Gus' De-feet

By Roadrage
(c) 2009
Now, ya gotta understand somethin’ ‘bout Gus before ya get too far into this thing. He’s a road-worn, foul-mouthed, scrawny little piece of scooter trash who’s never hurt anyone in his life. Even though he looks wild and scary, and tries sometimes to be tougher than he could ever really be, Gus is all about the good times. Make no mistake; he’ll ride for weeks on end in any weather, with or without a destination in mind. While he might bitch about the road or weather or how much his ass hurts, Gus will never say no to a ride. He doesn’t have much use for cars, either. In fact, the last time he was even in a cage was five or six years ago when his leg was broke, but that’s another story.

The point here is that Gus is a tough little old biker who rides, fixes and holds his own. He minds his own business, too. He’s not a big, tough, in-your-face badass—or wannabe anything. His face slides into an easy smile at the sight of a friend or a pretty girl, and he’ll laugh at almost any joke, good or bad. Gus is more likely to have a beer with you than mix it up with anyone.

Which brings us to the latest chapter in the long trail of stories that make up Gus’ colorful life.

One of Gus’ weaknesses is a fondness for little stripper girls. No one is sure why he spends so much time tossing money at the gals—maybe be it makes him feel younger than his 57 years, or maybe he likes the flirting. Maybe, like any red-blooded American boy, he likes watching 20-something female bodies jiggle and writhe while he sucks down a cold beer. It doesn’t matter though, ‘cause he has a good time, and that’s really all that counts.

After a hard day of not doing much at work, Gus decided to reward himself for making it through the day with a trip to the titty bar. This wasn’t an unusual thing, so he didn’t bother with calling the ol’ lady—she knew where to find him if she wanted him. The couple had decided years ago that no news was good news for the most part; her bingo habit and his stripper habit were OK, and they’d know where to look if they needed to find each other.

So, Gus headed to the Crazyhorse.

The Crazyhorse is the almost perfect strip joint. It’s near the center of town, but far enough away from the high-dollar neighborhoods that there aren’t many complaints. It’s not out in some seedy area attracting unwanted trouble. It’s more of a neighborhood joint that happens to have a few mostly naked girls hanging around. Plus, it’s close to Gus’ house, so it was convenient for him.

Gus rumbled into the Crazyhorse parking lot. It’s more of a vacant lot with patches of broken-up asphalt than an actual parking lot, but it serves its purpose just fine.
Gus was riding the ’77 FXS he named Lucille, It was one of those mostly shitty AMF-built bikes that needed a lot of attention to keep running. Gus had rebuilt just about every piece, part and function on the bike over the years, and so, knows every inch of the machine. That little scooter is reliable, too. She always starts, and with all the work and attention Gus lavishes on Lucille, she runs like a raped ape…faster than a lot of newer bikes, especially when piloted by the wiry graybeard that built her.

Killing the motor on the Lowrider, Gus sat astride his bike a moment. He was a little tired. It had been a long day. Even though he didn’t really do too much as the warehouse supervisor, Gus had spent the day running around the stacks of building materials. It was a slow day, so Gus had found a bunch of chores to keep his younger workers busy. So, he had to keep an eye on ‘em, making sure they weren’t screwing off and getting in trouble. The result was he spent the day walking the warehouse…now his feet hurt.
Gus shuffled into the bar, feeling welcomed by the blinding darkness as his eyes adjusted to the inside of the club after the bright sun outside.

“Hey, Gus,” a voice in the darkness said.

Gus recognized the voice. It was the doorman. He was a big, burly guy who seemed nice enough, but was more than capable of squashing trouble in the club.

“Hey big guy,” Gus said. Gus didn’t know the bouncer’s name…just always called him big guy. “All my little gals workin’ it tonight?”

“As always,” said the bouncer.

With that, Gus shuffled through the door into the main room of the club. His eyes adjusted and the welcoming sight of three g-string clad young girls gyrating on stage to the thumping beat of the much too loud music. The joint was more empty than full, so Gus made a dawdling beeline to the bar and ordered a shot of Jack and knocked it back immediately. Then he ordered another, this time with a beer back. He turned around to survey the flashing colors and naked bodies spread out before him as he leaned back against the bar. Coming here was a good choice—his feet didn’t hurt nearly as much any more.

He made sure his tab was open with the bartender; a former peeler who’d aged a bit and wasn’t comfortable showing off on stage, but still had a great rack.

“You’re good, babe,” she said cheerily. “You know that.”

Gus had known the bartender for more than a few years. He’d been in the club the first night she’d shyly danced. She was great looking and had a great body, but didn’t know yet how to work the guys who were ogling her, especially the ones sitting down on the meat rack—the seats right up against the stage. Gus felt badly for her that night because she looked so uncomfortable, and made a point of stuffing a few dollars in her g-string, trying to build her confidence. Eventually, the two became friends.

