A Brother's Perspective

(to anyone who reads this - I was speaking on a panel talking to future teachers tonight about what it's like growing up the brother of someone with special needs. I ended up scrapping this whole thing and just blabbering for fifteen minutes instead, but this is what I had originally planned on saying)

My name is Andrew. I'm an Aries. I enjoy acting, composing music, dance, a good film (and sometimes a particularly bad one), and being Sam's older brother.

My little brother Sam has special needs - though little is probably not the right thing to call him these days, weighing in at 5 foot 4 and 125 pounds. When people ask me if I have any siblings, ordinarily, I tell them, "yes. I have a younger brother - he has special needs." They get awkward and ask, "what's wrong with him." I tell them, "nothing. but he has Autism-Cerebral Palsy-Kabuki Makeup Syndrome-Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome-and-Congenital Myopathy of Muscle Fiber One." They stare blankly. I smile. They say, "oh."

It's not an easy thing to be the guy at the party who gets asked nothing but heavy questions. Why don't you eat meat? What's wrong with your brother? Why'd you move back to Sacramento?...

I'm not morally opposed to meat-eating, but of the clinical studies I've read a whole-foods plants-based diet is the healthier way to live. But who wants to hear about clinical studies and the affects of animal protein on cancer growth while chugging a PBR and chomping on a burger? And understanding the levels of Autism Spectrum Disorder and how they affect your little brother and his relationships in life is a challenge in and of itself. Then take those conversation killers and put them as two of the central foci in the life of a twenty-three year old, single theatre and sci-fi geek. Yeah - my milkshake really brings all the girls to the yard…

There are infinite, and I mean that with the full breadth of the word, infinite challenges that go along with being the brother of someone with special needs. But keep in mind that, growing up and throughout life, kids (or coworkers) are mean. And teasing hurts. Being different hurts. And so, above them all, there has been one challenge that stands out in particular.

And I remember, actually with extreme clarity, the moment I learned the implications of the R-Word… "Retard."

I was six.

I had gotten into my mom's Isuzu Trooper with my best friend Keith after school. We weren't even out of the school parking lot when Keith and I, in response to the classic, "how was school today, boys?", responded, "Good - but that yard duty is retarded!" "yeah! what a retard!" My mother stoically and benignly said, "boys, retard isn't a nice word." we said, "it isn't? but it just means stupid!" Ah youth! The things a six year old would think, right? But of course, how could anyone beyond the level of a six-year-old's mind think THAT?!

My father and mother are very patient and understanding when dealing with the overwhelming ignorance of the general population. I, on the other hand, am really not. I've been in more fights stemming from ignorant, cruel people mocking my brother and using the R-word than I can count. And I don't mean only verbal fights. My mother once had to physically restrain me from attacking two children in the customer service line at Target who were pointing at Sam, whispering to each other and giggling. I was probably eight, maybe nine.

Now, I'm going to guess that many of you listening have siblings. Probably most of you. I'm going to guess that of that portion who have siblings, probably two thirds have at least tolerable relationships with said siblings. You know, "on a talking basis" at least. This question is for you: when a lover breaks your heart, when a best friend betrays you, when you get laid off, where do you turn? sometimes you just need some sibling time, right? You just want to get together with your brother or sister and talk it out. Have a beer, maybe a trendy cupcake, and talk. I will never have that experience. Sam can't talk. He uses adapted ASL tailored specifically to his abilities to communicate his basic needs and some of his very simple wants. Movies, music, food… He and I shall never share heartbreak stories. He and I shall never be there when the other one falls. He and I shall never help each other move into a new apartment. I will help him because he'll need it.

In a world of takers, it's lonely being an unconditional giver. As a side note to this point, Don Quixote is my favorite book. People take. And take. And take. Friends, lovers, teachers, employers. And, after growing up with Sam for the last eighteen years, I can't not give. It's instinct. Doing otherwise would be asking a Bull to eat veal. There are a lot of siblings who don't feel this way. There are many people my age -- and older -- and younger -- who have rejected their special needs sibling. Ignored them. Shunned them. Pushed the entire idea of their existence away. In the five years I had on this planet before Sam was born, I was taught better than that.

