STORY STAR
Congratulations !
You have been awarded points.
Thank you for !
- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Inspirational / Uplifting
- Published: 04/30/2022
Defiance
Born 1955, M, from Manasquan, NJ, United States.jpeg)
Excerpt from “Loose Garments…a memoir”
With just a few miles to go before reaching Yoder’s small Harley-Davidson dealership in Defiance, Ohio, I wondered if Otto, a co-owner with his brother Joe, would remember me from the previous summer in 79’. The brothers, in their early fifties, were traditionalist and believed wholeheartedly in the motorcycles they’d been selling since 1958.
Otto manned the front counter and dealt with customers while balancing books and keeping inventory. He used a stiff pomade on the front of his military crew cut so it stood perpetually at attention adding an extra inch to his five foot six, lean frame. A pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes remained rolled in his tee shirt sleeve for easy access. Brother Joe worked behind the scenes handling repairs and customizations, clicking his tongue in disgust for anything other than genuine parts from Milwaukee. Joe’s mechanic’s overalls, terminating well above his spindly ankles due to his six foot plus beanpole height, looked pressed by a tailor. And the floor of his domain, with the iconic red, white and blue Harley Davidson ‘Number One’ insignia painted in its center, gleamed like a welcoming dinner table.
The year before I purchased oil, a tee shirt, and tune-up parts, then used one of their lifts to service the motorcycle. Not many riders from New Jersey pass through the sleepy hamlet of Defiance on the way west, and the brothers, along with a few long haired, tattooed patrons, showed copious amounts of respect for my solo endeavor. Although I wasn’t aware at age twenty four while droning along on Rt 6, it’s entirely possible I was especially enamored with Yoder’s because the brothers were about the same age my father was when fate interrupted our relationship. Perhaps on a subconscious level I was reveling in the blessings from long absent male authority. Aware or not I looked forward to more of the same. I even planned my arrival after work hours, hoping there’d be plenty of potential customers at the parts counter or just standing around killing time. Peter Fonda from ‘Easy Rider’ was alive and well in my imagination.
My timing was impeccable. Four burly bikers stood at the counter sipping cans of Budweiser and thumbing through The Motor Company’s accessories catalogue, while Otto stood opposite tapping on an adding machine. Two other tattooed behemoths were crouched down admiring the details of a blue Electra Glide proudly displayed in the center of the small showroom. All heads turned as I stepped through the door; I was hoping Otto would recognize me and he certainly did. Halfway through my cheerful greeting and reminder who I was, he interrupted in a loud baritone.
“I know who ya’ are riding that 77 ‘iron head’ from New Jersey!” His voice was explosive. His facial expression showed anger with a hint of disgust rather than friendly recognition. “Did you call your mother?”
Those words were so out of context they stunned me into silence. Unlike a surprise question on a pop quiz where at least the test itself is framework, this one had absolutely no segue. The self-assured hubris immediately drained from my bone marrow as swiftly as the red flush of mortification rushed to my face. I froze just inside the doorway, cluelessly dumbfounded.
A few months before while still dreaming of this excursion to the west coast, or ‘The Mother of all Rides’ as I called it, Dorothy Loretta and I had numerous conversations regarding my need to do this. I spoke about the logistics and importance of maintaining the motorcycle, and reassured her there’s plenty of helpful Harley shops along the way. That must’ve been when I casually mentioned using Yoder’s of Defiance the year before. We also took deep philosophical dives and cited travel as an important means of self discovery. For my mother’s part, if she didn’t trust my judgment one hundred percent, perhaps she leaned on her unwavering faith that everything happens and will continue to happen as it should. To some extent, she might’ve even felt she was reaping what she’d sowed with me, since her manipulations were responsible for my summer in Spain with the Ramones back in 69’. If I had the ‘travel bug’, as my mother called it, then it was she who gave it to me.
So I set forth from New Jersey in late May, 1980 on the mother of all rides with Dorothy Loretta’s blessing. There was, however, one stipulation: I had to phone home once a week. This wasn’t a suggestion from my mother; it was a nonnegotiable mandate. In fact, using her connections as a retiree from NJ Bell, she gave me three digits to dial after our area code and home number that would put a call through, with or without an operator, from anywhere in the mainland US. Her methodical instructions were simple, foolproof, but apparently not idiot-proof, because that first week I managed to forget about calling.
Thus on the seventh day with no word from her wayward son, Dorothy Loretta played telephone sleuth and took it upon herself to find me. Her first call was to Yoder’s. While I can only imagine the introductions and ensuing conversation between my mother and Otto with brother Joe probably listening in, it’s a good bet the shop owners rallied behind a fretful, diligent mother. That would also also explain the look on Otto’s face, like he’d just swallowed a bad clam, when I strolled in expecting accolades.
After what seemed like an eternity of wide eyed silence on my part, in a choking voice I managed to squeak out, “Call my mother?” Uttering those words made my knees weaken; perhaps on a subconscious level I began piecing together what was happening.