“How’re things goin’?” she asked.

“Ahh, my feet’re tired. It's one a them run around an’ do nuthin’ days, ya know?” Gus replied.

“Yeah, I sure do,” she said. “Go find a spot and I’ll be sure to send the waitress over for ya.”

“Sounds good,” Gus said, tapping the bar lightly with his open hand.

With that, Gus moved away from the bar in search of a place to park his boney ass and enjoy the show.

It seemed like all the girls were in the club tonight. There were only three stages, so every little girl not working was wandering the floor in search of a few bucks in exchange for a lap dance. This early in the evening there were few takers, but they were workin’ it anyway, showing off their wares.

Gus never paid for a lap dance. That was part of the understanding with his ol’lady. He didn’t touch, didn’t let the gals grind on him, and he wouldn’t throw away lots of cash in tips trying to impress anyone. Gus’ wife had been a shy, not-so-into-it titty dancer years ago when she and Gus met, so she wasn’t too opposed to tossing a few singles to the girls in the course of a good time. But she knew the game all too well, and wasn’t about to let Gus get stupid with the mortgage payment. Plus there was still a kid living at home, so even though he was a regular, none of the girls took much of Gus’ cash.

He settled into a chair centrally positioned in the room, that way Gus could watch all three stages without straining his neck.

It wasn’t long before the girls began parading by Gus, mostly just to say hi, but a couple tried to work him for money. There was Mercedes, Lexus, Porche, Tiffany, the other Mercedes, the other Lexus and a string of others with goofy stage names. Gus didn’t really care what their real names were, but he did wonder why so many named themselves after luxury cars—some of them were less than luxury women. Just once, Gus thought, he’d like to hear a stripper named GMC or F-150.

Whatever. He ordered another shot and beer.

The night passed quickly. The Crazyhorse filled up not long after Gus arrived, and the place turned into a pretty good party. Gus had stopped drinking beer after three, and stayed with drinking Jack the rest of the night, as he usually did. He had a pretty good buzz on, which probably made the dazzling acrobatics of the other Mercedes on the brass pole much more impressive to Gus than they actually were. He’d moved up to the meat rack at some point, and was having a great time, hooting, hollering and making a party of the night. A few other guys got into the spirit, but most just sat, staring intently at the girls more than half their age.

At some point, Gus’ eyes wandered away from the perfectly manicured backside of one of the honeys on stage to the wristwatch of the guy next to him at the meat rack. It was just before midnight. Gus hadn’t planned to stay at the Crazyhorse that long, but he was having a good time, so he didn’t feel too bad about it. Plus it was Friday night, and the wife was feeding her bingo habit. She’d be getting home soon though, and he wanted to be getting home, too. Staring at all the little hotties all night was giving him an itch that needed scratching, and his ol’ lady had the right kind of fingernails. Come to think of it, that might be why she let him go to the strip clubs…she got hers when he got home.

After the girlie with the perfect behind finished her set, Gus applauded loudly and rose from his chair, wobbling a little. He made his way to the bathroom. His feet didn’t hurt any more as he bounced over to the john. There, the strong smell of urinal cakes, cigarettes and stale perfume slapped him in the face again. He adjusted to it quickly as he found a pisser, unzipped, and relieved himself. The florescent lights and starkly painted room helped Gus realize just how trashed he actually was. It was time to go, so he zipped up and weaved through the bathroom door.

Gus made his way past the bar towards the door.

“Are you OK, Gussy,” the big-busted bartender queried as he walked past.

“Yep,” he replied. “Gotta go home.”

“You walkin?”

“Nah. You know what happens when I walk home.”

It’s tough to walk home after a night of drinking. All the stumbling, falling off the sidewalk, tripping over the sidewalk and having to remember your way makes it a challenging choice. Sometimes it’s just easier not to walk.

The last time Gus walked home from the bar, he shouldn’t have tried it. While negotiating a tricky corner and curb he was hit by a car. Not only did Gus not make it home that night, he ended up with a broken leg a broken leg. As a result, Gus couldn’t work or ride for months. His wife had to drive him around for everything, and getting in and out of the damn thing with a cast on his leg was a bitch. Not only did he grow to really hate being in a cage, it was the only time Gus got tired of being around his wife. After that, Gus made a point of not walking anywhere he could ride.

“OK, hun, ”the bartendress said. ”See ya next time, “She motioned to the gorilla who passed for the bouncer.

When Gus got to the door, the bouncer met him.

“You good to go, Gus? You know I’ll get you a cab,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m good, Gus said. If I get a cab, I’ll just have to come back to get my bike anyway.”

“Plus,” he said, putting a scrawny hand on the huge man’s shoulder, “I don’t have time to wait fer a cab, big guy. My ol’ lady’s ‘spectin’ me.”