Then again, it's not easy being the eighth-grader who stays after science class and has to confront the "cool teacher" after he's used the R-word in class. It's not easy being the senior in high school who confronts the sixty-year-old "cool priest" who teaches choir after he's made a big joke about a ritardando. It's not easy being the college graduate and professional actor who has to pull much more experienced and popular coworkers aside and ask them not to use the R-word only to have them making a "Retard Joke" five minutes later to the delight of the rest of the cast.

People like Sam and I shall always be on the outside looking in. The difference between him and me is that he doesn't see the ignorance and malice that keep us out.

I understand that I can come off as bitter and angry. I am. I am bitter and angry that my brother has to live in a world of people that not only don't understand him, but have the resources to understand him but refuse to look at them because they'd rather live in ignorance.

I'll tell you another story. I knew a guy. Tall guy. Gay guy. He, no matter how many times I asked him to, never stopped using the R-word. I finally got fed up with it and, trying to restrain myself from a violent outburst, I hit him where it hurt. He said, "why do you make such a big deal about it? It's just a word. You shouldn't care." I responded, "that means a lot coming from a six foot faggot." Everyone around got mad at me. How dare I. How dare I use such an offensive word. Oh - but isn't a faggot just a burning stick? or a cigarette if you're from the UK? No - it's an extremely offensive term. It's degrading. It's objectifying. The N-word, the C-word, the F-word… well, okay, the F-word is different, but the aforementioned F-word. Aren't they just words? Absolutely. But language is what makes humans special. We have thousands of languages verbal or non-verbal, and hundreds of thousands of words in each one. Why we choose to make some words cruel and mock people with them, I will never understand.

Explaining to people that I have to stay home on a Friday night to take care of my brother is hard. Trying to get people to not use the R-word one person at a time is… impossible.

Being Sam's brother is the hardest thing I've ever done. But it's also the best thing I'll ever do. I was at Swabbies - a little biker dive bar slash restaurant with Sam one night to see one of his very favorite bands, Mumbo Gumbo. When we take Sam to a concert, he loves to dance. When Sam dances, whoever's with him gets the workout. We either carry him and dance with him on us, or dance with his wheelchair. Let me tell you, a four-minute song has never been longer than when you're dancing with an extra buck-twenty on your back. During one of my beer-breaks, the people sharing our table tapped me on the shoulder. One of them said to me, "You're the image of Christ." I've had a good laugh at that many times since. I'm not an "Image of Christ." I'm a guy who, at the age of five, had to take on the role of a twenty-year-old aid. Just like my mother and father, I just live the life I've been given and live it the best I can. This is not something I chose. But it is nice to hear a compliment once in a while.

If it weren't for growing up with Sam, I wouldn't be as strong as I am today. I wouldn't have been stubborn enough to compose, direct and produce a twenty-minute musical as my senior project in college. I wouldn't have been relentless enough to create three original short plays about the affect our war in Iraq and Afghanistan is having on our soldiers and produce, direct, design and stage them in my back yard in forty-seven days. I wouldn't have the motivation I have at the gym when I work out (Sam really is the best personal trainer. If ever you need a motivator, needing to defend yourself during a violent, uncontrollable outburst from a fully grown man is it). Sam has been the single most formative contributor to who I am and who I have been growing up. He and I can't go out cruising for girls together. We can't sit up until the small hours of the morning talking through our problems. We can't arm wrestle, or shotgun a beer or play video games together. But he's the only person I know who's never betrayed a friend. He's my brother. I'd do anything for him.

Mission Street: A Story about a man, two girls, some Mexicans, Nitrous Oxide, sex, alcohol, a broken bicycle and a dog named Tugboat

Mission Street: A story about a man, two girls, some Mexicans, Nitrous Oxide, sex, alcohol, a broken bicycle and a dog named Tugboat.

by Andrew J. Perez

The dog's name, Tugboat, has no bearing on the story but to give you, the reader, a sense of the size of the behemoth dwelling in the tiny two bedroom apartment. I imagine, partly from Tugboat, partly, again, from the copious open alcohol containers strewn about the living room, bedrooms, kitchen and bathroom like sentinels guarding the diseased and drugged, and partly, from the so-called Bohemian lifestyle, the apartment's aroma is one of legend. I'm not certain myself how to describe the scent this pit gives off. Somewhere, I'd say, between a fish dying in the Arizona sun on July sixteenth at one-fifteen in the afternoon and the open mouth of a Wino who's just gone for a run around the block.

