Singin’ the Old Brain-Bucket Blues

I rode out to visit the kids. Nice house. My ex’s husband does pretty well. Nice guy, besides. Of course, the kids weren’t around. Growing up is a full-time job. Trying to get those borderline-baby 13s and 14s behind you and speed-shift into the real teen age is hard work. Natalie was at a shopping mall. Mike was at a friend’s, trying to hook up a motor to a skateboard. Rites of passage, ‘80s style.

“They’ll be home in a bit,” Alice, my ex, smiled. She still had dimples. “Stick around. Mike would love to see your new bike.” There was a touch of wistfulness there. We put a lot of miles on the Lost Dream Highway ourselves. A lot of old Harleys. Too many wrong exits.

“OK.”

“Want a beer? Come on in and wait.”

“OK. I’ll wait for them out here.” I sat down on a decorative brick fence and listened to my bike ping away the heat.

Alice and a beer came out. She sat down next to me. “Lotta white in that beard, pal,” she observed. Her brown eyes twinkled. Up close, I could see tiny webs the time spider was trying to weave.

I whooshed open the beer. It sprayed a fine mist into the sun. A drunken rainbow danced between us. Through the psychedelic mist there were no lines around Alice’s eyes. Then the rainbow sobered up. I took a cold swallow.

“Mike wants a motorcycle,” Alice said. “ ‘C’mon, Mom, just a little dirt bike.’ ” It was a good imitation of our son, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“He’s not old enough for a license yet,” I answered, too quickly.I felt old and out of it. I felt like Ward Cleaver.

“Scary, huh?” I wasn’t sure if she was talking about letting Mike on a motorcycle, or the fact that he was almost old enough to ride one, or about me growing into a spurious authority figure. Maybe she was talking about life.

“Yeah,” I agreed. Any one--or all four--would do.

“So, what do we do?” She paused and took a deep breath. “Look, I’m really scared to let him have a bike. And if we do let him, he has to--no--he will wear a helmet.”

I took a pull on the beer and thought it over. “We’ll get him a helmet, send him to motorcycle-riding school.”

Alice nodded. A little relieved. “Time sure does a number, doesn’t it?” In her mind she must have been riding behind me on our beautifully ancient 1951 Harley Davidson. Choppers, they used to call them in the ‘60s. Her hair was shooting auburn flames of defiance. We were born to ride the wind. Helmets? Those were for the old folks. The lames. Ride hard, die young; leave a good-looking corpse. Ha, ha.

Except when it comes to your own son.

“Remember the anti-helmet rally?”

She took a sip of my beer. “Yeah,” she almost smiled. “‘Let those who ride decide,’ right?”

“That’s the way it has to be,” I said. “But for now, we’ll decide for him.”

“What am I supposed to say when he asks how come you don’t wear one?”

“Hell,” I said, crumpling the beer can, “tell him I’m a throwback. A dinosaur.”

Across the street I saw Mike, his Dolph Lundgren hair a study in 15-year-old rad. As my worried father told my mother 25 years ago: “It’s a different generation.”

“Hey, Dad!” Mike yelled. Sometimes he forgets and drops his cool. His grin would carry me for weeks.

As we got up to meet our son, Alice spoke quietly: “Maybe you should think about wearing one, too.” The words were as sudden as the Big Sur thundershower that drenched us one summer in another life. Then she giggled. “I don’t think your head is as hard as it once was.”

We shared a laugh. We laughed until we almost cried.