Chapter 5
We fled south on the highway at top speed, racing the bikes so hard that their engines screamed and seemed ready to explode. I drove faster than Dave, that’s how scared I was. It wasn’t the possibility of having to turn over the bikes to the Missourians that I feared, or even Bismarck. I was afraid that if we were caught, the judge would order me into deposition again with that lawyer.
So when we suddenly, on Dave’s lead, veered off the highway and speeded into the city of Flagstaff in the mountains of northern Arizona, I was furious.
“We’ve got plenty of gas, we’re not hungry, the roads are clear, there’s lots of daylight left. We’re being chased. We fled from a formal court proceeding, which is a serious offense that we can be jailed for. We don’t need to be stopping!” I screamed through my helmet after we had stopped in a gravel parking lot. “Why are we stopping?”
“Calm down and stop whining,” Dave said while leaning up against his bike and undoing his helmet’s chin strap. “Millions of people break the law every day. There are thousands of swindlers, murderers, rapists, liars, thieves, deadbeats and fashion designers roaming the country at any given moment. All have done things worse than we have. So relax.
“Besides, they’re not chasing us. Bismarck was happy to see us go. Now he can harass everyone else up there without bother from us. He just wanted us out of the way.”
Flagstaff was the location of a mid-sized state university. It was a small city, consisting mostly of gas stations and restaurants. It had a museum, too, but I thought it second-rate because most of the stuff in it was old.
“You know what a college campus means?” Dave asked.
“Mindless conversation? A contempt for common sense? An infatuation with discredited and failed political and social ideologies? A fear of the real world? People wearing berets?”
“Jesus Christ, no. You really do need to lighten up. It means coeds—women—smooth-thighed, firm-assed, willing women, and if you don’t screw things up like you normally do, dates for us.”
We got a motel room, showered, ate, and in the afternoon, walked toward the campus while Dave explained how we were going to going to get dates:
“All we need do is walk around the campus and look tough, confident and manly. Women like guys who are decisive and who carry themselves well. And despite what all the experts and shrinks say, women don’t want wimps. They like strength.”
“So what exactly do we do to act manly and strong?”
“Put on the most hateful glares possible. We don’t want that kind of vacant, mindless hatred that you see in bikers, the kind that says you have no idea what it is you hate. Only nuts do that. Be specific. Focus on the person who’s walking toward you and look like you hate them and are ready to bite off their face. Do that and the women won’t be able to resist us, or at least me, and we’ll have more partners in one night than most people have in a lifetime.”
“You’re crazy. That’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard. Why don’t we just go up to some women, and in a nice way, introduce ourselves, tell them that we’re on a trip, that we’re lonely and could use some company tonight. Why don’t we just be nice to them and treat them like human beings?”
“Because that’ll never work. All the books say that we’re supposed to be nice and civil to each other, but the truth is, men and women are just animals who size each other up on the basis of sexual appeal. Women want guys who will give them healthy kids and who will protect them from wild animals. It’s caveman stuff. We’re born like that. And to women, strength equals sex appeal. They want real men, not sissified wimps. Since most of the guys on college campuses are wimps, we’ll be doing the women here a favor by making ourselves available to them.
“All we gotta do is walk and glare and look real intense, and there’s a good chance that they’ll rip off their clothes right in front of us. It’s not only possible, it’s probable.”
It was a perfect day for walking: freezing cold, with snow from previous storms still on the ground, and a dense, grey cloud cover that not one ray of sunlight could penetrate. We glared, looked intense and walked around, through and across the campus three times and passed scores of women, none of whom ripped their clothes off and demanded that we use our manly attributes to bring them to ecstasy.
“This isn’t working,” I told Dave, “and I know why.”
“Why, big brain?”
“There’s only one possible reason that they’re not attracted to us. They’re all lesbians! They don’t like men! Why else would a woman not be attracted to us?”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s the stupidest, most offensive and obnoxious thing I’ve ever heard. Don’t you ever stop to think how unrealistic and insulting your theories are? This one makes no sense because even if they were lesbos they’d still have an uncontrollable desire to smother me, the world’s boldest man, with their glistening bodies. No brag, just fact. That’s how strong my sexual magnetism is. I can cure any lesbian of her lesbianism.
