After a healing period , my surgeries done, I am once again riding to the twilight zone...
Last Saturday , just out my cast, still on medication, I couldn't take it anymore, taped up my wrist, headed to the levee , started the ride east. listening to some new non-conventional music, "Fiona Boyles", "Theresa James and the Rhythm Method" and "Albert King", nothing you'd ever hear on the radio , but that's what I like. OUT THE BOX. My new eyes scanned the horizon , the colors, the clarity, the focus, the telephoto lens all working great,, seeing what I've never seen , maybe some things should have stayed that way,looking into the mirror,mirror on the wall , ain''t no fun at all.
Riding into the sun, bobbing my head to the music, cruising a comfortable speed, I'm not even sure my wheels were on the ground, didn't care, I was happy. All forces kicked in, blood flowing, respiration up, brain synapses passing serotonin a million miles and hour from cell to cell ( those left) , endorphins on the rise, I'm ready for an adventure...Over all this I hear a rumbling behind me , maybe one of those levee board trucks, or a motorcycle on the River Road, or a train on the bridge, but no , I turn my head to see hundreds of Indians (Feather not a Dot) following me , not aggressively, just following, was I surprised ? no , it's an adventure. Slowing down I sized up the situation , realizing I can't escape, I 'll stop, see what's up, hell it's an adventure. Parked my bike just off the path and waited. Their group covered the entire levee, street to batture. There he was out front," the Chief", right out of a
Randolf Scott movie, majestic is pale to describe him, he was mounted on a meticulously clean ,groomed, blond palomino, white mane flowing in the wind as if directed , painted hooves, huge, muscular, the mounted Chief barely flexed this horse. It was an Indian saddle, garnished with silver, leather tassels, braided reins, on a red blanket,dotted with turquoise stones.
The Chief, built like
Arnold Schwarzenegger, face like
Jeff Chandler, golden skin tone, nary a scratch, scar or imperfection on his body, arm bands, clean colorful feathered headdress, leather moccasins, loin cloth, his coal black hair braided and leather tied, in his right hand a shiny clean brass colored Winchester lever action rifle, I knew he was for sure a warrior, although, he looked like a movie poster model. He stopped, raised his rifle , a signal to the hundreds behind him to follow suite. Blinking my eyes for focus or to demonstrate disbelief, the hundreds behind Chief were not like Chief, they were out of
National Geographic Magazine. Black and white, horses with ribs showing, crooked legs, sway backs, no saddles just dusty gray blankets, the riders wore dingy gray loin cloths , some had leather shirts, all had headbands haphazardly wrapped and tied around black matted miscut hair, faces wrinkled , dry and weathered , some carried tomahawks made from a stone , some had Winchesters, dirty, banged up, scratched, still they were all in black and white and that seemed to be the only odd thing to me at the time,not that there were Indians on the levee in Harahan, but that the Chief was in Color and the his band was in black and white."
The Lone Ranger", black and white, "
Sky King", black and white, "
Cisco Kid", black and white,
Soldiers of Fortune" black and white, so why not 500 Indians on the levee in black and white, with a beautiful stereotypical chief on his majestic stallion.
I fearlessly took a stand in the middle of the tarred portion of the levee, looking as macho as a man can look in biker spandex, a helmet, tennis shoes and sunscreen. Although unafraid, I realized my dress left me vulnerable to having my ass kicked. There's no Testosterone in Spandex.
