It had been one of those days where I was out of my comfort zone. Things were stressing me out that normally never did. I was nervous and jittery like I had consumed a pot of coffee. I hadn’t of course, I had just woke up and it was 11:30 a.m. I was wondering if I had some strange affliction like cold Chihuahua syndrome. I carried on and rode on in to my job. 

Work was slow and my co-worker didn’t show up, so I was elected to cover his area as well (Thanks Dave!). I managed though, taking my ginkgo biloba pills that are supposed to enhance your memory, and washing them down with copious amounts of industrial strength coffee. That may not have been a great idea for soon after that, my mind awoke with the fury and passion of a drunken poet. My thoughts were racing against each other like a mental quarter mile drag strip. 

Covering two areas at work caused me to miss lunch, so I ate a Three Musketeers bar with a bag of spicy pigskins. I was sure all these wonderful preservatives and sodium would probably enhance my mood, so I washed them down with another cup of the shop’s coffee that resembled used motor oil. I also had to stay over an hour to finish all the extra reports . Mental fatigue had begun to set in accompanied by over caffeinated thoughts pinging around in my head. 

Finally I made it to the parking lot and climbed on my Yamaha Stratoliner. What a great bike… (I hope it’s listening.) I had recently bought a Harley Road King though, and I could feel the rivalry between the two of them, when parked next to one another in the garage. Of course I understand the rivalry was just my imagination, but the thought had snowballed into a complete ideology and repertoire between the Stratoliner and myself on the ride home. The Stratoliner was my original bike and does have a larger engine, but hey, cut the Harley a break, he is older and is still acclimating to his new home. Also, while some people prefer to think of their bikes as female, I’ve always viewed mine as male iron stallions. 

It felt good flying down the road at 80 mph on the Yamaha, wind in my face and letting all thoughts blow out of my ears like bubbles out of a soap pipe, I’m feeling better.. I’m feeling hungry! There is no place to go this time of the night where you can sit down to eat and still see your bike, except the Waffle House. The one by the airport is always slow after midnight, with only the occasional truck driver or strange people with multi-colored hair and body piercings. 

I exit the freeway and turn onto the road leading to the Waffle House. The Stratoliner hesitates and sputters momentarily. I speak to it telepathically “Are we going to do this here? I thought we’ve been over this… I’m not sure if I’m really going to sell you.” 

“Then why did you let my battery run down?!” the Yamaha seemed to retort. “Do you know what it’s like being the original wheels of fire, bad boy motorcycle, and being stuck in that hot, dank garage going no where?!” “ Do You?!” “Well you know…” I stammered, but my words were cut off by the now enraged bike “You and that stupid Mr. Road King!” he growled. “Don’t talk about him like that! I shouted. “He’s old school!, He’s got skills!” 

“Skills!” snorted the Stratoliner, now running hot. “ Who took you up through the Colorado Rockies with power to spare, and oh let’s not forget automatically reset the fuel injected air fuel mixture when we stalled all alone at high altitude?” “You did,” I muttered. “And who did a sling shot around a half mile long caravan of 18 wheelers and RV’s going to Del Rio at a buck twenty with a big bore roar?!” “You did!” I replied louder. “Who has the aftermarket vibrator in the back, ready to share backseat bunny love at the flip of a switch?!” “You do baby!” I shouted “Cock of the Walk!” “That’s right my man! And don’t forget it!” said the now thumping Strat, growling menacingly. “ Now show me some love, rack my pipes and rack ‘em hard!” 

“Hell Yeah!” I replied as I pulled the clutch in and rolled back on the throttle hard two times in a quick motion. The Yamaha Stratoliner roared like a nitro fuel burning funny car, sending an adrenalin approval through rider and machine as we sat at the red light. It also caught the attention of three policemen parked across the street at the Exxon gas station. They walked to the ends of their cars and looked at me, like three junkyard dogs staring through a fence at a fat cat who had just meowed too loud. “It’s your ass now,” muttered the Stratoliner with a low wicked laugh. 

You know, it’s bad enough to contend with the “Old School vs. Modern Metrics” bike debate in my head, but to be setup by a freaking ricer at a traffic light really makes me question my late night delusions! 

The light turned green and I hung a quick left, leaving the officers behind , allowing them to return to their doughnut revelry, probably discussing important topics like “Night Stick vs. Taser” and ”Top Ten Handcuff Take Downs for the Week”. 

I pull in the Waffle House, park and begin removing my helmet and riding gear. I decide to leave my colors on and walk inside. “Hi and Welcome to Waffle House !” all the workers yell. “Jeez do they really force them to say that?” I thought to myself, as I acknowledged their welcome with a half hearted smile and a wave of my hand. One waitress was staring at my colors and asks” Are you a Boy Scout Leader?” Now I got to hand it to her, that’s the best one I’ve heard in awhile. I’ll put that one right up there with “Are you in the Lions Club?” or when the lady at CVS Pharmacy asked me if I worked there. 

“Boy Scout Leader?” I asked, “Why yes I am,” I replied sarcastically. “Well I thought you might be because you have all those cool patches,” she replied with a smile showing her slight overbite. “Oh,” I replied “Good catch”. I really didn’t feel like explaining myself right then, so I stayed a Boy Scout Leader for the time being. “What would you like?” the all knowing waitress asked. “I will have a tuna fish sandwich with fries,” I said. “We don’t have tuna fish here,” she said. “Well ok I’ll take a steak burger with fries,” I replied. “We don’t have fries either,” she said in a slightly saddened tone. “What do you have from the potato family?” I asked as the stress began to build in me again. “We have hash browns,” the young waitress said cheerfully, as if it were a Christmas surprise. “You can get them dropped, chopped, smothered, covered, and browned.” 

