Page 100 of Not So Goode

“It was thelifeshe wasn’t sure about, Crow, notyou.”

“I ain’t ever known nothing but the road,” I said. “I don’t know nothin’ else.”

“Just love her,” Lexie said. “You can figure out the rest.”

I stared at Myles. I’d been with him for years, now. Day in, day out. Life on the road, from nobody cover artist to worldwide phenomenon. “Myles…”

He gripped my shoulders, spun me around, and shoved me toward my bike. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll miss you, I love your dumb ass, you’ll miss me, you love my dumb ass. I get it. Just go, already.”

I didn’t need shit on that bus, except my guitar case. I zipped my guitar into the backpack-style case, slung it over my shoulder, and yanked my helmet on.

I kicked my bike to life, pointed it toward the storage facility which was, in a perhaps not so strange twist of fate, only a few miles from the concert venue. El Paso—on the border with Mexico—was only a short distance away, and was where River Dog lived a good portion of his life, where he’d learned the art of guitar making, where he’d taught it to me.

I hadn’t been to this facility in years—I pay a guy to come out twice a month and check on things, keep the tools clean, start the truck, maintain the RV. There’s security, it’s temperature controlled—the stock of wood River Dog piled up is expensive, and rare—more so, now, in these days when forests are vanishing and wood supply is low, so keeping the wood preserved is vital.

Fortunately, Myles pays me a mint, plus I’m credited as a songwriter on most of his stuff, so I get royalties from all that. Meaning, I’m set, financially, for life. I spend nearly nothing, living on the bus as I do, and I put all my income into a fund which one of Myles’s money management dudes takes care of—investing in smart, safe, reliable avenues. Diversification of assets, he says. What it all means, I don’t fuckin’ know. He tries to explain it to me once a year, and I tell him I don’t really give a shit, as long as I got money when I need it, and he ain’t skimming. If I catch him skimming, I told him, he’ll wish I’d just make him vanish. I know some old Apache warrior torture techniques, and if I find him stealing, I’ll use ‘em, I told him. So, after he cleaned up his pee-stained pants, he set about making damn sure to takerealgood care of my money.

I guess I got real estate in New York of some kind, stock in companies which have never done shit but turn a tidy profit, and some other investments. I really don’t give a shit. Money is useful for getting shit done, for keeping me fed, for putting booze in my belly when I wanna forget. It ain’t ever been a motivator for me. Myles neither, really. He likes the trappings of fame, the fans, the attention, but really, he’s in it for the music. It’s in his blood.

Now, sitting outside the storage unit, bike off, feet on the ground, helmet tipped back on my head, I’m wondering what the fuck I’m doing.

This is scary.

I wasn’t scared back in my enforcer days. I had zero fear of anyone, of dying, of pain. It didn’t matter to me. I could walk into a den of angry bikers and take ‘em all on, and not feel a damn thing.

Now? The prospect of climbing behind the wheel of that old truck and heading north to tell a woman I barely know that I fell in love with her, and want to be with her? Terrified. Shaking in my damn boots.

I ain’t no goddamn coward. But, fuck you for this, Myles.

I swing off my Indian, dig my keys out of my saddlebags, and unlock the unit. Roll up the door. Flick on the lights. And there it is—River Dog and Mammy’s set up.

1955 Dodge Power Wagon in fire-engine red, bought at an auction in Mexico City for a steal, restored, modified, and maintained by handy ol’ River Dog himself. The mods were aging, now, since he’d done the job back in the eighties, but the old man knew how to take care of things, so it ran like a top. Plenty of low-end power, comfy plump leather bench, four on the floor transmission running a burly crate V-8, and the stock AM/FM radio because River Dog preferred windows down and radio off, just the silence and old Mammy’s voice chattering on as she liked to do.

Behind it, a vintage Airstream—classic streamlined silver body, gleaming windows, updated interior. A few years ago, I’d had an idea I’d like to follow the tour in this setup, so I’d had the interior stripped and refitted with current stuff, still keeping the vintage look but more useable and comfortable.

He kept his lutherie tools in several locked toolboxes and storage bins inside the trailer, with a custom airtight storage cubby under the couch for keeping the rarest wood—the rest was kept under a tarp in the bed of his truck. I went with the same setup, but I’d planned on hauling my bike with me in the truck, so I’d partitioned off the sides of the bed with built-in covered bins, an expensive but tidy solution.

I stood, staring, trying to summon the courage to really do this.

It was real, now. Myles had fired me. I mean, he’d support me no matter what, I knew, but this was just his way of forcing me out of the nest, so to speak.

Hands shaking, nerves firing, I lowered the bed of the truck and slid out the ramp, hauled the bike up and into the bed, tied it down to the custom tie-down points I’d had installed. I had a tarp rolled up in the cab in case of bad weather, and maintenance tools and spare parts in a toolbox in the bed, because you don’t own a vintage bike and not expect to have to fix it now and then.

The bike stowed, I peeked into the trailer—diner-style checkered table with red leather booth benches, chrome trim everywhere, stainless steel fridge, matching induction stovetop range and microwave. Vinyl flooring made to look and feel like dark cherry hardwood—all but indestructible and easy to clean. Red leather couch, butcher-block countertops to match the floors, white cabinets, and a deep, porcelain farmhouse sink. The look was somewhere between fifties cottage and an old country farmhouse.

One bed, a king size, fitted into the rear, under a huge window. Storage underneath for clothes, bookshelves overhead. A bathroom big enough for me to stand up in, and room enough that I didn’t knock elbows against the wall washing my hands or taking a shower.

Clean, maintained, and ready to go.

The truck interior was spare, but comfortable. Crank windows, of course. Updated A/C and heater, but with the stock vintage controls. I stuck the key into the ignition, floored the clutch, and she rumbled to life with a snarl.

I pulled out of the unit, heart slamming in my chest. I parked and went back to make sure nothing was missing or left behind, shut off the lights, closed the door, and drove away—stopping at the office to make the first decision which would seal my future…I closed my account, handed in my keys, and let the unit go.

I’d had a little work done to the truck interior—installing a USB charging port so I could keep my phone powered, and play music if I wanted.

I plugged my phone in, set Ketchikan, Alaska as my destination, and headed north.

For the first time in my life, I chose my destination just because I wanted to.