It Was That Regulation Dark and Stormy Night

 

            Ruell was a dreamer of dreams, riding a black Harley-Davidson Sprint. He was often a sleepy man, and he was very sleepy as he rode home after a second shift.
            The sky was low, cloudy, reflecting some of the light of the city. It had started to rain again. The wind was blowing from the north, gusting to maybe 25 mph, not a super impediment, but noticeable. He rode into the wind, hoping that it would keep him awake.
            The temperature was barely 40 degrees. It was late November. A cold wet fall that year.
            Ruell tried to keep his mind on the freeway. He tried not to let thoughts of home, warmth, food and bed distract him from vigilance. The point was to reach that destination in one piece, not die dreaming of it.
            Driving the freeway was still a mild pleasure in those days. The traffic was light, and a person could travel across counties from city to small towns in very short periods of time. It was still a novelty. He was riding the motorcycle because it was fun, though he said it was to save on gas.
            The wind, or discipline, did keep him awake. He made the freeway exit nearest home in good order. The rain was coming down harder now. It bounced off of his bike, his jacket, his legs and his gloved hands like there was a core of ice in each drop. It was colder too.
            He had maybe ten more miles before home. Very few street lights illuminated the rest of the journey. Just one at an intersection or two. His headlight poked a yellow finger into the dark wetness of the country road. He was putting along at maybe 30 on the straightaways and less on the curves. There was one 45degree corner with a high chain link fence on one side of the angle, the one he was facing as he came toward it, still a couple of blocks away.
            So far, so good.
            But then, the planet shifted or something. Maybe something opened and slammed shut again.  Maybe he was dreaming, they always say that, don’t they, the audience, when the story is told. The friend of one’s bosom will likely say it.
            He was preparing to make the righthand corner when something intangible, iridescent, but impossibly dark and heart-stoppingly huge moved suddenly in his peripheral vision. It stole all of his attention. His right hand twisted the throttle reflexively and Ruell, father of four and serious citizen of the land, rode his Harley-Davidson right into that chain link fence at, let’s say 40mph.
            His helmet saved his head. It didn’t help his wrist. The bike made a dent in the fence, the bike fell to the side, and the rider fell into the ditch.  He lay still.
            He felt his heart beating. He noticed that he was breathing. He considered his legs. They seemed to be intact, no pain there. Nothing anywhere else until he got to his left wrist. That was beginning to hurt, the way things hurt when a bone is displaced, or cracked. He was still stunned so he lay there trying to remember what had startled him. His mind veered away from a memory.     

            “Oh,” he thought, “I finally did it. I went to sleep on this bike!”
            Of course, there were no cell phones back then, and in his situation there was no phone booth, and no one knew where he was, and they had no way of knowing what had happened to him. He was on his own, with one useful hand. He sat up to consider his situation. The wrist was really talking to  him now.
            As he sat there, he sensed an incursion of regret entering his thought processes. “No kidding,” he thought.
            “I regret that I disturbed you,” it came in stronger this time. “It was not my intention.”
            The nearly visible immensity came near.  It seemed like a bulky mass enclosing a small galaxy of stars.
            “Are you a ghost?” said Ruell faintly. He knew darn well there were no ghosts, so this was an awkward question for him to ask.
            “No. But we don’t have time to go into all of that now. You need to go home before you go into shock. If you just keep going you’ll get there, and yes, I know where home is. Your mind shows it to me like a movie!” said the sparkly entity inaudibly.
            Star, for lack of a name, picked up the bike and moved a couple of bent things on it into workable positions. He set it on the road, using the kickstand like he did this all the time.
            “May I touch your wrist?” said the mysterious being.
            Ruell held out his injured hand and received a slight touch on his wrist.
            He knew a cue when he saw one. So he mounted his Harley and started it up. The wrist still hurt but it worked.
            When he turned to say something in thanks, he was alone again.
            Slowly, very carefully, he rode the rest of the way home, through the dark and rainy night.
            When he got home, his wife said he must go to the local hospital, but before they set out for the emergency department, his eldest daughter stabilized the wrist and hand with a foot long piece of a wooden ruler, wrapping the whole package in an elastic bandage.
            In the morning his wrist was surgically repaired. He took a couple of weeks off of work, since his work involved both hands, and he drove an automatic Chevy to work for a while. The Harley was repaired and continued in service for some time.
            He never stopped wondering if he had met a real Sasquatch on that dark and stormy road. He was pretty sure he had. And he never told anyone either, for he was a cagey sort of man.

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