“I can walk into a room where naked, oiled up lesbians are groping each other and sliding around and having the wildest, most intense time, and I can be bundled up head to toe in winter clothing, and they’ll take one look at their naked, glistening, panting partners, and one look at me in long underwear and it’ll be all over. They’ll renounce their lesbianism and beg me to get naked with them. It is another god-given gift that I have.”
“You’re kidding! How many lesbians have you cured so far? Hundreds? Thousands? Millions?”
“I haven’t cured any yet because I haven’t tried. There’s been no time. Besides, I keep thinking about how unfair that would be to all of the heterosexual women in the world who want me. If I cure lesbos, that’s less time in life that I have with other women. I have ethical problems with that.”
“If the women here aren’t all lesbians, why is it they haven’t demanded that we have sex with them, and how come we don’t have dates yet?”
“It’s because they’re scared. They’re afraid that they might not live up to my high standards; that they might not please me. They figure that their only decent shot in life, their only chance to break out of their bleak existences, the only thing that will give them a reason to live, is to satisfy me. So they all have this one dream, this one ace that they can play in life. That’s where the problem is. If they please me, they go on to a fulfilling and happy life. But if they fail, the only dream, hope and chance for a happy life that they’ve ever had is shattered. They’re crushed. They mope and waste away physically and emotionally and become useless, unproductive citizens who are a burden to the rest of us.
“Now, if they never try for me they are never rejected, and they can cling to the idea that if they had tried they would have pleased me. That gives them hope, something to live for, and an eagerness to go on with their bleak lives. They face the possibility of total personal destruction if they fail to achieve a dream they’ve pursued. So what’s better, to have people live hopeless, unproductive lives because they chased a dream and failed, or to have them live productive lives because they cling to a dream never pursued? I sympathize with them. They might find other men, but none as good as me. That would be like being exiled and having to live in Milwaukee or New York instead of Chicago. Death would be better.”
“Well, what would you do if you were in their position? Would you have sex with you?”
“I’ve told you before that I don’t like your trick questions. So stop it.”
“Well, what do we do now?”
“Our job now is to help them overcome their fears. There is no sadder, more pathetic thing in life than fear. And there is no greater service to mankind than helping someone overcome fear. We must make ourselves even more attractive and manly than we are now. We must make ourselves, and remember this word, irresistible. These women want real men. We’ll show them real men.”
With that we threw off our coats and walked around the campus, flexing our muscles, stomping our feet, glaring and swearing loudly.
“Swearing is cool,” Dave said. “There ain’t a babe on earth who isn’t impressed by it.”
We stomped around the campus several more times, but remained dateless.
“We’re going to have to do even more,” Dave said. “Give even more of ourselves to help these women. We’ve got to act even manlier.”
“If it’s manly things we need to do, maybe we should climb mountains or lift weights, or do carpentry, or fix things. Maybe we could even read poetry. Some men read poetry,” I said.
“Wimps read poetry. And those other things ain’t manly enough.”
“So what do we do?”
“That’s easy. Act even manlier. We start drinking,” Dave said as he pulled a quart of whiskey out of a motorcycle bag he was carrying. “Tough men can hold their liquor. And babes are impressed with that. Drink up!”
We stomped around the campus glaring, smoking, drinking, stomping our feet and flexing our muscles. After eight more circuits, we were drunk and still dateless.
Even more manly action was needed, Dave said, so we began spitting whiskey at people.
“Spitting whiskey on someone,” he explained, “is an act of defiance, confidence, manly irreverence and true boldness that all women admire. Who wouldn’t admire it?”
We stumbled through a few more trips around campus, and apparently the word was out on us by then, because everyone who saw us coming, fled. I pointed out to Dave that people were running away from us, but he wasn’t concerned, at least not in the way I figured he would be.
“They’re running away, not because they’re scared of us, but because we embarrass them,” he explained. “We’re the ultimate men, and all these people know that they will never be able to reach the level of existence that we’re at right now. They feel inferior.”
As the afternoon wore on we resorted to other manly activities, things like burping loudly, kicking dogs and other small animals and ridiculing everyone we saw. After seventy-three circuits around the campus, we were tired, drunk, sick, cold, hoarse, sore-footed and dateless. I was depressed, but Dave remained optimistic.
