Frankie Fines

Frankie Fines

by J. Paige Straley

 Frankie had made dinner reservations at Alice's favorite Italian place. He was whistling as he walked down the sidewalk but the music stopped when he keyed open the front door. Stuff was missing, and when he went in their bedroom Alice had removed herself. He looked in her dresser. Empty. And the bathroom. Same. 

 There on the bed, where her pillow should have been, was a note:

Frankie: 

I'm tired of being bored all the time and I don't think it'll change. Glenn is fun, we go dancing. He can't cook and I don't care. He knows how to open a bottle of wine and that's good enough. Look at the bank account and the broker account...it's all down the middle. You can keep this crappy little house, I don't want it. 

                                                                                               Alice

Frankie and Alice had married in '69, the day after he graduated high school, and she left him for the sales guy in her real estate office exactly thirty-six years later. The house was paid off, their daughter lived a thousand miles away, and Frankie always fixed chicken cacciatore on Thursday nights. Now things would change.

 Frankie knew Alice would never come back. He knew when he studied the accounts the split would be spot-on. Alice was perfect, and he'd never quite been able to please her. He was steady, he was reliable, he was her best friend.  But it was not enough, not really, and he'd expected something like this for years. In a way, it was a relief.

After he threw up Frankie rinsed his mouth with Listerine and went to the den to watch the evening news. But he couldn't concentrate. He turned off the TV and sat in the dark thinking about high school. He remembered his friend Jimmy's black Norton, how it roared when Jim heaved and threw his weight onto the long chrome pedal. God, what a sound! There in the dark, in his recliner, he took a quick breath.

 The next day he resigned from Midland Bank. He'd been there thirty-three years, he had a decent retirement. All the money exposure had given him a sixth sense for the stock market. He was fixed OK, and he cashed every share in the account. Four days later Midland gave him watch and a going-away cake, and he walked out the front door.

 Midland Motorcycles was full of shiny Japanese two wheelers. Frankie straddled a big bike – too big. He asked the salesman to start one or two, but there was no Norton roar. Finally he came to a swooping full-bodied scooter with an unlikely name: Burgman. He sat on it and the wide seat cupped his buns. The back end was swollen with storage bins.

"Yep, it's even got an automatic tranny," grinned the salesman. "She's got plenty enough power to keep up with traffic, and lookit them big wheels – these things handle as good as any bike here!"

 "You could take a trip on it?" asked Frank.

 "Oh, hell, mister! That thing's a 650! I'd ride that baby all the way to the Grand Canyon!"

 All the way to the Grand Canyon. Frankie spent the next hour asking questions, looking over the big red Burgman top to bottom. But he was just allowing himself to buy it. He'd been sold since the salesman said the magic words: All the way to the Grand Canyon. 

 Frankie spent the rest of the afternoon at Midland Motorcycles. The salesman got tired of him, but the thought of a high-dollar sale helped him keep his cool. They stripped all the bodywork off the Burg and looked underneath, and the salesman pulled a mechanic out of the shop to go over it with Frankie. Even the guy at the parts counter enjoyed the sight of the almost-inarticulate mechanic engaged in an hour-long dialogue with Frankie. But Frank had dealt with inarticulate bank clients for years; it had become something of his specialty. He and the mechanic got along fine, and in the end he was convinced the Burgman was a helluva machine.

Frankie and the salesman spent another hour sorting through accessories and aftermarket catalogs. As the total grew (Frank got the good stuff) the salesman offered a genuine grin and agreed to a series of riding lessons. A five-figure check was in his hand as Frankie walked out the front door.

A week later Frankie picked up his outfit, a fully equipped scooter right down to the little tow-behind trailer. The mechanic came out of the shop to show him the accessories he’d installed. “I must a’ used a pint of Lock Tite on this, Frank. Ain’t nothin’ gonna shake loose!”

Alice still didn't answer his calls but that didn't bother him as much as it had in the beginning. It was the first week of June, and the house was locked up tight. He'd taken his riding lessons, browsed through a few motorcycle camping books, and was OK for the highway.

Frankie always liked to start new things on a Monday morning, and at 7am he locked the front door and pointed the Burgman south, the Grand Canyon in his sights. The bike ran great: smooth and quiet and powerful. Frank stayed off the interstates. He easily ran three hundred miles the first day and wondered why. The next day he only put a hundred on the clock. He wasn't in a hurry, and as the days ran on he sometimes he found a shady spot and unfolded a chair from his little trailer, reading a chapter from a paperback book before going on.

People were friendly, and everyone loved his rig. A couple of times some Harley guys let him ride with their group. After a few days he decided he didn't need to stay in a campground every night and turned onto side roads just to see where they went. Abandoned farmhouses turned out to be a good bet for an overnight, and as he got further west it seemed like the national forests had any number of secluded flat spots.