He patted the bouncer on the shoulder. “Thanks, bro.”

Gus walked out of the club, leaving behind the thumping music and breathing in fresh, non-perfumed, non-smoky air for the first time in several hours. It felt good, and he suddenly felt less drunk. He deftly walked to his FXS, swung his leg over it, and planted his butt in the familiar seat, sat there a few seconds, then rose to kick her to life.

The bike fired on the first kick, roaring the announcement of its presence into the parking lot. Gus let her idle a minute or so while he fished his glasses out of his shirt pocket. He pushed the bike back to where there was a clear path to the lot exit, dropped her into gear, and rumbled across the lot to the street. With a quick glance for traffic, Gus twisted the throttle and blasted onto the street.

Gus instantly felt the familiar confidence that came with being on the FXS. His butt settled into the well-worn pattern in the seat, and his feet were perched perfectly on the pegs. It was the most comfortable he’d been all day. There wasn’t much traffic, so Gus had the street to himself. He only had a couple miles to go to get home, but right now, he had the urge to head out for a little nighttime putt. The wind against his body and snapping his beard around felt good, blowing the alcohol out of his head. He thought better of making the ride, and geared down to make the turn towards his house.

Gus was only a few blocks from home when he saw the cop car sitting in the left lane of the road at the stoplight. He knew he was drunk, and so immediately began forming an escape plan. He decided to try and stay behind the cops.

He slowed down in hopes that the light would change and the squad car would move forward. That way, he’d be able to stay behind the patrol car for a block to where he’d turn right, taking the back way into his neighborhood, off the main street. From there it’d be a quick series of turns through the rows of houses to the safety of his garage.

No such luck. The light stayed red, even though there was no cross traffic. The light just hung there above the center of the intersection, a glowing red cherry mocking Gus’ most urgent wish.

“Dammit!” Gus mumbled to himself. There was nothing for Gus to do now but ride it out. Pulling behind the cops—only to immediately move to the right lane to make the turn a block later might arouse attention from the guys in blue. Plus, he was already rolling up in the right lane.

Nope, there was nothing Gus could do except ride right up next to the squad car and mind his own business, while not looking as wobbly and soused as he was feeling again.

Concentrating hard, Gus smoothly downshifted as he slowed, rolling up next to the police car. The light was still red…no chance of avoiding having to stop next to the police car.

“Just be cool,” Gus thought. “Don’t worry ‘bout 'em. You’re almost home…just be cool.”

Gus focused hard on what he was doing. He realized he might have stayed too long at the bar. He was on the road during hunting season, when police are out specifically looking for drinkers. He should have taken a different route home. It was too late now, though. There was nothing to do but stay focused, play this out, and make it to that right turn ahead.

Rolling slowly with the clutch lever pulled in, Gus was looking squarely at the officer in the passenger seat as he pulled up next to the cruiser. It wasn’t until the cop turned to look at him that Gus realized he wasn’t eyes front, paying attention to himself and his bike.

With Gus looking at the cop, and the cop looking right back at him, Gus figured he’d at least act friendly. He took his right hand off the throttle grip and held his hand up in a wave to the cop, flashing a big friendly grin in the process.

Then, Gus saw black, and then what looked like pavement—up close.

The cops were laughing so hard when they put Gus into the back of the police car that they didn’t even bother to ‘cuff him. Gus was a little confused, but he knew he was sitting in the back of the police cruiser. As he sat there listening to police radio chatter, Gus slowly figured out that he’d been arrested. Both cops were outside the car, working with a tow-truck driver to lift the FXS onto the truck.

Gus watched his pride and joy hoisted into the air before being lashed onto the wrecker. He noticed the left side of the gas tank was dimpled—badly. The left side mirror was bent and broken, and the left side of the buckhorn bars looked to be bent.

His chin hurt.

Gus started looking around for the car that must have hit him from behind. There wasn’t one. Nothing was making sense. How did he go from a fine evening of girl watching, to a nice little motorcycle ride, to the back of a police car?

Gus watched in silent disbelief as the tow-truck drove away with Lucille firmly lashed to the hoist on the back of the truck.

The two cops were still yukkin’ it up when they got into the cruiser, one on each side of the front seat. The driver turned around to face Gus and said, “We want to thank you for making this an entertaining night. It was pretty dull until you came along.”

The other cop was laughing, his shoulders bouncing with each guffaw as he shook his head from side to side.

“You might know how to ride pretty well there, Gus,” he said, ‘but you ain’t much for stopping, though are you?”

The comment brought a new round of chuckling from the driver. He put the car in gear and said, “OK Gus, we’re gonna go now, you can keep your feet up.” He paused and then continued, “But when we come to a stop light, I want you to be sure and put your feet down, got it?”