We Drank Heavily and Smoked Tons of Weed We Bought From the Hottie at the Fotomat...
The house in Miramar was perfect for us. The backyard had an orange and a grapefruit tree. In the back of the garage, there was a washer and dryer with plenty of room left for the two motorcycles, my weight bench, and the 500 lbs. of iron I brought in the U-Haul.
The jobs in Hialeah paid the bills but not much more. I started pumping iron again, and I was getting back in shape, but there were still some unhealthy things Moose and I indulged in. We drank heavily and smoked tons of weed we bought from the hottie at the Fotomat.
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On Saturday nights, we rode the bikes into Fort Lauderdale and parked on the opposite side of the busy strip. We hung around with all the other locals and watched all the tourists partying and spending lots of money, money we didn't have.
We hung around, smoked weed, and drank blackberry brandy. We started drinking brandy because we liked it, and the bottles were flat and easy to carry on the bikes. They were disposable glass flasks we could keep in the inside pocket of our leather jackets and toss at the end of the night. Neither one of us had saddlebags, and we didn't want 'em. It wasn't the right look for us.
One night, we were standing around by the bikes in Lauderdale when a guy pulled up on a Kawasaki 500 H2 Mach III. I'd read about the bike in Hot Rod Magazine. It was a two-stroke, three-cylinder, what they referred to back then as a rice burner. And it was fast. The only vehicle, car or bike, with a faster ET at the time was its big brother, the H2 Mach IV 750, and only by tenths of a second.
The guy backed his bike in next to mine, removed his helmet and thin black leather jacket, and put them on his mirrors. He was about five-ten and 160 lbs, in good shape, and he looked about four or five years older than Moose. About 28-29. He had short, light brown hair and distant eyes, and he didn't smile. He looked ex-military to me.
I was taking a hit off a joint when he looked over and motioned to be included. I didn't have a problem sharing, so I handed him the joint. He took a long haul, really lit up the end, held it in, and exhaled. Then he kinda pissed me and Moose off when he took a second hit before handing it back. Who the fuck does that?
When I was takin' a gulp of the blackberry brandy to wash down the smoke, he motioned for the bottle. Maybe it was his bike or that I was okay with passin' a bottle to a total stranger, but I didn't hesitate to hand him the brandy. He took a big fucking gulp, which got Moose's attention. He gave me a look and a nod that said, "Shut this fucking mooch off!"
After swallowing, he hung out his hand and said, "Hi. My name's Tom…"
I shook his hand and said, "I'm Vinnie."
Moose came over, shook his hand, and said, "You can call me Moose…"
Then we started kickin' tires and talkin' bikes when Tom suddenly took a small plastic bag full of pills out of his pocket and said, "You guys want some speed?"
Moose and I both experimented with speed, and we liked it. So we took a pill each…
Neydtstock. Getty Images.From there, we just continued getting more fucked up. The conversation focused on who had the fastest bike of the three of us. I immediately bowed out, conceding my TX 650 wasn't exceptionally fast, but it was a great motorcycle for cruising. Moose was cocky, and he truly believed his 750 Norton was faster than Tom's 500 Kawasaki. I took Moose aside and told him I had read all about the 500 Mach III, and he didn't stand a chance in a drag race. But Moose wouldn't listen…
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When the traffic subsided a bit, we set up on the strip, and I was the starter. I couldn't believe Moose was so confident. I loved the Norton, and I'd much rather own that than the Kawi, but in a short race, it wasn't gonna be close, and I knew it, and so did Tom.
When I gave the signal, the two of them took off, each smokin' the tires a bit… Even from where I was standing, I could see it wasn't even close. When they turned around and came back and parked the bikes, Moose wanted a second heat, claiming he missed a shift. If he had missed a shift, I would have heard it. I tried to shut him down, but we were drunk, high, and speeding our brains out by then, and Moose wasn't letting it go.
We set up again, and this time Tom kicked Moose's ass even more. After we parked, Moose looked at the Kawi and then at Tom, "That's one fast fucking bike!"
Then we lit a fresh joint and finished up the brandy, and that's when Tom told us he had served three tours of duty in Vietnam. He told us tales of death and how difficult it was seeing his buddies being carried away in body bags. While telling his story, his distant eyes came into focus, and I could see the excruciating pain on his face…
After listening to his story, we decided to head home. Tom said he had a long ride, and we told him he could crash on our couch. We put the three bikes in the garage, and we all went to sleep. That was sometime after 2:30 a.m.
When Moose and I got up in the morning, Tom was already gone. We never heard him leave. He didn't steal anything—he just up and left.
He was certainly a fucked-up guy, but he was in his element with us. We all seemed to defy authority and logic and hadn't made the best choices along the way. Tom and I might've had a bit more in common. We both had a death wish…
Despite knowing where we lived and having our phone number, Tom didn't come by the house or call. We didn't even know his last name, but he met us on the strip in Fort Lauderdale the following Saturday night with more speed…
People are strangeWhen you're a strangerFaces look uglyWhen you're alone
To be continued…