chapter twenty-four

Soaring across the open road, leather jacket deflecting the wind, rumbling bike between your legs—it was like a sports car on steroids, an adrenaline cocktail shaken and stirred. Yet, it wasn’t the power available at the simple twist of a wrist that intrigued Dave. It was the solitude, the peacefulness that came with the ride.

It was such a contradiction, such an irony—intensity and energy, and yet serenity. It was watching trees and fields and open sky, understanding that a bigger picture surrounds, a picture that can’t be seen from a high-rise office. It was discovering a larger world, and therein finding yourself.

More important, it offered Dave time to think.

Rather than take I-95, Redd opted for the scenic route—I-78 over to I-81, then down to I-70 and straight into Frederick. It was twice the distance, but that was exactly the point.

Just out of Chambersburg, Redd pulled off the interstate and onto a frontage road. When he passed Parker’s Drive-In, a hometown burger joint, he pulled in and stopped alongside a picnic table in the back. It was badly in need of new paint. Yet, despite the place’s dilapidated state, or perhaps because of it, it managed to emanate country charm. Dave parked alongside and shut off his bike.

“Now that you’ve had a few hours in the saddle, what do you think?” Redd asked.

“She’s amazing!” Dave replied. “And did you see the look from those kids in the school bus? That alone was worth the trip.”

“It’s about to get better. They have a pastrami burger here that will cut a month off of your life. You want one?”

“Works for me.”

“Watch the bikes. I’ll be right back. Treat’s on me.”

Dave relaxed at the table. The surroundings were quaint, serene—and he couldn’t help but think that Meg would have adored the place. This trip had been a good idea after all.

When Redd returned, the burgers were all he’d described—pounds of artery-clogging pastrami piled with enough condiments to feed a small town. Eating as they soaked in the surroundings, Dave posed the question to Redd that had been perplexing him—a question he’d been pondering for the last two hundred miles.

“Redd, do you mind if I ask you something?”

“No, what’s up?”

“It’s a question I asked my shrink the other day and, well, I’d like a second opinion.”

“I’m competing against a shrink?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t sue for malpractice.”

“Okay, lay it on me.”

“I’m wondering how far one should go in search of hope?”

“Sounds philosophical.”

“I was actually hoping for practical.”

“What did your shrink say?”

“She said I’m emotionally vulnerable—that I need to be rational, to think with my head. Otherwise, she suggested, I might end up doing something, well, irrational.”

“Like learning to ride a Harley?”

“No, like taking off on my bike and never coming back. Would that be stupid?”

“I suppose it depends on where you’re going and what you’d be leaving behind. Have you thought about it—just taking off, I mean?”

Dave shrugged first with his eyes. “I guess I have. The problem is that the doctor’s right. I have been a bit unstable lately. I mean, at times I feel like my life is getting back to normal, whatever normal may be. But at other times, I just feel empty, like the answers are out there somewhere, waiting, and it’s up to me to find them. I guess that sounds a bit bizarre.”

“Sounds to me like you had a little more motivation to ride a road bike than just market research.”

“Perhaps. I just keep thinking about Meg—about a conversation we had about life and dreams and jackets and motorcycles.”

Redd took another bite of burger and another swallow of Coke, as if that might help him formulate a profound answer. “Not sure what to tell you, Dave. Never been too good with questions like that. I work on motorcycles. It does seem to me, though, that you may be asking others to decide something only you can answer.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Redd hesitated, as if he had more to say, as if he wanted to expound but wasn’t sure he should.

“What is it?” Dave asked.

“I guess you just remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

Dave laughed. Other than his recently acquired affection for customized Harleys, he hadn’t figured they had much in common. “And how’s that?” he asked.

“I took off once, just like you describe.”

Dave set his burger on the table. The man had his attention. “You’re serious?”

Redd nodded.

“Can you tell me about it?”

When Redd rolled his lips inward, his mustache completely concealed his mouth. It was a moment before he spoke.

“I don’t mind telling you, Dave. You’re my friend. It’s just that you need to understand this is my story. I don’t want to suggest it applies to anyone else. You understand what I’m saying?”