It's as though the Tecate cans and half-finished whiskey glasses only add an excuse for the flavor of the space. It's more that the space was meant to have this smell. Like the original contractors and city planners got together one day and said,

"Gentlemen, we require a building full of apartment units that smell of disease, sex, alcohol and death."

"Well, sir, is that not why we have the Irish quarter?"

"Silence fool! The Irish quarter will have no candle to hold to the aural experience had by those visiting this building. It will be a stench of legend. It will reek of stories that need telling. In short, gentlemen, we need a building that will stink."

Though it seems unlikely that this sort of conversation would have occurred, stranger things have happened.

I lie on the mattress - if one could call it such - spooning and being spooned. Ordinarily, this would be the stuff dreams are made of, but not this night. From the mantle above the bricked-over fireplace on which leans a framed William Claxton poster, a ceramic gargoyle, wax dripping down the sides of its face, stares down at me as if to say,

"owned."

I stare back for some time in the street lamp-lit room, the window just behind the pull-out couch wide open for all manner of insects to come in and all manner of tobacco and Tugboat-generated scents to go out. I try to close my eyes to sleep, but I can't seem to distract myself from my situation enough to surrender to unconsciousness.

"It must be pushing four," I think to myself, wishing for my own bed, wishing to be anywhere but this particular position in the world.

A mosquito comes to visit. I kill it on my forehead, the sound of which wakes Tugboat, my left side spoon.

It seems somewhat fitting that after a long while of flirtation with the blonde on my right, this would be how we would end up. Not with consummation of our blatant desire for one another, not with a torrid, sweaty, sticky affair that lasts the night and is gone just as fast as starlight with the rising sun, but with me in the middle between the half-horse, half-ape creature to my left and the philosophically-minded twenty-year-old to my right on a mattress that probably gave us all pink eye, covered in a thin blanket that has been licked to a near dripping state by the demon crushing my left arm.

I try to think about the rest of the space. Perhaps something about this apartment will be so disgusting that it will make me laugh and, with that, I will fall off to sleep. I stare into the closet to the right of the pull-out bed. I'm almost sure that it is literally the mess that has been piled up inside that holds up the television. T-shirts, video games, a copy of the film version of Jonathan Larson's RENT. This is a tomb for things that were once art and are now coasters. Several philosophy texts sit atop the mantle to my left, above the drippy gargoyle and beer cans. A copy of "The Wasteland and Other Poems" is the topmost book. A dry laugh nearly escapes my lips.

I look to the rest of the apartment with hope that it will bring relief. The green carpet running up and down the tiny hallway looks like something one would find when the real carpet is pulled up to be replaced. Waves roll across it like the bay beyond the tenement-like buildings blocking the view from the window. That's alright, there's at least a framed print of a satellite photo of the city right next to the window. In case you forget where you are. The doors lining the hallway - numbering eight in total and all closed and jammed shut - are painted in rectangular panels of nauseating pastels. Pink, blue, yellow, green; it's like Babies R Us had a vomit sale and the first hundred customers got whatever they could carry away without someone noticing for free. I try several doors and one gives way.

Hallelujah - the bathroom. I step inside, close the door behind me, grope on the wall for a light switch and immediately wish I hadn't found it and had just done my business any old where. I may have cleaned something inadvertently that way. I take care of my needs and struggle with the fact that there is no soap to be found anywhere in the room. Not in the shower, not in the sink, not in the trash. I rinse well and dry my hands on my pajamas. I know that at least they are clean.

After the day I'd spent with the specimen who rents this space and my blonde friend, sitting in the park, drinking beer, writing poetry, eating burritos and taking pictures with a disposable camera, I thought that certainly things will be going very well for me this evening. When we arrived at the magazine release party, Blondie had to sneak in, being merely twenty-years-old. She did well and we joined her directly. As soon as we were all in, I casually ask if she'd like a drink. I decline her offer to pay,

"Nah. Don't worry about it. I've got this," I say with a wink in my voice.

I bring her the requested Makers Mark on the rocks and accompany it with a Rum and Coke for myself. The show is fantastic. Act after act of erotic poetry, fantastic music, hilarious standup and can-can dancing. I buy the blonde another Makers.

Shortly thereafter we find ourselves outside listening one of the apartment-renter's friends who has brought her baritone ukulele to show us a song she'd written. Her arms work the strings, strumming in a way that nearly hides the matted hair in her underarms visible beneath the cap-sleeves of her ratty shirt. The song, at least, is very pretty.

