I must be losing it—making a wish upon a flyaway kite that broke loose from its anchor and was borne on the wind toward Mexico.
Maybe I’m becoming untethered too.
I mean, taking a sabbatical from teaching romance novels to freshmen students at U of T when I don’t myself which way to turn, which way to go, when it comes to love.
Why did I even come to Gulf coast—was I really hoping to hear the mermaids call or was I just searching for myself?
Hmm….to be determined, hopefully soon, beacuse I’m dying inside.
By four o’clock, I’m bored.
I pack everything up and decide to go into town. I’ll have an early supper, come back and shower and then carry a glass of wine down to the beach and toast the sunset.
Seems romantic, but now, what would I know about that?
I spot Harry, my neighbor from the cottage behind. I shout to him, “Hey, where’s a good place to eat?”
He shouts back. “If you like ribs try Mr. Bones on Gulf Drive.”
Name sounds creepy, but you always ask a local where to eat. I wave back in acknowledgment. Mr. Bones it is.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing outside the eatery, looking up at a dancing skeleton on a slate gray sign. It even looks creepy, but I go in.
The décor is more reminiscent of Haiti with its Voodoo atmosphere. A life-sized clothed skeleton effigy guards the door—hell, even the beer is stored in ice in a coffin.
Like I said, creepy, but the sign above the door says New Orleans Trained Chefs—so, what’s not to like about that?
I pick a window table where I can stare out at the road and wayside parking lot. Sure enough, a biker gang shows up.
My heart sinks, but I already placed my order. I make up my mind to eat my meal and quietly leave.
I’m watching them horsing around in the parking lot and my gaze is drawn to one biker chick. She’s wearing road-tarnished leathers—both jacket and stovepipe chaps.
She’s heartstoppingly beautiful, so much so, she draws my soul right out of my body.
“Can I put this down, hon?”
I look up to see the waitress and colour as I make room, pushing my beer aside.
Soon, the party spills into the restaurant, and I relax somewhat. The waitress knows the gang members and jokes good-naturedly with them.
Every table quickly fills. I’m staring outside wondering where my girl has gone, when I hear a soft voice.
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
It’s the biker chick in all her tooled leather glory. “Sure—please have a seat.”
She sits down and her dark hair spills across her shoulders. She smiles at the antics of the pack leader—an older grizzled guy named Hoss.
I try to go through the motions of eating. Suddenly, she swivels around and smiles at me, “I’m Hettie.”
“Paul Rutledge,” I mumble through a mouthful of ribs.
“That looks good,” she laughs.
I’m feeling self-conscious and lift the napkin to wipe sauce from the corners of my mouth.
“Here,” she says, taking the cloth, and brushing it lightly across my cheek. “That’s got it.”
I’ve never been this close to a mermaid. My head feels like a bathysphere and my ears are singing like the sea.
“You’re not scared are you?” she asks.
I’m not sure if she means her or rat pack friends.
“No,” I lie.
“Some people don’t understand motorcycle culture.”
I nod. I’m one of them.
“Are you visiting?” she asks.
I nod again.
“I figured. You don’t look like a local. Where are you from?”
“Toronto. I teach university there.”
Her eyes dance. “Really? What do you teach, Professor?”
My ears are roaring now and my pulse is racing.
“I teach courses on love and romance.”
“Well then, you must be an expert.”
I colour this time up to the roots of my hair.
“I’d hardly say that.”
“Do you believe in soul mates?”
“We get into that with Bronte’s Wuthering heights,” I hedge, “but I suppose I do—I’m idealistic enough.”
“I thought you were,” she smiles. “I saw you through the window and thought you looked interesting.”
I look around and see there are other seats available. I begin to tremble inside and can hardly breathe.
“It’s really noisy and crowded in here—do you want to go to the beach?” she asks.
“Sure,” I reply.
I ask for the bill and pay at the cash register. She’s waiting outside, leaning on her Harley, her long legs accentuated by the tight leather chaps.
“Here, put this on,” she says, handing me a helmet.
I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, but I’ve also never been with a beautiful girl.
I dutifully comply.
Who am I to deny the universe?