CHAPTER FOUR - A Score is Settled

By now, the two girls had figured out that something had happened, had backed away from the table, and were up against the back wall whispering to each other. The adrenaline was still pumping pretty well through my system, so I set my bottle down next to Lance and told him no matter what happened here in the next few minutes, he was going to owe me. I figured that was all that needed to be said, so I turned and gave one of the girls, a big-chested blond, not likely even drinking age yet, a big smile and asked her what her name was.

As if asking permission to tell me, she first looked at Stoner… this one must be his girl … but thought better of asking and turned back to me smiling, "Brenda."

"Well, Brenda - do you know how to rack Nine Ball?" I asked, while looking at the wall full of cue sticks on display, turning my head on the last word towards her direction to hear her answer.

She broke into a wide grin, revealing one very discolored tooth in a set of otherwise yellow teeth. "Sure!," she nearly giggled as she collected the remaining balls on her table and sorted out the right ones, racking the nine needed balls dead on the little stuck-on circular marker on the felt. She wasn't particularly cute, especially when she smiled, but had a killer figure in her tight jeans and knit, low-cut blouse, and could rack a set of balls - two worthy attributes.

With tension still in the air; Lance now swung around to watch the game, doing his best to look disinterested, but obviously keeping his eye on Two-Tone. Must be some really bad history there.

I broke into conversation with Stoner while Two-Tone retrieved his cue. "Where ya been?" I asked, "Didn't you get married to that little girl you used to carry with you on our Club rides a while back?" I said this while looking at the girl he was obviously with. I was trying to keep the conversation loud enough that all involved would understand we were old friends and as such would act as arbiters between any feud that might again break out between our friends.

Stoner and I went way back to the beginning of the Barbarians. A small group we were, more a bunch of guys who enjoyed the ride as opposed to a club. Most of us were working stiffs from different towns, so get-togethers were few and far between, but we had a good time. Once in a while we ran girl-rides where we brought wives and girlfriends, but usually it was just the guys off on rides lasting a few days.

Stoner began dating this little girl about a year later and started to fade away from the rides. Eventually got married and started going to church and, shit - it was a sad thing to watch happen. We started calling him Stoner early on when he was always the one with a stash of smoke, always the first to pull over for a quick toke, and always the first to crash at the end of the day from its effects.

Unfortunately, he was always the last to get ready for the morning's ride, too, which pissed off some of the guys too often. We left him to catch up more than once.

"Yeah, she and I split up last year" he said. "Just too much of a difference between us. Wanted me to give up ridin' and smokin' and gamblin' … shit - shoulda just asked me to cut off my dick and grow tits!"

Two-Tone was standing with the tip of his cue in both hands, the butt on the floor between his spread legs, looking at us, as if anxious to get this game going. I caught his eye and told him to "Break 'em," turning away from Stoner with a nod, trying to show that I understood his predicament. Two-Tone's break was loud and solid, but produced nothing but scattering the ten balls around the dingy table, cigarette burns evident around the bumper pad.

"You OK?" I said, as I eyed the lay of the table, trying to make it sound sincere. Actually I was hoping he was seeing double, but I had to pretend I was concerned. "You took a good whack to your head."

"I'm aw'right," sounding a little sheepish, "glad nobody got hit out there" was all he said. I got the impression he now realized that instead of shooting pool, he could just as easily be in the back of a cruiser right about now on the way to the Sheriff's Department for shooting one of us.

Needless to say I was pretty damned glad nobody got hurt, too. From what I could see, the accidental discharge split the distance between Stoner and me as it tore into the building. Yup, kind of glad myself nobody got hurt.

He must have been more shook up than I thought, because I had an easy time of the game, pocketing the "9" ball off the "3" early in the game. "Come on - buy ya a beer," was the only thing left to be said, trying to prevent any macho bullshit as the focus was now off the pool game. Tina was looking in my direction as we walked closer to the bar, so I held up two fingers. She'd been working a bar long enough to understand, and produced a couple bottles, popped the tops and smacked them on the counter top, chucking the caps in the open can 10 feet away.

I turned back to the girls and asked them to join us, and before long all six of us were at the bar, four of us between Stoner and Two-Tone. After about a half-hour of Stoner and I reliving our riding history, poking fun at the girls, who eventually went back to slopping the balls around the pool table, and listening to Two-Tone's version, again, of the fateful pool game that started all this - the two of them shook hands and parted semi-friends again. Debt paid and none of us severely injured.