When we return to the bar to see the rest of the show, a band has started up who proclaims to be a band-to-dance-to. The blonde asks me to hold her camera and phone for just a moment for what looks to me like a girl-chat moment. Within seconds, she has asked a tall, dark, scruffy, handsome and red-shirt clad man to dance with her with whom she proceeds to dance all night. I've been stood up for a red-shirt.

Whilst she dances, I rejoin the ukulele-toting hippy and her nitrous-snorting friend outside. After some time, a pair of angry Mexicans start into a fight. The hippy tries to stop them but the unfortunately stoned fat fuck to my left involves himself. I grab a bouncer and ask for an assist. He tells me that it's past the door and, thus, out of his jurisdiction. I pull the hippy away and back into the bar to leave the fat fuck and the Mexicans to their business. When I return, they're all bloody and prostrating themselves before each other amongst the discarded NO2 canisters begging each other's forgiveness.

I reopen my eyes and, yes, I'm still in the apartment. Autistically reliving the evening's adventure didn't make any of it any better. There's a let-down.

The sun has started to rise. I can tell because the window is still wide open and I can't move once again. As sunlight streams into the apartment, I fight my way up to use the restroom once more. With light filtering into the hallway, I notice the broken Cannondale bicycle leaning up against the left-side wall right in front of what looks to be a pile of at least two cans worth of refried beans dumped on the floor. Worried and holding my breath, I return to the living room, find my glasses and go back to the hallway. If only it really were beans.

Between the Wino-mouth / rotting beer-fish smell, the slobbering, snoring beast spooning me on my left, the the drunken, smelly, and rude blond on my right, the fly circus being hosted above my head, the Syphilis -Sale mattress and the newly discovered pile of dog shit in the hallway, I damn near run for the door as soon as traffic has cleared up enough for me to make my escape. I travel back to my home town, stopping to visit a friend on the way, and land at home.

I shower.

For a very long time.

Corn Fields in the Darkness

Corn Fields in the Darkness

by Andrew J. Perez

The day wasn't as warm as it ought to have been, though there would be no hint of complaint from me on that front. The cooler the day, the better the ride.

I was meticulous about packing my backpack. I made sure I had everything I'd need to last me the better part of a week: extra clothes, toiletries, provisions for the road, tools for my bike; everything. Once the packing was completed, I loaded up, strapped on my jacket and pack and departed. As the garage closed behind me, the engine between my legs roared to life, sputtering and exploding like a lion in the heat of battle.

I'd allotted around ninety minutes to make the fifty-or-so-mile trip given the time of day I'd be passing through several cities. The last thing I wanted was to end up an hour late and disrupt the timing for the rest of the day. Ergo, when I arrived barely an hour after I'd departed, needless to say, I was somewhat dumbfounded.

As I sat outside the house at which I was to stay, I was entertained in the interim by watching the neighbor and his friend and daughter attempt to park a boat in the side-yard of his suburban cul-de-sac house. After some time and post-parking, he wandered over with a bottle of water for me and some pleasant conversation about his thirty years riding motors with the CHP. As he walked back across the obscenely well-trimmed lawn, between the perfectionistic shrubberies to his own home, my acquaintance arrived. With a quick change and fast turnaround, we were into her SUV and on the road for another ninety minute drive. Or so we thought.

It wasn't until we actually arrived at our stated destination, impressive enough given the directions we'd had to guide us, that I realized the extent of the oddity that was to ensue simply by attendance at such an event. The said event, know as the social event of the year, the largest celebration in the small bay area suburb, is best not embellished but stated plainly without hyperbole or further perturbations of plot or verboseness in dictation. Therefore, without excessive extrapolations on the subject of the three-day-long celebration, I present to you, the tale of the Brentwood Corn Festival.

The wait in line was nigh unbearably extended. Apparently, as we learned late into our patient vigil to the corn, an edict had been enacted that allowed only one person in for each two people out in order to thin the crowd, as it were. Sadly, by the time we approached the gate, after nearly three quarters of an hour of watching a small boy play some seemingly-pedophillic game of leap-frog with a gray-haired man and taking note of the bafflingly-clad Twi-hard tweens wandering throughout the crowd, the odds of getting inside had gone from two-to-one to twenty-to-one. Thus, next in line, we stood counting forty patrons to the corn in their exit patterns before entering the fantastic, the fabulous, the overwhelming and overzealous Brentwood Corn Festival.

