The Pickup
The Pickup
ROBERT RICCI
PETER WAS ON HIS BMW, stopped for a red light on Central Park West. She was in the back seat of a taxi which pulled along side. Momentarily, they locked eyes, in routine acknowledgement that each was aware of the other. Then suddenly she smiled. She was so nice. What pleasure when, unsolicited and without a trace of hesitation, a girl smiles at you.
Behind the smile was a lovely face, really a beautiful face — full lips, strong flushed cheeks, blonde hair parted in the middle and braids.
She was sitting forward in her seat, facing Peter, her hand under her chin. He shot a serious, self-conscious glance in her direction. Motorcyclists, of course, are romantic creatures. They choose the beauty of two wheels to salute life, and its reward was now being realized at a traffic light. But Peter was absolutely unprepared for this. A shame, really, because motorcyclists have keen imaginations and can reach ecstatic conclusions about chance encounters with girls.
For instance, he often dreamed of meeting girls on his motorcycle. Dreams were so easy for him. In a dream, the girl always responded warmly. She would show interest in his bike. He would carefully answer her questions. She would continue nodding with a sweet, knowing smile, while Peter would be thinking “I cannot let her escape.” Naturally, she would not escape. He would charm her. She would be impressed. He would invite her for a ride. She would eagerly accept. And, again and again, she would come forward to join the expedition. It would all be rapture — as all dreams should be.
But here with the real thing, Peter was so surprised by the girl with the glowing face that he barely had time to return a semblance of a smile before the cab moved on as the light changed. Through the rear window, still smiling brightly, she gestured to him to follow.
He did, though he was slightly miffed about the idea of a motorcycle chasing a girl in a taxi. He had the prize, he thought in a moment of unreasonable pride, and the chase should be reversed. But, excited by the possibility that something was imminent, he followed and gained a parallel position with the taxi, feverishly trying to decide what he would say at the next red light. He was nervous and unsure, afraid he might utter some silly words to blow the whole thing. Then came the red light and again they were facing each other.
Up close, she was exquisite. Clear milk white skin, long eyelashes, small nose, and puckered wet lips with a mild trace of lipstick. But this time her smile assumed an air of caution.
“Hello,” was all he could manage to say before his throat choked with dryness.
He wondered if she sensed his nervousness. There was a slight smirk in her expression that only added to his agitation. After all, girls have no mercy for fellows with feeble techniques of pickup. They expect a guy who is cool. Anything less is thrown back with scorn like, “You weren’t what I expected. Now go away.”
Peter could expect no help.
She didn’t answer his “hello.” Instead, she seemed to be waiting for additional words from Peter, and there was an awkward moment of silence while he attempted to find his cool.
“Where are you going?” he asked, surprised at the suddenly more relaxed tone in his voice.
“Home.”
“Where’s that?”
“Ninety-sixth street.”
“Be happy to take you there.”
“Why, are you going to 96th street?”
“I will be if you join me.”
She laughed, but made no motion to leave the cab. The lights turned green and the taxi driver asked, “Are we going, or aren’t we, Miss?” And, to Peter’s delight, she suddenly paid the driver and stepped out of the cab. She was blushing, and Peter couldn’t tell whether it was embarrassment at being picked up, or anger at the cab driver that brought the flush to her cheeks. Then, despite her mini skirt, she got on the bike, quickly settled in the seat and slowly, in an almost carressing manner, slid her arms around Peter’s waist. Boy! he thought. And off they went toward 96th street.
It was a beautiful day and the excitement of the pickup had absolutely dazzled Peter. Here, at mid-morning, a girl in a mini skirt with a wide smile was amplifying Peter’s reacquaintance with his bike, which he had kept in storage until Spring. They rode in silence. Ninety-sixth street was ten blocks away. She was a good passenger. She sat still and seemed at ease.
“My first motorcycle ride. Thanks very much,” she said enthusiastically, when they arrived at her apartment building. “Were you going anywhere in particular when I saw you?” she asked.
“No, just to Westchester for a ride. It’s nice around Tarrytown. Nice views of the Hudson, good roads, pretty country. Want to come?”
“Like this,” she said glancing down at her mini skirt.
“Why don’t you change?”
“Okay, wait here.”
She returned about 15 minutes later in black slacks and a gold-colored heavy wool sweater, and an extra dab of lipstick on her lips.
“Ready,” she announced.