His little trailer had room to spare, easily swallowing his bedroom (a pop-up tent and a sleeping bag) and a backpacker's kitchen. Days could pass without speaking to a soul. Or he could pull into a campground and stay a couple of days, yarning endlessly with others seemingly on the same wandering path as himself.

One night at a Camp-o-Rama he had a site next to a beat-up VW van. It belonged to Ruthie, just a couple of years younger than he, and on her own undefined journey. They had a fine evening by his fire and shared a bottle of wine. Later he found to their great pleasure that all the plumbing still worked. They celebrated with an excellent breakfast in the morning, kissed again, and Frank left with the taste of it in his mouth for the whole day.

All the time the draw of the Grand Canyon was still there. The zig-zag had taken eighteen days, and but now he finally pulled up to the entrance kiosk and paid his fee. He loved the big parks, how they stripped away advertising and motels, and let the bones of the earth show through. High on the Kaibab plateau the scrubby trees opened the view far back into the roadside scenery, red earth beckoning. A sign said Canyon View Parking, one mile, and then he was there.

It hit him hard, and he plumped himself down on the rock wall that separated the parking area from the canyon rim. He didn't know you could look so far down into the earth. As he gazed he realized he didn't even see the whole depth, that there was an inner part, too. He sat there for the better part of an hour before long shadows told him it was time to find his campground.

The next day he bought a map and spent the day sitting at overlooks, naming the cliffs and ravines. A Park Ranger sadly informed him visitors couldn't hike the canyon without a permit. And there was always a waiting list.

Frank and the Ranger hit it off, and they walked out to the lot to look at the Burgman rig. The Ranger grinned. "You got the right idea, Frank. Now go back into the gift shop here and buy one of those Arizona Canyons books, then head down south to Oak Creek Canyon. You can spend a whole week there. And you could spend the rest of your life exploring around the Mogollon Rim if that's what you want!"

Oak Creek was everything the Ranger said; deep and well-watered, with mysterious side tracks. Frankie set up a nice camp and settled in for a while. He bought some good boots and a rucksack, and found places no man had set foot in a hundred years.

The tenth day he found a narrow slot canyon that went on for two miles, then widened to an acre of barren ground. It was three in the afternoon, all rock and shade and brilliant sky but still hot. A little creek trickled right through the middle. Not a sound. He could hear his heartbeat.

Frankie thought he might be going crazy as he took off his clothes. He Indian-danced in a great circle. "Hey-yah, ho-yah." He knew it was straight from the movies, but he wanted to feel it. Louder then softer, he shuffled naked and sweating for three hours until his track on the ground traced out a great circle. He stopped and his breathing slowed until he could hear his heart again. He laughed, a loud joyful peal of laughter. This was a place he'd never talk about, the place where he'd made deep grunts and yips, things that came before people ever had words. The spirits had heard, he was sure of it.

He walked back in the half-dark and broke camp the next morning. He was as happy as he'd ever been in his life.

By now Frankie had been on the road four weeks. His mustache was a beautiful bulging thing on his upper lip, and big wraparound sunglasses had made a white strip through the mahogany, ear to ear. He looked in the mirror one day and laughed. Who was that guy?

The road ran north towards Canyonlands in Utah, and just before dark he turned onto a desert dirt track for a mile, then bushwhacked off two hundred yards and set up his tent. Frankie was quick, and in the light of the bike's headlight he assembled camp in seven minutes. He was inside and asleep in another ten.

"Aye, you sheethead in dere, geets the hell up!" Frankie could see the weak light of a flashlight on the wall of his tent. He'd always worried about this scenario and here it was. He groped his way out of the tent, carrying a flashlight in one hand and a blanket draped around his other arm. The light showed him a small and extremely dirty Mexican, carelessly waving an old revolver.

"Drop dat blanket an' let's see wot's we got here," growled the Mexican.

"Puh-puh-puh-leeeze don't hurt me," whined Frankie, at the same time waggling his flashlight to distract his attacker. But he never got a chance to get so far as "...don't hurt me..." , instead firing all five rounds from his hammerless 44 Bulldog revolver.

He'd carried the Bulldog all the way from Michigan and kept it under his bag every night. There had been moments when he thought it was silly. Now an even odder thought crept in, he was glad it was at least partially muffled under the blanket, you could lose your hearing firing that gun unprotected!

The Mexican had been ten feet away, a man couldn't miss. Even so Frank only put two holes in the guy, but one of them was dead center in the chest and that had been enough.

He turned around and around to see if there was perhaps a house or a campfire anywhere near. Nothing, though he saw a pickup parked on the dirt road he'd come in on. It was getting day-light, a little red in the west and dim yellow on the eastern horizon. He pulled on a pair of jeans and ran over to the old Ford.

