Wild John Part II

When Wild John offered me the chance to ride in the ‘Batmobile’ I knew it was probably a dangerous idea but I was also thrilled to take a ride with a superhero. When would I get that chance again? What followed was the most exciting car experience of my life and, not counting the ride Wild John took me on across the West Seattle Bridge on his motorcycle, the closest I have come to dying. We only sped around for about five minutes but, just like methamphetamine, I was hooked with that first hit. Wild John was dangerous, didn’t believe in rules and he was the closest I would ever come to dating a racecar driver. What wasn’t to love?

Wild John took me back to my car and asked if he could see me again. I collected myself and agreed right away. We hugged and he promised to email me the next day. Seriously? A crazy, cocksure Italian man that didn’t try to kiss me while I was sitting in his car on the first date? That was classy, indeed. Wild John wrote the next day and asked if he could make me dinner at his house and, when we were done, we could take his motorcycle and go get a drink at a bar he liked nearby. Well, at least this evening would provide me with the choice of dying in his house or dying on his bike. I do like options.

If nothing else, Wild John was an outstanding cook. He made me a delicious dinner, poured great wine and had a beautiful house on the water. I hung out in the kitchen while he cooked and I noticed, as we talked, that he was not just a little cocky but actually a lot cocky.  I was talking about Barack Obama and the presidential election, a subject he was supposedly interested in, when I noticed he wasn’t replying. He looked up from his pan of asparagus and said, “Oh, I am sorry. I was waiting for you to be quiet for a second so I could actually hear the music.” I must have stood there with my jaw on the ground because Wild John quickly laughed, pulled me in, and said, “Only because I want to dance with you. Of course.” It was a good cover and I tried to shake it off. It was a little too high on the jerk scale for me, however, to just forget  but luckily it was then time to eat.

We were enjoying our second course when Wild John decided to change up the playlist on his computer. I nearly choked on my risotto when he rustled around in his pocket and pulled out a pair of bifocals. Bifocals??? My parents wear bifocals but I don’t date people that are my parents’ age. Generally. I tried to sound very neutral and asked him how long he had needed to wear bifocals to read because, you know, what a pain, right? Wild John filled up my wine glass and said, “Well, it depends. Do you want the truth or do you want to tell me what you want to hear?” I have to admit that was a baffling question. How the hell was I supposed to answer that? I didn’t think there was any way to respond that ended well for me so I just asked him to tell me the truth.

Wild John hopped up and went into the kitchen and grabbed his wallet. He came back to the table and handed me his driver’s license. Did he want to prove to me that he was an organ donor? No such luck. I glanced at the license and, sweet lord, I did some quick calculations and Wild John was 47 years old. He was closer to my dad’s age than he was to mine. Again, for the second time in an hour, I was speechless, and again I wondered how this situation could end up at all in my favor.

Wild John proceeded to tell me that he had to lie on his age because otherwise I wouldn’t go out with him because, for example, I almost didn’t date him when I thought that he was only 42, correct? I tried to explain that, yes, of course I wouldn’t have gone out with him if I knew he was 47 because that was my policy. A 15-year age difference was, in my mind, simply too much. I was trying to think how I could win the argument when Wild John leaned in, kissed me, and said, “It seems to me we are having an excellent time. Let’s finish dinner, go have that drink and then, if you think I am too ancient, you don’t ever have to see me again. I will completely understand and we will just go our separate ways. No harm, no foul.” Man, he was a good kisser. Focus, I had to focus. What could be wrong with spending a couple of more hours with this guy, right, and then I could just walk away? What was the harm in that?

The harm in that, it turned out, was that Wild John realized I was susceptible to his charm and I think he made a note of it. He turned it on something fierce as we finished dinner, cleaned up and got on his motorcycle. I had never been on a bike before and it wasn’t until I climbed on, grabbed onto Wild John and we tore out of the driveway that my head cleared up enough to realize that I did not like it, I did not like it, I did not like it. I held on for dear life as we roared across the bridge into downtown Seattle. As we swooped around corners, sped up hills and roared in between cars, I seriously thought I was going to die. My mom was going to be so mad at me, meeting my maker on a motorcycle with a strange old man.

When we pulled into a space in front of the bar, I almost kissed the pavement in relief. Wild John took my helmet, kissed me again and said, “You seem like you have been riding motorcycles your whole life. You are a professional.” Gag! How did I fall for that line? How was I going to get home since the thought of getting on that bike made me want to cry? How was this aged, swaggering Italian guy managing to charm and scare me all at once? And, to think, I had not seen anything yet.

The cockiness and danger will return in Wild John – The Retirement…

Published in: Uncategorized on November 15, 2010 at 5:57 am  Comments (1)  

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One CommentLeave a comment

  1. Well I decided to come back this morning and read on so you poked my interest ribs. This one about the motorcycle is so freaking hilarious I was almost in tears thinking about you being so happy to get off the bike. That was funny, this coming from someone who has ridden almost 20yrs since before I even had a license, gone over 185mph on the track, and I can totally picture it since I know a few people who would think like you. I dont know why we as riders like to scare people (ok, well ME) I guess ‘we’ dont fully understand the fear or something? Anyway, glad you made it home safely – and dont be afraid to get on one again – you only live once! heheheh

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