“These women are worse than I thought,” he said. “The ultimate manly action is now called for. Follow me.”
Soon we were crouched behind a large boulder from where we spied a dozen men and women who were building snowmen, laughing and having snowball fights.
“There’s what I mean,” Dave said. “Those women aren’t having fun. A woman doesn’t want a man who will build a snowman. They don’t respect or desire those men.”
“But they’re laughing and kind of wrestling with each other,” I said. “They seem happy.”
“They’re not.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because they’re smiling. No one who smiles is happy. Only people who are pretending they’re happy smile.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Engage in the ultimate manly act.”
“Which is?”
“Violent behavior. Women want badasses, men who will fight. They want men who will defend them, the children, the house, the pets and the pots and pans. Let’s give them what they want!”
We shed our shirts, and bare-chested, charged out from behind the boulder, throwing punches and shouting: “The badasses are here to fight!” We waded into the group and punched and kicked our way through the men, who, in a few minutes, were beaten and fleeing.
Some of the women fled too. Those who remained screamed at us to go away. But we didn’t. Instead, Dave leaped on a boulder, pounded his chest with his fists and shouted:
“My partner and I here are badasses who fight. We’ll kick the living crap out of any of these wimpy guys on campus, including your boyfriends, husbands, brothers, sons, fathers, uncles, cousins and grandfathers. All we do is fight. We fight when we get up, fight all morning long, fight during lunch, fight all afternoon, fight during supper, fight after supper, fight all night long and sleep a little and then get up and fight some more. We love fighting so much that we’ve both changed our names. Mine is Fight A. Fight, and his is Fight N. Fight. All we do is fight. That makes us big and real men, and makes all of you eager to have sex with us. We understand your needs, and we are filled with compassion. And so, in order to avoid confusion and jealousy amongst yourselves, we have a sign-up sheet so you women can make appointments with us. It’s first-come, first-serve, so sign up fast. We’ll only be in town a couple of days.”
“Vile, filthy, sickening pigs!” one woman screamed, while the others bombarded us with iceballs and shouted for someone to call the cops. “Take your violence-mongering and your anti-feminist poison out of here. Practice your violence elsewhere.”
Most of the iceballs hit, and they were serious about calling the cops, so we had to retreat. We sprinted away and hid behind bushes, between buildings, behind boulders, on top of roofs and underneath parked cars until we were sure that the women had stopped chasing us. Then we ducked inside a building and a bathroom to discuss the situation.
“These women are shyer than I thought,” Dave said. “We’ll have to increase the intensity of our efforts. We need to give them more to go on.”
“But I’m tired, sick and dizzy,” I said. “Why can’t we just go back to the motel and sleep?”
“If we did that we would be letting these women down. I’m not going to do that. We have a responsibility to help them fulfill their womanly desires. We must never give up.”
Our Seventy-Third Circuit
We didn’t. Our next stop was the athletic building, where we, still shirtless, stood, strutted, flexed our muscles, glared and swore outside of the exit to the women’s locker room.
“Do what I do,” Dave instructed as he clenched his hands into the kind of semi-fist that’s used to give a thumbs-up signal. Only he turned his hands in a thumbs-down manner and held them about waist-high in front of his body so that his thumbs were pointing to his crotch.
“You’re pointing directly and deliberately at your crotch,” I said. “That’s sick. Why are you doing that?”
“It’s not sick; it’s body language, and I’m doing it to pick up babes. I read about this in one of those best-selling books on body language. The book told about this guy who was standing in a room by a fireplace, and all the women in the room were approaching him and cooing and wanting him. And why him and not the other guys? Because he had his hands in his front pants pockets with his thumbs sticking out and pointing to his crotch. He wasn’t pointing on purpose, but no matter, the effect of it was to communicate to the women that he was a big man and ready.
“And the women were attracted to the guy simply because he was pointing to his crotch with his thumbs. So if he got all the women in the room by unintentionally pointing to his package, imagine how many women we’ll pick up if we point on purpose. Now stick out your thumbs and hold them out in front of you and point them at the center of your manliness.”