Dave nodded. “I think so.”

“I took off one day on my bike. Just dropped everything and rode away—it was right after the war.”

“The war?”

“As a young man, I spent some time in Vietnam.”

“I didn’t know.”

Redd shrugged. “There’s a lot we don’t know about the people who surround us.”

“What happened?”

“I was drafted in April of ’69. I was supposed to ship out six weeks later. I didn’t believe in the war, Dave.” His eyes narrowed as he spoke. “I wasn’t about to go fight in some hellhole halfway around the world, killing people for reasons nobody could explain.”

“You bailed?”

“That was the plan. I was gonna ride my bike to Canada with some buddies. A lot of my friends were doing it.”

“So you dropped everything and took off?”

“No. It didn’t work out that way. I got home late that night—too late. I was gonna leave early the next morning, but I’d been drinking. I overslept. My dad was up by the time I got downstairs. The first thing he asked was where I was going. I tried to be funny, told him I was going down to sign up. He knew I hated the war; I thought it would make him laugh. Only thing was, he didn’t get that it was a joke. He got all teary-eyed and started to go on about how proud he was of me, how proud my mother would be if she were still alive. It was the first time I ever remember my dad saying he was proud of anybody. The first time . . . ”

“What’d you do?”

“I packed up my bike and rode out of the driveway. The only problem was, I rode down to the recruiting office. Three months later I was sitting in a dirty foxhole near the Mekong Delta, wondering what the hell I’d done. I was just a scared, lonely, stupid kid. I shouldn’t have been halfway round the world killing nobody—not at that age.”

Redd paused, contemplated his burger as if deciding how to attack his next bite, then chewed slowly. They were in no hurry.

“I made a friend there. His last name was Harris; first name was Leslie. What kind of parent would name their son Leslie?” It was a question that expected no answer. “We called him Les—Les Harris. He was a bit older than I was—actually, he was a lot older, had a wife and a kid at home. Guess he felt sorry for me, ’cause he always watched out for me. He was just a damn fine person.

“We were going out on patrol. It was my turn to take the point. It wasn’t dangerous. We hadn’t run into any VC for weeks. I’d been sick, puking the night before—hadn’t slept hardly at all. I felt like hell and I must’ve looked it, ’cause Les took one glance at me and said he’d swap me turns at point. He said that I could hang near the back.

“The route was the same. We would wade across the river and then hike six miles, running a perimeter check through the jungle.” Redd’s muscles tensed. “I was dragging at the back when the gunfire started. It took me a minute to register what was happening. Three men went down in our patrol before we realized where the shots were coming from. Turned out there were two VC hiding in the jungle. By the time we took care of them—” he paused, then turned to Dave. “Took care of them . . . what a bizarre expression.” He didn’t wait for a response. “By the time we killed ’em, several minutes had passed.”

His words slowed. “When I got to Les, he was bleeding from his mouth. He was trying to whisper something, but I couldn’t tell what he was saying. I tried, Dave, but with all the blood he was coughing up, I just couldn’t make out his words. After a few minutes of trying, he just quit talking, and then, a few minutes later, he quit breathing. He died in my arms. I couldn’t help him; I couldn’t even tell what he was trying to say.”

Redd stopped as if he needed a moment to compose himself. He took a long drink of his Coke before he was ready.

“I was so screwed up after that—I can’t even tell you how screwed up I was. I came home from the war angry—angry at the Vietcong, angry at our country for sending me there, angry at life. The whole damn mess just didn’t seem fair, not right at all. It should’ve been me, a young, stupid kid, to take a bullet to the chest, not a good man with a wife and kid waiting for him to come back home.

“After I got back, I went to see his wife. Hanna was her name. She looked so empty—so lost and lonely. I told her how Les had saved me, how I should’ve been at the front of the line that day. She didn’t say it, but I could tell that she was also wishing it. She asked if Les had said anything before he died. I didn’t know how to answer. All I could do was shake my head no.

“It was a bad war, Dave. Afterwards I had no direction, no faith in life, no hope for mankind. Frankly, it was hell just to be alive when I should’ve been the one to die. I drifted for a long time, taking odd jobs to get by—the whole time letting the anger build inside.