“That’s what I said,” Otto continued a few decibels louder and more slowly, as though speaking to a simpleton. “You know who your mother is, don’t ya’?” As if on cue, Brother Joe’s head appeared from behind the garage door to once again listen in.
With that rhetorical question Otto reached below the sales counter and produced a heavy, black, Bakelite desk phone. He slammed it down with a ringing clatter in front of me.
“Now call your mother!”
With a shaky finger I dialed, using my three digit secret code, then cupped my hand around the receiver’s mouthpiece.
“Hello?” My mother still answered the phone with a very business-like tone. Her ‘hello’ was clipped and precise, easy to follow with something like ‘operator’, a throwback to her early years on the switchboard.
“Mom, it’s me,” I whispered, giving a sideways glance toward the bikers perusing the catalogue as they leaned in like a barbershop quartet. “Why did you…” but her quick response cut me off.
“Why hello, it’s nice to hear from you!” Dorothy Loretta’s exuberant voice was so loud I had to pull the tethered receiver away from my head. I would’ve put my palm over the earpiece, but I’d run out of hands. It sounded like she was on speaker phone as her melodically sweet voice resonated throughout the now quiet and attentive shop.
“Mom,” I continued a little louder trying to get her attention. “I want to know why you called…” But she cut me off again.
“So tell me, where are you?” That’s when I heard the unique sound, like a drunken uncle blowing a slobber filled raspberry on a toddler’s belly, of someone unable to stifle a laugh any longer. Apparently one of the customers behind me now found my call to Dorothy Loretta way more entertaining than the blue Electra Glide. My tensed shoulders slumped; I understood and accepted this conversation was taking place in a public domain, whether I liked or not. It was actually a relief to think the situation couldn’t get any worse. But then it did.
“I’m at Yoder’s in Defiance,” I said with a sigh of resignation, no longer bothering to whisper. “But did you have to call…” She cut in again, this time even louder.
“Yoder’s? Really? So tell me, how are Otto and Joe doing?” With another breathy sigh I made the mistake of looking up from the counter at Otto. He stood stock still with a very satisfied smirk, nodding to indicate he’s fine. Meanwhile Joe, having silently left the pristine garage to stand directly behind his brother, broke into a ridiculous happy dance, something between the Cool Jerk and an Irish Jig, while giving me a toothy smile and two thumbs up. With no dignity left to salvage, I just chuckled and returned my attention to the phone.
“Oh they’re doing great, mom, trust me. I’ll tell them you said hello.” That’s when I felt a bump on my shoulder as one of the beer breathed quartet closed the distance between us.
“Hi, mom,” he shouted at the phone, to the immense amusement of the other three accessory enthusiasts. “We’re doing fine, too!” With only two options left, laugh or cry, I chose laughter.
“Oh my,” Dorothy Loretta crooned in her sing song voice. “Why hellooo, everyone! Well it sounds like you’re really enjoying your ride, so I won’t keep you. Don’t forget to phone next week.” Without even a ‘goodby’, she abruptly disconnected the call. Perhaps she sat at the kitchen table back in New Jersey smugly staring at the now dead receiver in her hand; and perhaps with a sly smile she thought, mission accomplished.
While that should’ve been the definitive lesson for me on how to stay out of trouble by simply making a phone call, it wasn’t. It never happened again on the mother of all rides; in fact, there were weeks when Dorothy Loretta received more than one call. I had a very healthy fear of getting pulled over by a state trooper in Arizona, for example, only to be scolded for not calling home. My mother’s ability to find me via telephone became legend in my mind.
Shortly after returning to New Jersey from The Mother of all Rides, my wedding engagement made Dorothy Loretta ecstatic. It would be another two relatively healthy years before her doctors’ grim prognosis began to unfold in painful earnest. But during that time she walked erect with pride beside me down the aisle, was a guest of honor when our first daughter was baptized, and attended all the ensuing parties in between. And at every one of those gatherings with friends and family she somehow managed to wedge the story of my afternoon at Yoder’s into the conversation. More often than not, however, she’d defer to me for the reiteration of the tale.
“Well since you asked,” she’d say with a grin, “it really is a fun story. But I’ll let Billy tell it, after all, he was there.”
My mother enjoyed when I took editorial liberties to overestimate the size of Yoder’s customers or the amount of tattoos on their burley arms; she especially liked when I would attempt an imitation of Joe Yoder’s thumbs-up happy dance. Dorothy Loretta believed everything happens as it should, and that truism has played out in my life. Perhaps the reason I forgot to phone home that first week while on the Mother of all Rides was so we’d have something fun to kick around and distract her from the aforementioned diagnosis. And I’m reasonably certain that every time she’s mentioned in these rambling narratives I am, in fact, calling home.
Thanks for reading,
Bill Bader
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
.png)
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
COMMENTS (5)