I did as ordered. We stood four feet apart at opposite sides of the exit door and scowled while pointing our thumbs at our crotches. Some women who came out gasped when they saw us, others looked scared, some averted their eyes, and all raced for the exit door. Soon, women were peeking their heads out of the locker room door, apparently to gaze at us. They all pulled their heads back inside, though. After a while, we noticed that no more women were leaving the locker room or even peeking out the door. I was concerned and asked Dave about it.
“They’re just scared,” he said, “Shy. But we’ll get some bold and aggressive ones pretty soon. Don’t worry. We’ll get some who want to attack us.”
He was right. We were attacked the moment he finished talking, but it wasn’t what we were hoping for. A brigade of angry women who were dressed in baggy, black martial arts robes began kicking and chopping at us with their feet and half-clenched fists. They hit us at least a dozen times, and we were forced to retreat into a corner where they surrounded us.
They were a dozen strong, healthy, powerful looking and angry. They were members of a campus female watchdog attack group, they told us, who escorted women around campus in order to protect them from muggers, rapists, fiends, murderers, jealous ex-boyfriends, and glad-handing politicians.
“So why are you attacking us?” Dave asked. “We ain’t any of those. We’re just trying to get dates for tonight. I realize that you all might not approve of the idea of women dating men, but that’s your problem until I can find time to cure you all. Now leave us alone so we can attract some hot babes—”
Whoosh! The wind from a flying, twirling kick launched by an attractive blonde who was the brigade’s leader slammed me into the wall and snapped Dave’s head back. Had the kick connected, his head would have flown off.
“Get it straight pigs,” the blonde said as she coiled for another kick, “we love to lock our muscular, twitching, and oh so sweaty thighs, around men—real and deserving men—not pigs like you two. The men we delight experience our womanhood in provocative and fantastic ways that you two human pimples could never imagine and will never experience.
“And just so you two pathetic creeps know, we like men who are so secure and confident in their manhood and sexuality that they don’t need to fight or strut or glare or stand half-naked outside of a women’s locker room pointing to their crotches. And our men don’t need liquor either to make them strong. They have inner strength, real strength. They don’t have to pretend like you two do. Our men are strong enough to admit that they’re weak. Our men know how to cry. We want men who start discussions, not fights. We date men who know that the greatest achievement in life, the noblest action, is to walk away from a fight or an argument. You know what real strength is? Love, compassion and sensitivity. And you know what fear and cowardice and weakness is? Hatred, bluster, bitterness, anger and aggression.”
“Then you’re a coward,” Dave told the blonde, “and weak too.”
“How do you figure that?” she demanded.
“Because my sense is that right now, you’re angry at us. And we know that anger is cowardice.”
Whoosh! She and her partners unloaded more kicks. They missed, but the wind slammed both of us into and partially through the wall. I fell to the ground.
Whoosh!
“You two morons are phonies,” the blonde snarled. “You’re weak, pathetic cowards. If you want dates, why don’t you just try introducing yourself in a nice way to women? Why don’t you just say that you’re in town, are lonely and are looking for pleasant company? That would work a billion times better than the idiotic games you two are playing. You two are not men.”
“And we’re not mice, either,” Dave shouted as he suddenly began convulsing and weeping. Within minutes there was a huge puddle of tears on the floor at his feet.
“Why are you crying?” the blonde demanded.
“Because I’m sensitive. I know how to cry. Now will you date me?”
They all kicked again, and this time the wind nearly knocked us entirely through the wall.
They advanced on us as we picked ourselves out of the rubble. I could see in their eyes that this time they meant business.
“Hold on,” Dave pleaded as he brushed plaster and dust off himself. “You’ve got me wrong. I am strong in my manhood and sexual identity. Hear this: I am a homosexual. I say that with pride, not fear or shame.”
“Where did that come from?” the blonde demanded.
“From you. I am so secure in my sexual identity that I can say that.”
They coiled again and were about to kick us through the wall when I spoke:
“Stop! We’re not the misfits that you think we are. We’re just two lonely goofs trying to get some dates. I’m Dennis. He’s Dave. We’re on a long motorcycle trip, and all we’re looking for is some company. So don’t kill us. We’re kind of nice guys. If you’re not doing anything tonight, give us the chance to prove it.”
Amazingly, she and another brigade member agreed, and Dave and I had dates for the night. They introduced themselves. The blonde’s name was Kathy. Her brunette companion was Cindy.
****