Chapter 36
D avy becomes an obstacle course I nearly trip over as I enter the dim-lit living room early Saturday morning. By the way a chip bag is strewn across his body, with five or six blankets piled up behind him like boulders, he looks as if he spent the night out on the floor watching the old boxy television. He grunts when my shoe nearly clips his head.
The light is on in the kitchen and Marcie seems to be set on deep cleaning the cabinets before the crack of dawn. I don’t have to look at her face to know what her body language is telling me. My head naturally turns to the maritime blue mood chart on the wall to confirm my suspicion. “Today’s Mood” sign has been switched out and “Eat my shorts!” now dangles from the peg at the forefront. I know it’s a Breakfast Club reference and that it comes from seventies slang but I can’t help but think of Bart Simpson yelling the catchphrase out of his car window. I get the urge to use his voice to say it out loud but shut the urge down quickly—she wouldn’t be able to appreciate a voice impersonation of Bart Simpson from the early nineties, she’s not in the mood anyway.
I turn on my heels and retreat back into the living room before the angry bull thinks I’m the red flag in the kitchen. I bump into Pops at the foot of the stairs. He cautiously tiptoes off of the bottom stair into the hallway, then motions to the closet and we slide through without another word.
“Your mom has declined the plus-one position. It’s yours if you want it.”
“She said no? Are you the reason she’s about to peel the paint off the kitchen cabinets?” I ask.
“It’s very possible that I may have said something I shouldn’t have, but it could also be Davy. Looks like he stayed up all night watching television again.”
“Mmm. Well, I’d love to be your plus-one.” I feel a sense of relief knowing I won’t have to cross the river and try to sneak in with random guests.
“We’ll leave around three. Make sure to wear something nice,” Pops says. “Oh and I’d stay away from Mom today. She needs some space.”
Ben meets me outside our backyard fence on his dirt bike. To my surprise, his bike looks more polished than I thought possible. He must have spent time cleaning crusty dried mud off of the frame, but the thing that surprises me more is how he’s dressed. He lifts his leg off of the bike, revealing pleated tan dress pants and a golden brown plaid shirt reminiscent of the Sahara Desert as if he's just come from modeling for a sand dune themed magazine shoot. He’s even wearing a matching red, navy, and ochre plaid tie.
“Why are you so dressed up?” I say as I look down at my casual outfit. I’m in basic jeans and a sweater with bunched-up socks coddling my Keds. “You look really good though.” He pulls it off really well. My cheeks flush pink at the sight of him.
“I thought about it last night and I’m sneaking into the wedding with you. I want to be there for this madness.”
“What do you mean, you want to be there?”
“I’m coming with you. I want to go. We can sneak in together,” he says. I’m at a loss for words, feeling like I have to choose between Pops and Ben for this event. As much as I want him to come with me, I have the invite and he doesn’t.
“But I’m the plus-one, I don’t need to sneak in anymore,” I confess.
“Seriously?” He looks as if he’s impressed with my manipulation skills or something.
“Yeah.” I feel bad that he dressed up for nothing.
“I’ll go anyway. I’ll sneak in and meet you there.” He says it like it’s no big deal that he would do this alone.
“What if you end up getting caught trespassing and it ends up on your record? Wouldn’t that hurt your chances to get into the Bureau?” I whisper the last part so that no one can hear us if they tried.
“Wedding crashing isn’t going to be the reason they deny me entrance.”
The back of Ben’s dress shirt flaps against my arms as we make our way to the edge of Golden. We ride the next six miles of vast open space admiring the caramel-grass heaven that’s laid out on each side of the road leading up to the enchanting landscape of green hill terraces and flatirons. My eyes follow the yellow dotted lines on the single-lane road, playing a game of mile-marker counting as I peek over Ben’s shoulder.
We pass gold-sprinkled mountains and stuccoed rock walls, flying by so fast it all looks like an out-of-focus photograph, shot using a fast lens. As the road slithers up, sharp curve after sharp curve, I find myself clinging to the bike in order to keep my balance, helmetless and unable to concentrate on anything but the humming aeolian whistle and the bite of the engine underneath me. If the wind wasn’t whipping against my shoulders and shins, I might lull to sleep from the sounds that are fast becoming white noise.
