Matchmaker

When I asked him his name, he wrote it in the moist dew on his bike’s massive gas tank. ‘Ronnie.’

Our friendship seemed inevitable: Two teetotalling bikers at a New Year’s Eve party. We spent half of the evening loitering in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes, sharing a joint, admiring each other’s leather and bikes. He was large and good-looking, but shy and quiet.

I introduced myself and told him I was thinking of leaving. It was well before midnight and he wanted to know where I lived, so I told him, and asked him where he lived. He traced a map in the dirt with a stick. It turned out that we both lived in Bennington, less than a mile from each other. He didn’t know anyone at the party either, and indicated his interest in tagging along with me. He was a little young for my tastes, but it’s nice to meet a man who doesn’t drink.

“I know a ‘shortcut’ to Bennington that’ll add about twenty miles to the ride,” I said with a wink. “You game?”

He nodded and smiled. I doubt that anyone saw us leave.

Both bikes were built for comfort. He rode a hulking, sky-blue Indian, a massive old motorcycle with a suicide shift, manual spark advance, and a seat that looked like a saddle. I wouldn’t even know how to start it, much less ride it. My bike was new, quiet and powerful, a touring machine with excellent balance and handling.

The road I chose wound its way through a densely wooded forest of towering redwoods. Scenic in the daytime, mind-blowing at night. We wound our way up the ridge until our fog-lamps refused to penetrate the dense fog, so we pulled over, killed our engines and sat in the darkness, the massive motors ticking as they cooled.

We faced a phosphorescent clearing. A small, glowing evergreen tree stood at its center, trimmed with strands of silver, dappled with twinkling gemstones and draped with strings of pearls. All of this illuminated from some indirect source within the clearing.

Ronnie shot me a quizzical look, as if I might know what it was.

“Beats me,” I said, “but it sure is dark out here. You got a light?” I lowered my kickstand and dismounted. Ronnie did the same, tossed me a pack of matches, then mimicked the shape of a Christmas tree in the air.

“I can see it’s a Christmas tree, Ronnie.” It was an albino tree, a dew-laden spiderweb lay draped across its delicate, ivory colored branches. The pearls were a kind of toxic vine, winding its way from one branch to another. “But what’s it doing here? And why is it glowing?”

He shook his head.

The forest felt menacing, looming over us. It seemed as though it could suffocate us. The wind made a lonely sound blowing through branches overhead, but there was no wind down here on the ground, not even a breeze. It was quiet too, no crickets, no hum of distant traffic. We stood at the edge of the road, gazing at this apparition.

“Are you as weirded out as I am?”

He shrugged, then crossed himself, mockingly.

I took a last drag on the cigarette, knocked the crown off and saved the butt for later.

My springs squeaked as I got back on my bike. “It’s creepy,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.” I turned the ignition key, stabbed the start button and the engine roared to life.

Ronnie held up his index finger and mouthed the words, ‘Hold on a second.’

My headlight was pointing right at him, I kicked the bike in gear. “What for?” I shouted.

Before Ronnie could answer—his eyes became two huge pools of fear, his visage flickered and blinked off and on, along with his bike.

I freaked, popped the clutch and took off so fast I damned near clipped his fender in my haste to leave. I was afraid to look back, and for a few awful minutes, I thought he might be chasing me with his lights off. I don’t know what came over me, but I was so scared… I drove like a maniac.

As I rode to more populated surroundings, I began to feel foolish and to think more rationally. ‘So much for that friendship,’ I thought. People don’t disappear right in front of you. What was it about that clearing that so freaked me out? Was there something in the weed? Did somebody spike the punch bowl? I hadn’t even had a drink.

The next day I drove down the street where he claimed to live, what I found was an abandoned chicken farm and a few warehouses. I went to the police, who patiently listened to my story without laughing, but chided me for trying to file a missing person’s report with no last name.

Curiosity compelled me to return to the clearing, which wasn’t that hard to find. The small white tree was there, an albino evergreen, and it was wholly unremarkable, but the clearing was at a blind corner. Other than that, there was nothing of interest.

I put a cigarette in my mouth and fished in my pocket for a light and found the matches he’d tossed me the previous night. A pristine pack with the name of a bar, The Shipyard Tavern. It even had the address.

I rode the bike down to the wharves that same afternoon. It was cold and overcast, a stiff wind blew in from the harbor. Most of the businesses were closed or boarded up. There was no Shipyard Tavern, but there was a Yardarm Inn across the street. I went in, showed the matchbook to the bartender who shook his head but pointed to a patron sitting by himself in one of the bar’s booths.

He wore an authentic blue mechanic’s shirt, the grease was embedded in the fabric, and his name, Ron, was stitched into the classic white nametag. I know he saw me coming and still tried to radiate indifference. He pretended to focus on his drink, which was nearly full.

I dropped the matches on the table.

He picked them up. “Where’d you come across these?” He said, showing little interest.

“Got ‘em from a guy driving a sky-blue Indian.”

He tossed the matches back on the table. “Place has been closed for over twenty years, ya know.”

“No. I didn’t know. What about the guy who rode the Indian? You know him?”

“What’s it to you, Miss?” He looked at my boots and then my face.

“I almost ran him over last night and I just—wanted to make sure he was alright.”

“You worried about his health?” He took a tender sip of his drink. Almost snorted into it.

“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you. I’ll just go.”

As I turned, he held up his index finger and said, “Hold on a second.”

It sent a chill up my spine, that simple gesture. When I paused, he said, “I own a sky-blue Indian, inherited it. He pointed to his name tag, ‘Ron.’ How do you know I’m not the guy you’re looking for?”

“Because, the guy I’m looking for is a ghost, I’m guessing. And you’re no ghost.”

He raised his glass in a somber salute.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Was he your son?”

He nodded. “Aye. A mute and gentle giant he was. Died twenty-two years ago, Miss, on New Year’s Eve, and every year since, someone comes looking for him with a pack of those damned matches in their hands.”

I took off my goggles. “Someone like me? I find that hard to believe.”

We both laughed.