The most notable aspects of the Festival were the fireworks and the beer garden. I say the beer garden not for its extensive selection (corona and bud), nor for the rarity of the beer garden amidst the carnival rides and games, nor for the delicious smell of fermented wheat and barley between the scent of corn and port-a-potties, but for the fact that the damn thing closed five minutes before we got to it.

Thus, in place of beer, we had carnival games, a rather impressive cover band and, eventually, the aforementioned fireworks - somewhat of a let-down as there were no corn-shaped fireworks to be seen. However, as we exited the park at the completion of the festivities, the painfully patriotic red-white-and-blue finale confirmed that the rallying cry for the night was to be "America!"

We walked to a car, probably somewhere around a mile from the park, and took a drive. Not knowing where we were headed, I simply soaked up the surrounding area. We passed through what felt like endless corn fields. Corn to the right, corn to the left, corn ahead of us as far as the eye could see and nothing by corn behind us. When we passed through downtown Knightsen, I remarked on the three buildings in the city, all of which proudly served Budweiser, the King of Beers.

Suddenly, the car made a left turn onto an unlit dirt road. Cutting between trees and corn stalks, a metal barn appeared before us beyond a gnarled old tree and a wooden sign that informed the passengers of this car that we were entering the Tripple J Ranch.

"Dear god," I thought to myself. "I'm actually being taken to a corn field in the middle of the night."

As it turned out, I wasn't killed nor raped or maimed in any way. I was merely introduced to several horses; Peewee, Honey, Cat, Jaws, Teddy, Emma, Beau, Harley and one very proud and American rooster with a mighty American crow.

After some time of star-and-horse-gazing, we departed and returned to Brentwood, gathered our SUV and returned north after a failed attempt at a meet-up with who promised to be an entertaining individual with an excessive amount of foliage lining the front of his home.

When we arrived back at my friend's house and prepared for some much-needed rest, I realized that in my fervor for preparation for this sleep-over trip, I had managed to pack everything plus the kitchen sink into my backpack, excluding, rather ironically, any pajamas. I proudly donned her pink and black pajama pants and crawled under the covers.

I departed in the cool of the morning after a hearty bowl of shredded wheat and returned home. Not, however, without learning valuable lessons about pajamas, the corn fields in the darkness and the popularity of atrocious beer.

The Ranch House

The Ranch House

by Andrew J. Perez

I heard once that Sacramento is second only to Paris in the number of trees per capita worldwide. Therefore, it's no surprise that the variety and frequency of the trees lining Riverview drive on either side of the road create a verdantly stunning panorama. On one side: trees and farmland. On the other side: trees and the Sacramento River. It is this type of road that explains why, on the giant water tower just off of I-5 at Pocket Road, a titanic painted slogan proclaims Sacramento to be "The City of Trees."

My Honda Shadow 600 purrs deeply underneath me at every turn, winding along the moonlit road inside the tunnel of leaves and branches. The smell out here is astounding. The temperature, too. Riding down I-5 from downtown Sacramento at eleven-o'clock on Saturday night after two performances in an un-airconditioned theater, even the hot, muggy eighty-mile-per-hour Sacramento breeze felt nice. Out here along the river, though, I'm almost cold.

I zip my jacket tighter, close the ventilation zippers to keep the warmth in and follow the taillights ahead of me. The miles roll by and I wonder how far this legendary house can be down this road. It seems like we've been going for days and yet the moon still shines through the crystal clear sky, much less polluted by the city lights this far south.

We make a right turn onto a semi-paved road and pull up in front of one of the largest houses I've ever seen. The stage manager stops her car, clicks off the ignition and runs over to me.

"Go ahead and park in the carport just around the house," she tells me.

"Sounds good," I reply and rev the engine in first around the corner. I savor for the shortest of breathes the feeling of the bike beneath me and I tell myself,

"Tonight is going to be a good night."

The grand tour of the house is overwhelming. At least four bedrooms, two living rooms, several decks and patios, an enormous kitchen and three bathrooms. Couches are in nearly every room but the kitchen and each bedroom is fully furnished and ready for guests. I drop my backpack, helmet and jacket by the fireplace in the first living room and pull the fifth of Jack Daniels from my bag. The stage manager asks me,

"Do you need a drink, sweetie?"