The road is less curvy farther up the mountain and I get to enjoy a new view of red brick buildings tucked between thick trees and train tracks. A sign tells me we’re at Black Hawk.
I can taste the grass in the area—the smell is strong from the earlier rainfall. A mile ahead the smell is replaced by burning coal from the train engines as we chase CO-119 to Beaver Creek Road.
“We’re here.” Ben slows his motorcycle to a stop in front of a dark ginger log cafe with a muted, rusty purple sunset entrance sign carved with trees and a mustard yellow sun that reads Wondervu Cafe. Flower-filled planter boxes greet us with a happy wind-blown wave as we enter the deep door entrance and plant ourselves in a booth by the front window.
“Here’s a menu,” the waitress says, lacking enthusiasm. She either doesn't want to be here or she's been here so long that everything is done at her own pace. She slaps two sunset-colored tri-folds, matching the exterior entrance sign, on the table with a polite thud. “Would you like drinks or an appetizer?” she asks. She has the charm of sandpaper. Ben hands me the long rectangular plastic menu and waits for me to survey the options.
“What sounds good to you?” He looks happy. His mouth is waiting for an opportunity to smirk, but he’s holding a sweet-natured gaze.
“Nachos?” I ask.
“Nachos it is.” He charismatically delivers the message to the disinterested waitress.
“I’ll be right back.” By the way she says it, I know it’ll be at least half an hour.
“Thank you, Tina,” Ben says, then waits a few seconds and winks at her before she turns to escape through the swinging butler’s gate at the island bar.
“You two acquaintances?” is my response to his coquettish behavior toward the woman who is as spry as a block of cheese.
“Nah. I just read her name tag,” he says as his eyes turn sharp with amusement.
“Oh, I see, so you do this with everybody, even dull diner ladies? When you hollered at my backside—remember after I’d just gotten my hair permed—that was just standard procedure?” I tease.
“Mmm…you caught me,” he says, shaking his head. “That was embarrassing though. I really didn’t recognize you with your new hair.”
“So you were okay with whistling at some random pretty girl’s hair?” His face grows red with embarrassment bringing out the cinnamon in his cheeks.
“Uhh,” he looks as if I’ve put him in a corner. “I plead the fifth.” He finds his smile and plays innocently before me. “Actually, I only hit on women with big mountain-woman hair.”
We both laugh. The waitress and I both have an unruly mess atop our heads. He's reassuring me and making fun of me at the same since the wind pounding through my hair on the way here has significantly increased its volume.
The smell of greasy chips and melted cheese floats into our dining area from behind the island bar and it's not long before Tina shows up with a plate of oily chips dripping cheese under a mountain of tomatoes and sour cream. We order our lunch, this time crunching chips between our teeth mid-sentence.
Not a lot of talking is required for a diner with bad service and great food. I shovel down my plateful of enchiladas while Ben finishes his plate of carne asada tacos, licking every last bit of the plate clean.
“You should wear dress clothes on your bike more often. You look good,” I say as we make our way back outside.
“One day I may even wear a uniform on a bike,” he says as if trying to catch my interest. “Do you think you’d like that? Me riding a bike in uniform?”
“Mmm…I do like it.” I already know that satisfying scene.
We speed down Coal Creek Canyon Road taking CO-93. The china blue sky is slowly swallowed by thick angry warrior clouds as we descend down the mountain. I will the sky to hold back its tears before a sudden blast of wind rocks Ben’s upper body into mine. We stutter for a moment as the wind seems to hold us in place, then pushes us forward again, and out of nowhere a ripple of explosions erupt from somewhere in the mountains. It’s a sound only a chemical explosion could create.
Ben slows his speed around the next corner and tilts his head back to check on me before slowing to a stop. I’m off the bike before Ben completes the stop, landing on the asphalt with a perfectly timed run. He turns around to face me on the bike. His bewildered stare tells me he’s not sure what’s more shocking; the fact that I just landed that with ease or that half the mountain is exploding around us.
“Are you alright?” he says, studying my face. I look for passing traffic.
“Yes,” I say, answering as if he meant it like a protective boyfriend rather than out of concern for my G.I. Jane-like actions. In all fairness I might look a bit crazy reaching for a phantom gun where my holster used to lay on the job as I run across the road. Ben runs after me as another set of blasts trickle in.