Stoner and I made plans to get together soon… seems we said the same thing two years ago… and Lance and I waved at Tina as we headed back out into the drizzle, by now it was mid-afternoon and I was getting anxious to get back to camp and prepare for what looked like a miserable night. The wet seats soaking through our thin jeans as we worked our way back into traffic.

I took the lead on the way back to camp and stopped at a BP station convenience mart for camp snacks and instant coffee. It was cold, wet and the mood of the ride was rather somber at this point, the effects of adrenaline now worn off, leaving behind a sense of relief but tired exhaustion.

The ride through the campground revealed another tent 3 sites away from ours and a young couple camping next to Lance's site, tucked in beneath a tarp on folding chairs, warming themselves on their campfire. A substantial pyramid of split wood stood at the ready while mugs of steaming something were cradled in their hands. They both followed us with their gaze, she waving, and he motioning a toast with his mug as we rode by. A much more inviting camp than what faced us as we backed our scooters into our respective sites.

The thin blue nylon fabric of the North Face Expedition tent had little effect on the cold, but the tarp and tent managed to keep everything dry despite a pervasive damp chill in the air. I can be a total slob at home, but when out on a bike camp, everything had it's place and I spent a few minutes tidying up the cramped quarters, tucking away the snacks and coffee within easy reach of the air mattress.

Nature beckoned, screaming for relief from the Budweisers. I always hated crawling out of the tent, getting your knees dirty and having to put on your shoes at the doorway. When I reached the access road, I could see Lances tiny tent bouncing around as he tidied up his place for the evening. We didn't say much when we got back and said even less now.

My walk to the nearby restrooms brought another round of waves and nods from the neighbors as I walked past. Hmmm, blonde, around mid thirties, couldn't tell much else with the heavy winter jacket. Might have to stop and say hey, I thought to myself, unzipping the fly of my pants as I reached for the worn wooden handle of the outhouse door.

The winter outhouses stood sentinel against the backdrop of bare hardwood trees. The real restroom was buttoned up for the winter. The wooden seats of this one-holer, showing signs of years of use, was cold and hard. I never did perfect the hover technique, and besides, not many crawlies and bacteria were gonna survive this chill. At least the state was kind enough to provide toilet paper. Single-ply and starchy as hell, but adequate for the job. Somebody obviously spent time sanding and painting over the graffiti and phone numbers etched into the wooden door mere inches in front of my face. Too bad - could have enjoyed some reading material.

This time, as I strolled past the newcomer's camp on my return, I turned in and greeted them with a wave and "Hey!" as soon as I got within earshot. Lance was just backing out - butt first - from his tent. I wasn't too damned sure I was eager to hang out with him much more, to he honest. I just don't care for being shot at like that.

They introduced themselves as Chet and Candy, currently of Greensboro. It was getting dark already, overcast as it was and in the dead of winter. Chet and Candy's fire was welcomed warmth as was the hot chocolate I was offered. I pulled up a large stump standing on end nearby - long used, I suspected, for the same purpose - and started in on the obligatory chitchat of new acquaintances. Lance appeared not to have detected me in their camp.

With the late afternoon turning a darker shade of gray, our hats and hoods and tarps misted with the drizzle of relentless rain, I listened to the story of this young couple, they listened to mine and we both chuckled over the events of this afternoon. I caught, on more than one occasion, Candy's eyes fixed on me as we spoke. A good-looking lady she was, too. But while I enjoyed the visual treat, I did miss having Kim with me on these rides. Today's ride, though, wouldn't have been very enjoyable for her…still; it's always good to be with your lady on afternoons like this around a warm fire.

Lance walked over after getting his fire rolling pretty good and I made the introductions. Chet and Candy nodded, probably not knowing if they should let on that they knew the shooting story. Lance walked over to me, produced a small stone pipe out of his pocket, already filled, fired up his lighter sucking on the small end of the pipe, and caused small popping and crackling sounds as it glowed red, contrasting dramatically to the darkening skies.

"Peace offering for the troubles this afternoon," was all he could get out, trying to hold his breath and keep the lungful as long as he could. Prodding his pipe closer to me, nodding his head and puffing out his cheeks as if in growing asphyxiation, I looked to our guests to judge their reaction. Mild interest. In my late 40's as I am, you can do the math…I was a participating teenager of the 60's. … I reached out and took it from him.

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