I reply by cracking open the seal, holding my revered beverage aloft for all to see and respect, and finally by brining the mouth of the bottle to my lips, taking a long pull at the rich, woody flavor.

People start arriving in fast succession and before I'm even aware it's happened, we're gathered around the dining room table about to play King's Cup. I pick up a beer and prepare myself.

By the time we're done, I'm four beers (plus the whiskey) into the night, my voice is hoarse from laughter and I can't hear the word "Rainbows" without wanting to punch someone in the gall bladder.

Now, I feel it's only fair, at this juncture, to elaborate upon the legend that The Ranch House carries with it. As a new member of this conglomeration of thespians, I have been told repeatedly about The Ranch House. I have heard stories about searches for missing guests in the three hundred acres of fields. I have heard stories that I was sworn to never tell to another soul (a promise I intend to keep). Mostly, though, I've heard one thing over and over, as though the house itself were speaking through the fortunate guests and tenants:

What happens at The Ranch House stays at The Ranch House.

With that said, I return to the tale of what happened at The Ranch House.

After the hilarious round of King's Cup, it is time to experience the wonders and excitement that The Ranch House truly holds. We all strap on shoes while several of our inebriated cronies crooned miscellaneous tunes and songs at the piano accompanied by some variant forms of percussion and strings. Enjoying the musical festivities but not wanting to miss out on the magic that the property holds, we wander out into the darkness.

Immediately we are confronted with a brief but intense battle. Duct tape and foam covered PVC pipes are flying in every direction attached to willing warriors plunging into the fray like vultures on some forgotten carcass. The game ends quickly when a stray blow from the back end of my quarterstaff knocks our lead to the ground. He recovers and we move on.

After some time of wandering seemingly aimlessly through row after row of pear trees, the land suddenly opens up into what seems to be a wasteland with a plateau at the far end. As we walk onto this new terrain, I feel the crunch and smell the familiar pumpkin-patch scent of hay and I realize that, in fact, it is not a plateau I see before us, but a hay stack fifteen feet high, six feet wide and ninety feet long.

Once atop the buttresses of hay, the wind is much more noticeable. Again, I find myself nearly cold in Sacramento at the end of July. The discordance of it ought to ring louder in my ears, but at this point my ears are ringing loudly enough from other stimuli.

As we depart from the haystack, I somehow find myself below one guest who's leap of faith is much less precise than anyone would have necessarily desired. Once the stars clear from my vision after I help soften her fall by catching her elbow with my forehead, we head back to the house. Once back, the music continues, as does the drinking. I'm not sure at this point how much I've had, but I can't deny that another shot of whiskey sounds superb.

Eventually, people start to head out - some back to their homes, some to the myriad beds available to the guests. I opt to join several of the crew atop the car port just feet above my Shadow. As the guitar plays and we all start slowly to fall over, we begin to create something new. Eight-bar blues in E with each roof-topper taking a turn at making up a verse, one fellow reciting his raps in a freakishly impressive Miss Piggy voice, the sound of the high E string snapping and the disappointment we all share at the lack of everyone's favorite soloing string. After several hours, we all pile onto each other under blankets and sleeping bags, huddling like prostrate penguins for warmth. Not to miss a cue, just as we all start to roll over to get an hour or two of sleep before the day breaks, the sky at the horizon lightens and the first distant rays of sunlight peek over the walls of the rooftop.

I sleep for some little while before the sun and the sounds of men and dogs working the fields drive me inside. I curl up on the floor and sleep for a few more hours.

When I finally officially awake, one of our party has prepared himself for a massive waffle extravaganza. We all enjoy the Decemberists' album that our waffling friend explains to us as we listen through it and, just as it ends, we sit down to enjoy the fruits of his labors. As we eat, I notice the photographs framed on the kitchen walls. I learn that this house and property have been in the family since the 1850s and that the photos are of the original property and the man who started it all. His attire is straight out of a Western and his moustache is one that would make Sam Elliot weep with envy. We all mill about for some time before I realize that most of the day is gone and I ought to get on my way home.

The Shadow roars to life beneath me once more. I open the choke and the engine revs like some medieval beast yawning at the mouth of a cave. I pull out onto Riverview Drive once more and soak up the cool breeze off the river while waving to each of the many bikers coming in the opposite direction. It's not until I reach Freeport that I realize there is a biker convention in progress. I ride through, feeling that I suddenly fit in more than I have since moving to California, and head north to home.