“Maybe they should call them the Jeffery Dahmer hash browns,” I joked. The waitress seemed unimpressed with my humor. “I’ll just have them regular, Darling,” I said with a weak smile. “Oh, and I’ll take a bowl of chili,” I added. “Ok,” said the waitress. “Do you want your chili chopped, dropped—” I cut her off mid sentence. “I’ll just have it plain too thanks,” I said smiling feebly again. She seemed perturbed that I had so rudely interrupted her listing the serial killer M.O.’s again. Was it just business for her, or was there a darker side to this waitress chanting the assassination add-ons? 

I looked around the diner, it was empty, but for two other customers at this surreal time of the night… creepy… perfect scenario for a psycho slasher moment.. I could see tomorrow’s headlines: “Biker Killed at All Night Diner.” Victim found “Chopped, Dropped, and Smothered” face down in a bowl of chili. Witnesses state, he had interrupted chatty waitress in the middle of her descriptive diner lingo. Sources later revealed waitress suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder and had heart shaped tattoo on her upper arm with the word “Dahmer” tattooed inside of it… 

The waitress’s name was “Cha Cha,” or at least that was the flash name on her name tag. She wasn’t Hispanic, so I guess the name was derived from the culinary sound of a pepper shaker shaking, as a smiling cook shook it over the grill, while listening to some top forty song by the Temptations. Or the name tag could have belonged to a Hispanic girl that worked there before her and she had reluctantly inherited it. I’d like to think it had to do with the pepper and the Temptations because I’m crazy for that kind of rhythm! 

Cha Cha had beautiful dark eyes covered by jet black eye brows and thick dark hair in a braid. She had a weak chin with a pouty bottom lip, that accentuated her slight overbite, giving her a sensuous young female beaver look. As she looked at me and I gazed into those lovely eyes, she smiled and giggled, which sounded like a lovely little beaver giggle as well. 

Suddenly I felt myself being transported back into the old west, long before the white man came. I could hear the rushing water coming from the stream gurgling, bubbling, and I was standing there, a young strong lean beaver, slapping my muscular flat tail on the water, calling for Cha Cha and her back wood beaver love. I could hear the melody to the song “Running Bear” stoking up my beaver testosterone, as I bit through saplings with a wanton passion to take Cha Cha back to my beaver dam and slap some hard tail on her as “Be Bop A Lula” by Gene Vincent was pouring out of my quadraphonic beaver dam stereo that the Hamm’s Beer bear had hooked up for me. 

“Hey” “”Hello?” said Cha Cha, which brought me quickly back to Waffle House reality. “Huh?” I said. “You have my finger,” she said. I looked down and realized I had been playing pinkies with her. “Oh I’m sorry,” I said with a red face. She laughed and said “That’s ok, you were spacing out and I think you were just trying to take your check I was handing you.” Her eyes lit up a bit and I think she was kind of digging it too. “Will there be anything else?” she asked her bright eyes and smile now shooting volts of electricity through me. 

Suddenly I was thirteen years old again in the city pool, blissfully happy as Cha Cha and I bounced up and down with the water splashing around us, accompanied by smiles and innocent laughter ,in some sort of pubescent courting dance. “Hellooo?”… “Wow you must really be tired,” said Cha Cha as she giggled her sensuous beaver giggle. “Do you have jet lag or something?” “No,” I said pausing… “I”… pausing again… “Yes?” she said smiling and waiting for me to seal the deal. “What do you want?” 

I looked at her close and slowly said “I think I’ll have a waffle,” “Oh,” she said, “You sure you have room for that?” suddenly putting her game face back on and sounding like a Lean Cuisine consultant. “Yes, I missed lunch and I’m really hungry,” I said. How could I explain that her simple beauty was melting my heart, much like the cheese on the restaurant grill, and I wanted to stay a little bit longer near sweet Cha Cha. “One waffle drop,” she said to the cook as she smiled at me and walked away. 

Warm wholesome waffle, covered with sensuous blueberry syrup, the melting butter smell, reminding me of popcorn at the cinema when I first saw Elvis in the movie “Roustabout.” The King was so cool, much like this waffle of love.. the first taste was so good, that Elvis suddenly appeared in spotlight standing on the bar, gyrating and singing the passion I felt for Cha Cha the Young Beautiful Beaver Queen of the Airport Waffle House. 

As the King walked towards her singing, he bent down and let Cha Cha wipe the sweat from his brow with the white silk scarf around his neck. When he stood up the scarf slid off his neck in the now screaming Cha Cha’s clenched fist. The King looked at me and winked. I gave him the thumbs up sign and said silently with my lips moving as to not disturb the moment “I’ll save you some waffle”. He grinned his half sneer and gave me his famous double pistols hand signs as he disappeared into the lights…. Damnitman!…Waffle House syrup is a powerful drug! 

We had our moment Cha Cha.. and now it was gone. I wanted to whisper “Waffle” softly in her ear, and give her a sweet blueberry syrup kiss and feel her sexy overbite cut into my lip much like Cindy Ford’s braces in junior high school. 

Bittersweet like the chili and waffle syrup combining, our chance at romance came and went with the sounds of the night, but thank you again, sweet Cha Cha Young Beautiful Beaver Queen of the Airport Waffle House, for making a bad day turn into a beautiful night.