Skotison (sko’-ti-son): Purposeful obscurity.
Some people like them. Some people won’t even go near them. The first time I tried one, I can’t even tell you how much I enjoyed it. I never thought I would’ve liked it at all. It was just sitting there like it wasn’t worth anything at all, but it was soon to become worth everything to me.
Are you ready for the big “disclose”? Do you want to know what “IT” is? I bet you do. I can see the anticipation in your eyes. You look like you’re going to explode.
It was a motorcycle—a 1965 BSA Thunderbolt motorcycle—black and chrome with a 650cc engine. I had just gotten back from Vietnam and the motorcycle was my salvation. The wind in my face blew away things I didn’t want to think about. It gave me hope and a good night’s sleep.
I decided to ride it across the USA. I had a VA disability so I got a very small monthly check—so although I didn’t have a job, I had some money, and I thought I could pick up odd jobs along the way. I ran out of money in Boulder, CO. My Army boots had come apart, so I went to an Army Navy store to see what I could find. I found a pair of Army surplus ski boots for ten dollars—all that I could afford. I was broke.
The next morning, I hopped a stake truck in front of the state employment office, rode out of town, and went to work chopping weeds to clear a place for a trailer park. All my fellow workers were Mexican. There was an arroyo down the hill were everybody took turns hanging out—smoking and drinking beer—taking unauthorized breaks. When it was my turn, I eagerly joined my compadres who offered me a beer and a cigarette. I worked long enough to make enough money to head off to my new destination.
New Orleans!
When I got there, I went into this bar where a guy was “dancing” on s small stage. He was clothed only in black underpants. He was doing a sort of hip-humping dance to Deep Purple’s “Highway Star.” There were women packed around the stage waving money at him and stuffing it is his underpants. He was very demented looking—dark rings around his eyes, chipped front tooth behind a lewd smile aimed at his audience. Suddenly, he dropped to the floor twitching. “Fu*ing speed,” the manager yelled. She had him dragged off the stage to loud boos. Then, she came over to me and asked me if I wanted the job—$150 per night, plus tips. This was a godsend! I said “Yes” and became an underpants dancer. She handed me a pair of black underpants and told me to change in the back room.
I came out on the stage and did a series of hump thrusts. The women screamed and the music started. It was The Rolling Stones “I can’t Get No Satisfaction” covered by Devo. I started humping and the money started flying. These were some of the best nights of my life. I saved up a pile of cash and decided to call it quits.
I was a big fan of the TV show “Bonanza.” Now, I wanted to go the Lake Tahoe and get a look at the Ponderosa. So, I headed west. I encountered a nearly lethal dust storm—blowing my motorcycle over to 50 degrees. Suddenly, a building emerged from the nearly blinding dust. It had a sign on the front that said “Trading Post.” I went in. There were Native Americans sitting on the floor and a guy that looked like Burl Ives standing behind a lectern and reading from a ledger. He stopped and welcomed me. Then, he started again—reading a name and what that person owed. It was really weird, like something from the 19th century. I got up and peeked outside. The storm had ended.
I resumed my trip. I headed for Salt Lake City. I wanted to see the Great Salt Lake, cut across the Salt Flats, and across Nevada to Lake Tahoe. As I was pulling out of Salt Lake, there was a beautiful blond woman hitching a ride. I pulled over. She put on my backpack and slung her messenger bag over her shoulder and jumped on the back of my motorcycle. She told me she was going to Tahoe. I said “So am I!” and we took off. Somewhere on the Salt Flats, she told me to stop. She jumped off my bike, opened her messenger bag and pulled out a sheet of paper imprinted with pictures of Daffy Duck. She said, “Blotter acid. Tear off a Daffy, let him melt on your tongue, and let the good times roll.” I did as she said. In about ten minutes, the mountains in the distance turned into piles of diamonds. The sky started falling until I yelled “Stop!” My passenger was sitting on the ground wiggling her fingers in front of her eyes and laughing. Then we decided we were cows grazing on the Salt Flats. Sadly, the acid wore off and we resumed our trip.
We arrived in Tahoe the next morning. My passenger told me she had fallen in love with me. I sort of loved her too. I met her parents. They lived in a huge mansion and owned two gambling casinos on the Nevada side of Tahoe. I ate dinner there and got to meet Wayne Newton. I said “Danke schon” to him as a joke and he threw his martini in my face and called me an asshole.
So, I found out my passenger’s name was Cher. As crazy as it seems, we got married. As a part of the wedding vows, I said “I got you babe.” She said “I’ll hold you tight and kiss you at night.” It was perfect.
I’m too old to ride a motorcycle any more, but my memories are vivid. I keep the BSA in the garage and go sit on it every once in awhile. I go “vroom vroom” sometimes.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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