They rode up the West Side Highway. Now the sun was near the top of the sky and it was pleasantly warm. The wind was calm, and Peter’s machine moved smoothly and swiftly without hesitation. The grip of the throttle and the speed it commanded thrilled him. He kept it at a steady 60.
Motorcyclists can easily tell when passengers are uneasy. They squirm and clutch. But Peter’s passenger didn’t flinch. “Okay?” he asked.
“Okay,” she replied firmly. He introduced her to 70 miles an hour.
When they arrived in Tarrytown, Peter chose some side roads overlooking the Hudson River where traffic was scarce. He motored slowly. Later they stopped for lunch.
They kept the conversation impersonal, talking mostly about the majestic homes and property in Tarrytown, and how good it was to get out of the city to a pastoral setting. They also exchanged names — he was Peter and she was Julie. And Peter, being an impetuous young man, already was convinced that Julie was a glorious girl who deserved a ride to Tarrytown every day on his BMW.
The point was, of course, how to pull off such a maneuver. How to get lovely Julie to need his bike — and him too — daily.
Peter refused to think that maybe he was mistaken, but he could not help remembering Angie . . . Angie, the girl who dressed like a bike queen in white leathers and black high boots. He lost Angie to a Harley-Davidson last year, to a Cat who sported white leather seats, two-way radio, maroon fenders, and all that jazz.
But Julie was different, Peter insisted to himself. She looked at his bike with sensitivity and understanding. She seemed to wear a perpetual smile of appreciation.
“I bet everybody says what a great feeling of freedom it is to ride on motorcycles,” she said.
“More or less.”
“The only thing I knew about motorcycles before today was the movies I saw about them.”
“What did you see?”
“ ‘The Leather Boys.’ ”
“Too sweet,” he said.
“ ‘The Wild Angels.’ ”
“Bad image,” he said.
“ ‘Scorpio Rising.’ ”
“Ugly,” he said.
“Just stick to the real thing — is that what you’re trying to say?” she asked. “Well, how have you found it?”
“The real thing?”
“Yes.”
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She breathed deeply. “I still haven't caught my breath.”
“I'm happy you feel that way, but don’t you think the novelty's going to wear thin and that then you'll want to keep your distance from bikes?”
“Try me,” she said with a slight trace of challenge in her voice.
And later they went back to the city, still riding high — on the bike, on the day, and on their feeling towards each other. ❖ * ❖
Peter got his wish. Julie joined him regularly for rides to the country. Spring turned to summer. They went to the beach and mountains. They took longer rides — sometimes 300 miles in one day. When summer gave way to autumn, Julie was still behind him.
Then one day he proposed a journey to Canada. She balked, so he didn’t insist. Another time he suggested a weekend trip to Philadelphia. Maybe, she said. But in the end they didn’t go because she wasn’t in the mood.
At Thanksgiving, the weather was good. Peter and some friends decided to make a four-day trip to Cape Cod. They were going to go alone. Would she mind? No, not at all. In fact, she encouraged him to go.
Four days later Peter returned, all right, and Julie had an announcement for him. The scene was over.
“I can’t take the motorcycle anymore,” she said. “Maybe I’ve had too much too soon.”
“And what about us?” Peter asked.
“I’m afraid that’s over too," she said quietly.
“Who’s the guy?”
“That’s not important.”
“Oh no, that’s not important,” Peter mocked. “I just spend the last six months with you and all you can tell me is ‘that’s not important.’ ”
“I didn’t say anything about you. I said it wasn’t important who he is. But I’ve known him a while. He has a sports car and . . .”
Peter interrupted angrily. “What are you attracted to anyway — things or people?”
“A little bit of both, I guess,” she answered with a puzzled look, as if she was confused about priorities.
And so, indeed, the scene was over.
Upon reflection, Peter thought of what the oldtimers always told him: very few girls, they swore, were capable of sustaining an excessive adventure with a motorcycle, no matter who the rider. It was a hard belief for Peter to Hold. But he reverted to riding alone or with the boys, and regretfully but wisely ignored invitations from girls in taxis.
Then one day — three weeks after Julie, to be exact — he stopped at a red light on Madison Avenue. An absolutely dazzling young woman waiting there at the end of a long line at a bus stop put her eyes excitedly on Peter and his bike.
All of his firm resolutions fell by the wayside as she softly and politely inquired about his destination.