“Then in ’82 I noticed on the news that in Washington they were dedicating a memorial to the war. I went nuts, completely snapped—they were building a memorial to a damn mistake of a war! Can you imagine that? I decided by then that I’d had enough living in hell and I was gonna do something about it. I stuck a .45 in my saddlebag and headed out on my bike to this so-called memorial.

“It was somewhere along the ride that I decided when I got there I was gonna climb to the top of whatever monstrosity they’d built, and I was gonna blow my brains out in front of everyone—a statement to the world about the injustice that had occurred.”

“You don’t have to tell me all this, Redd.”

“I’d like to, if you don’t mind. It was strange what happened next, and you may not believe what I’m about to tell you. Have you ever been there, to the Vietnam Memorial—to the wall?” Redd asked.

Though Dave had lived on the East Coast for most of his life, he was embarrassed to admit that he’d never visited the site. He shook his head.

“You should,” Redd chided.

“I will.”

“I got there, Dave, on a Wednesday morning. It was raining, and there weren’t many people around—a good thing, considering my state of mind. I took my gun and shoved it into my belt, underneath my shirt. Then I turned and headed toward the wall to make my statement.

“The walls are made of thick black granite from India. They’re about ten feet high, and each slab is inscribed with the names of thousands of guys like Les, guys who didn’t come home. Well, I walked to the wall with a heart full of hate and disgust, but when I touched it, Dave, something went all wrong with my plan.

“It’s hard to explain, but touching the wall—being there, seeing it—a reverence came over me that to this day I don’t understand. In an instant, I realized the place wasn’t there to celebrate the atrocities of war—that’s not why it was built at all. It’s there to remember the lives of the guys who died for us, the guys who served. You see what I’m telling you? It ain’t about us, Dave, it’s about them—the sacrifice that they made.

“Call it a vision, call it a gift, call it crazy, but in an instant after I touched the wall, the whole place . . . well, it felt like hallowed ground. I just couldn’t desecrate it by killing myself there. I searched until I found his name: Leslie Harris. I touched his name and I started crying, a big ol’ burly man in a black leather jacket, touching the wall and bawling like a baby. Couldn’t help myself. I ran my finger over every letter. And while I was standing there, thinking about Les, I . . .”

Redd choked up, unable to continue. Dave waited until Redd was ready.

“After I touched his name, Dave, he spoke to me. I know it sounds nuts, and at the time I was. But I swear, I heard him as clear as I can hear you today—and there was no question it was the voice of Les. There was no mistaking Les.”

“What did he say, Redd?”

“He said that life was gonna be okay. He said that it was worth living. He said to keep hope alive and stay strong for others. And the peculiar part is that, at that moment, I knew he was just repeating the same thing he’d been trying to tell me in the Mekong jungle years before. It sounds crazy, but Les saved me in ’Nam and then he saved me again at the wall.”

“What happened next?”

“Nothing. I just kept living. I kept getting up every day, doing the best that I could do. Couple of years later I met Sherry, got married, had two kids. Life ain’t always been easy, but I’ve been getting by okay since that day. I’ve just been trying to do what Les said.”

“Did you ever go back and find his wife, tell her what happened?”

“I tried. I looked her up, but she’d moved on. Years later, I heard through a buddy that she’d married again, had a family, that she was happy. I don’t know, but I’m guessing that somehow Les spoke to her as well.”

Redd set his empty Coke cup on the table.

Dave leaned forward, closer to where his friend sat. “At times, Redd, I feel a bit crazy as well, not sure if I can handle it all—moments when I’m not sure what to do.”

“Just do what I did—what I still do. Keep living, keep moving forward, even if it’s just a bit at a time.” Redd stood. “I need a refill. Do you want something else?”

“No, I’m good.”

“I wish I had something better to tell you, Dave. I mean, if I had all the answers, I sure wouldn’t be a motorcycle mechanic.” He turned and walked to the entrance of the drive-in.

Dave’s reply was low, too low for Redd to hear.

“Maybe that’s why you are.”