(from "The Further Adventures of Roosterboots", Simon & Schuster, 2008)

Chapter 18 - Roosterboots Meets a Rub

So there I am, minding my own business AS USUAL, and the Huddle House is already too crowded to get a seat anywhere but the bar. I don't like the Huddle House bar. Someone always comes up and sits beside you and then looks at you and then starts TALKIN' to ya...next thing ya know, they want to borrow some money and eat off yer plate.

So we left and went down to the Philadelphia House of Pancakes (known locally as the P-HOP, conjuring images of small, urgent boys locked out of the restaurant's only bathroom). The Neshoba County Fair is in town, and the town is packed to overflowin'. I decided to take a chance and parked next to three...count 'em, THREE...Heritage Classics.

On the right, a dark gray 2003 Anniversary Edition (is Heidi listening...hey, girl, I still want one of those) decked out in chrome. Custom Harley brake pad, passenger floorboards, windscreen extensions...everything.

In the middle, a black 2002 Heritage decked out in the same <strike>accoutermints</strike> <strike>accoutrement</strike> cooterbait as the first one, right down to the Screamin' Eagle II pipes.

And on the left, ANOTHER Heritage Anniversary Edition, this one in blue and silver and fuel injected. Floorboards...check! Windscreen extensions...check! Custom brake pad...check! And...hey!...it's got a tiny little Harley stick-on clock on the hand brake master cylinder. I got real close and could actually a tiny H-D shield on the 1/2" clock face. Too cool! Gotta get one of those!

Wifey and I strolled into the P-Hop and got a table almosts immediately. I looked around and didn't see any bikers, so I excused myself and wandered over into the smoking section. Over there! In the far right-hand corner!

A table for five, still wearing "Harley Davidson" t-shirts, do rags, and leather vests. Well, at least they were easy to find! I headed their way and gave your standard Harley greeting.

"Y'all got crappy taste in bikes," I grinned. Nobody stood up. Damn! Wasted a perfectly good intro. "My Heritage is a 2002!" I grinned again.

I heard the sound of a chair creaking.

"Where're ya headed?" I tried to break the icy silence.

"Home."

"Ahh," I exclaimed, appearing suddenly wise. "Around here?"

"Nope."

"Where're ya comin from?" I pressed.

"North."

"And so now you're headed...", I was ready to echo the word "South". Instead, he said,

"I tole ya...we're going HOME."

Their women scowled at me. One of 'em was fingerin' a Harley Davidson folding pocket knife (a collector's edition).

"Heh, heh!" I said, "Weeellll, I gotta be goin' back."

Nobody relaxed a muscle.

"Just one more thing," I started. The women tensed up. "Who's got the bike with a really cute clock plastered to the brake reservoir?"

"That'd be me," said the youngest in the group. His Harley Davidson t-shirt appeared to have been washed recently, in sharp contrast to the group's women.

"I gotta know...how much?"

"How much what?"

"How much did it cost?" I asked.

"I dunno...fifty or sixty bucks!"

Then the group leader finally spoke up. He never once took his eyes off mine, nor did he blink. His woman didn't blink, either. "Eighty," he said.

I choked on my own spit. "Jumpin' Jesus on a pogo stick!" I coughed. "For eighty bucks I'll just turn my left wrist a little!"

And I prudently left.

My wife was waiting. She had already ordered a Dr. Pepper for me (breakfast of Southern champions). "Were they nice?" she wanted to know.

"Naw," I answered. "Real shy. Rubs."

"They didn't LOOK like rubs."

"They wuz. Got their bikes all tricked out at the same time, probably the same place, and they still remember what the other guy paid. Their women thought I was gonna rape 'em, and nobody had the 'nads to speak up and talk to a stranger."

She heard this and agreed. "Rubs," she said. "The Neshoba County Fair brings all sorts of riff-raff."

She had a point.

"Next time," she said, "we ride Stray Dog to breakfast. Let 'em see a REAL Heritage."