What the fuck? How could that be? As a reflex, I picked up my landline.
No dial tone.
Time to hit the road.
My garage wasn’t a downtown location, but it wasn’t in the sticks either. It was located in the Campbell foothills. Campbell, California, is small town just off Highway 17, about twenty-five miles inland from Santa Cruz Beach on the beautiful Pacific. The garage was in an industrial zone, on a cul-de-sac off a frontage road that led to the highway. It was a pain in the ass to find for some customers and hopefully it would be for these fucking monsters too. Plus, the area was usually deserted on Sundays.
I dialed Max on my cell and sure enough, he was in the garage. Max was my only employee. He worked under the table for me and had a day job as a County Transit bus driver. Max was an invaluable asset and a loyal friend of ten years. He had a knack for fixing cars, and an even greater propensity for making people feel at ease. You know the type, Max can walk into a room and blend right in, instantly finding someone to chat with. He is the only guy I know with a Facebook page that doesn’t look like a fucking douche. I feel lucky just to know him.
Max and I met a decade ago at a bar in downtown San Jose. The Cardiff was the name, if memory serves. It was my turn up at darts as Max had beaten the previous guy. We were chatting during a friendly game of Cricket when a young, Corona-drinking wannabe tough guy decided he did not like my T-shirt. I don’t remember the shirt, but I am sure it was sarcastic as I often wear those ironic tees. However, I am a lover not a fighter, and so tried to ignore his alcohol-induced comments.
After tossing my last dart of the game I turned to sit down and concede my defeat to Max. Before I could take a seat, the aforementioned wardrobe critic intentionally bumped the beer out of my hand in a not-so-subtle move. He and a few of his buddies got a good laugh out of it and I was stunned for a moment, the loss of an adult beverage always hits me hard. Before I recovered enough to turn toward him, Max had strategically placed the fleshy part of his calloused hand between his thumb and forefinger just below the punk’s larynx. He then proceeded to redirect him rather forcefully against the electronic dartboard. I think I actually saw the asshole’s feet leave the floor for a second.
“You owe my buddy…um…wait…what’s your name?” Max said as he glanced over his shoulder at me.
“Remy.” I laughed.
“Get my buddy Remy here another beer, and not one of those sissy Coronas you are drinking!” Max said in a calm but authoritative tone.
I had a fresh Samuel Adams in my hand three minutes later.
Despite this smooth move, Max was not a large guy. He was a drink coaster short of six feet, though he always insisted he was six feet. Regardless, he was a strong, sturdy son of a bitch. What he lacked in height and reach, he made up with leverage. If you ever accidentally bumped into that guy, you would bounce off him like a pinball. He had his dad’s Italian skin and Italian affectations. What was left of
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