Touching nothing, he looked it over. There wasn't anything there of much use except two plastic five-gallon containers of gas. He toted them back to his camp. A three-quarter moon was still up. Frankie sighed but he knew what he needed to do. The dead Mexican weighed maybe a hundred twenty pounds, and Frank carried him another quarter-mile into the brush. His little folding shovel was awkward, but in an hour he had a three-foot excavation. He covered it back and smoothed over the sand and rock as well as he could. He left the key in the old truck’s ignition. With any luck some other thief would take it.

It was full daylight as he turned onto the paved road. One thing ruled the situation: distance was everything. With the two gas cans in his little trailer the math said he'd make six hundred miles without ever showing his face. He rode north up US 191, hitting Interstate 70 and then crossing east into Colorado. Over the next few hours he pulled in at a rest area and threw away his bloodstained shirt and jeans, got rid of the man’s wallet at a second rest area, and stopped three minutes at a big industrial trash bin to deep-six the bullet-scarred blanket. He dumped the Bulldog over the side of a steel bridge arched across a deep canyon. "Good-bye, old buddy, and many thanks!" he whispered as it clattered into the stone chasm.

The Burgman was fast, but he kept careful control on his speed. Five-over, and no more. The bike was a magic carpet, carrying a pocket of calm behind the windshield as it bored a seventy mile an hour hole through the wind, smooth as an electric motor. As he rode the scene kept repeating itself, over and over. He'd had no choice. And without Mr. Bulldog he'd had no chance. Frankie grunted: he was still here.

He thought of his Indian Dance and the spirit talk. The Burg made a long continuous whine, alive and powerful and carrying him away from trouble. More spirit talk, thought Frankie.

The shootout had been about four in the morning, and fourteen hours later he had just entered Nebraska. The emergency light had just come on for fuel, and the tripmeter said he’d come five hundred and eighty-two miles. He spotted a faded campground sign and pulled in, circling the layout and sliding into a spot behind the office. He put a fake name and fake license on the registration form. He was a cash-customer: no one cared.

A raggedy gas station was across the two-lane from the campground. He walked over just as it was closing and filled his cans. Frank crawled into his tent and dined on a packet of beef jerky and quart of bottled water. Sleep came easy and so did waking at four am. A single streetlight at the camp's wash-house gave enough light to see and he ghosted in fifteen minutes.

If you had asked Frankie later what Nebraska looked like he would have said it's just Interstate. Well, not quite: some little town in the eastern part did have a Suzuki place that replaced the worn rear tire and changed the oil. They didn't mind that he asked them to make out the bill to Cash, and in the time it took him to eat lunch at the cafe they were ready to give him the Burg back.

The mechanic came out to talk to him while Frankie paid the bill. "Try this," he rumbled. "All you high-mileage riders like it." Frankie laughed silently. High-mileage rider. He liked the sound of that. The mechanic held out a portion of sheepskin with rubbery straps on the edges. Frankie pulled on his side to make it taut as the mechanic clipped the sheepskin onto the seat.

A hundred miles down the road he marveled that his ass was nice and cool, and still fully supported. They drove damn fast in Nebraska and he pushed it up to eighty.

A sixteen hour day took him eight hundred and sixty one miles. Fifty miles west of Dallas he stopped at a MacDonalds for the WiFi and coffee. He took out his Ipad and looked up Jimmie, his Norton friend from high school. Jimmie had come to most of the Midland High School Reunions, and sure enough, he'd listed his number on the Class of '69 website. He lived in Galveston, Texas.

Jimmie answered the phone on the first ring. Frank was pretty sure this was his spirit connection kicking in, and in five minutes he had an invitation. “Hell, Frankie, I got a boat and we’ll go out in the Gulf, catch some snapper!”

The iPad gave him directions to another decrepit campground and the next morning he ghosted again. He decided to make a deposit in his spirit account, spinning down the interstate, chanting "Hey-ya, ho-yah" for eight hours.

Just before turning off the slab and onto the surface streets of Galveston he pulled over to the side and flipped open his cell phone. He needed to call Alice. Cars whizzed past but his head was clear and he tuned them out. She didn't answer and a message came up: his number was blocked. Well, that was an answer he could trust. Probably a spirit answer.

Jimmie opened the front door, looking past a travel-stained Frankie to the unlikely Burgman rig next to the sidewalk. "Damn, Frank, great to see you! That your rig out there? Never figured you for a biker!"

"Well," said Frank as they ambled out to take a look at the rig. "I'm no biker. It’s not like your big Norton, but my Burg’s been good to me!”

J. Paige Straley