The Gallant Chief delicately walked his horse to me, I looked up facing big horse teeth and slobbering lips, moved to the side so I could see the chief, bigger and better looking close up, his veins and muscles spoke silently and I listened. Chief put both hands on the polished horn front of his saddle, propped his self up and glanced left and right to survey my situation, he nailed it , "alone biker boy "? "yes", I reply. "Whats your name ?" he ask, "Gary", "whats yours?" I ask , proudly he states "Fred", "but everyone calls me, Chief". When Fred said "Chief" a breeze passed his front pushing back his cold black thick hair,,,colorful headdress, and all the little feathers dotting his persona, it was paranormal or at the least magical. I figure the smartest thing is to take charge of the conversation and ask a few nonthreatening questions, like "what brings you to the Levee in Harahan ? Chief ".Fred replies in a Indian cowboy movie vernacular "we hunt buffalo". I try to enlighten the Chief, "Chief no buffalo here,, just Chubacabra, Coyote, Feral Pigs, and bicyclist".. Chief looks me dead in the eye "no buffalo? " in a determined voice, I again state "no buffalo", "dam" says the Chief, "
Clint Eastwood screwed us again". I can no longer hold back, I ask the Chief , "Chief Fred why are the 500 Indians behind you in black and white", "simple" replies the Chief,, "Its a photograph from
National Geographic, step to the side and look at it again", I did so and could see the gloss from the page of a
National Geographic magazine, so it's simple the Chief rides his gallant steed followed by a photograph of 500 Indians in black and white, why not it's my adventure , Lewis Carrol would approve, all I need now is a rabbit a hookah smoking caterpillar and the Queen of Hearts. Chief Fred clutches his saddle horn, his muscles expanding, veins bulging, raises his body slowly, powerfully, crossing his right leg over the saddle, gently stepping to the ground the only sound heard is leather crackling and squeaking , I feared what the next step held, was he going to shoot me, tomahawk me, or just beat me to a pulp, Chief pulled the enormous saddle off his stallion, carefully laid it on the ground , removed the red blanket, started to open it, I interrupted "Chief what's up", Chief retorts, "its 9;00 am , time to smoke the peace pipe". My respect and fear of the Chief began to wane , using my new extraordinary vision I zoom in on an etching on the receiver of his sparkling Winchester, was it an Indian proverb, a tribal signal, the Chiefs name in his language, no , it said "made in China", I began to laugh out loud, hey it's my adventure. Fred spreads out the red blanket on the ground and invites me to sit cross legged on the floor, he walks to his saddle , unbuckling and opening the left side bag he removes a long pipe with a blue feather attached, its length was engraved with cave drawings , Chief sat across from me cross legged on the floor, began to load the bowl , I just watched and said nothing, he pulled out a bic lighter , struck a flame to the bowl , toked a hit , inhaled , exhaled and seemed to go lax eyes rolled back, leaning to the left handed me the pipe gesturing to me to follow suite, I did so. I carefully held the pipe with my left hand fingers, brought the mouthpiece to my lips and in typical freak fashion took a hit, held it long as I could then exhaled reason, sobriety, care, conscious and a few other senses with sensibilities, "dam Chief", " that's not Walter Raleigh tobacco, is it Peyote or Loco Weed", "no" says the Chief as he gains his composure ,"blond Lebanese hashish". "now that I think of it , I think there are a few Buffalo around here", Chief started to laugh , loud, big white teeth shinning, long black hair flowing in the breeze, his muscles all toned and tanned, my second hit was deeper , darkness began to circle around my eyes closing in to the middle, lids still open, then blackness. An eternity later I"m shaken and awoken by a "Levee Board Policeman", a burly kind man concerned about my well being, "are you all right fellow ?", my head clears quickly,"yes, I think so ", he starts to tell me the tale, "I saw you take that spill off your bike, you've been out for a couple of minutes,hit your head on the pavement'" "where's the Indians I ask?", " he looks at me with a snicker replying" no Indians here lately", you OK to get home, ", "sure" I said. Wanting to remember his name for helping me I glanced at his shiny brass name tag, it read " Fred Parallax", my heart pace doubled. Is this the Indian ?
Have I visited a Parallax dimension where Fred is a Indian Chief in the brief minutes I was unconscious zoning a parallax. My helmet is all twisted on my head, my elbows are bleeding, my leg twisted, nothing unusual for my rides, I stood , started to pick up my bike , still not remembering the fall , what a trip I thought, one for the dream book. I mounted my steed and began to pedal toward home westward, turn on the Mp3 player, it's playing "
Happy Trails" by Roy and Dale, it's not even on my play list, a mile down the path I'm rubbing my eyes, there stands a Rabbit in a tuxedo holding his top hat pointing at a hole in the side of the levee. No sir not me ,vowing never to fall again but if I do, no hashish with an Indian Chief, maybe a Hookah with a Caterpillar though..the Queen of Hearts is hot, the rabbit is interesting and the hashish is special. I finish rubbing my eyes and find myself in the back of an ambulance. the attendant telling me, "man you took a rough fall, your lucky, big bump on your head" , I thought for a minute and replied , "am I finally conscious for real ", "sure" he answers, I blow a sigh of relief, relax my body then see the tattoo of a tomahawk on his forearm...
