Strangers

I've had it. "Get your hands off my ass, Dirk!" Everyone in the office stops to stare at me, my outburst having called way too much attention to the situation. Fuck, I'm not a damn piece of meat every Tom, d**k, and Harry can get their fill of. I've put up with my boss groping me every chance he gets for the last six months and no job is worth this, much less some damn minimum wage data entry gig that doesn't pay the bills. I have a Masters degree in Business Management and I'll be damned if I can find a job in this s**t hole town, population nada. "You crossed the line this time, Carpenter. Get your stuff. You're fired." His face is beet red, more from embarrassment than anger, but either way, my fate is sealed. I don't figure I have anything to lose at this point so I go for the jugular. "I've crossed the line? Are you kidding me? I could own your ass and this company with all the s**t you've pulled. You better be glad I haven't taken a notion to calling your wife or forwarding your sleazy emails to HR. By the way, those d**k pics you hoped would spark my interest did nothing but steel my resolve. It's a good thing you've got a big personality, because that's the only thing that could make up for that tiny p***s you're sporting." I wink at him as I turn on my heel to collect my s**t from my desk. He tries to follow me but another member of management steps in front of him, effectively stopping his advance. I don't hear what's said, but when I don't have company or an escort out of the building, I realize someone was bright enough to realize he would only make the situation worse. Luckily, I never considered this a long-term career move, so everything I have at the office fits nicely in my back pocket. I strut my jean-covered ass out the front door, the click of my high-heeled boots echo as I march toward my bike. Yes, I ride. Having grown up in the land of the lost, otherwise known as Seneca, South Carolina, there's not much to do to occupy your time. Girls either get pregnant at sixteen, making that their career path, or they get an education and get the hell out of dodge. I chose the latter; unfortunately, when the economy tanked, my great job went with it. I came back to hell, moving in with my parents until I could find something else. Nothing like living at home with the 'rents at age twenty-six, but it was either this or the homeless shelter in Atlanta, so I jumped in my piece of s**t Honda and made my way back here. At this point, it's safe to say, I've overstayed my welcome. Through the s**t storm, the only solace I've found has been on this bike. An impulse purchase I made after arriving home with no job probably wasn't the brightest move, but it is what it is. There's something about the wind hitting my face, the inability for anyone to reach me, and no one calls my name. Sitting behind the handle bars, I just become one with the road, and that road will take you wherever you want to go. It's a beautiful 2002 Harley Davidson Softail Deuce with 88b Twin cam-fuel-injected. I bought it used, but this bike is in fantastic condition and has tons of upgrades: Vance and Hines staggered pipes, mirrors, pegs, grips, and real chrome hand controls. It sports a drag specialties seat with stitched flames and Harley chrome wheels with matching sprocket and stainless brake lines. Chrome Harley Davidson front brake caliper, rear chrome caliper cover, upgraded two-piece floating brake rotors, and Metzler ME880 tires. It has low miles and had been garage-kept. Needless to say, I love this bike. Today I'm hoping it will take my ass to paradise, but somehow, I don't think that's going to happen in Oconee County. Throwing my leg over the seat, I wrap my hair in a tie and strap my helmet on. With a twist of the throttle, the bike roars to life. Calm washes over me as the vibrations flow through my body. I roll my shoulders to shed the tension of the morning, release the clutch, and my Deuce begins to move...and so does my soul. With my feet on the pegs and no destination in mind, I just ride. The one drawback to the solitude of my ride is the time it lends to thinking. My life seems to be on a crash course I haven't been able to alter. I have always been the good girl, done things the way I was supposed to, even if I was flying by the seat of my pants. My high school boyfriend and I went to the same college, graduated together, got our MBAs together, escaped Podunk, U.S.A. together. We both got jobs after graduation, ironically, at the same company in different departments. Life was great. We were happy, or maybe I was the only one happy. Within weeks of me losing my job, he asked me to leave the house we'd rented and return the engagement ring he had placed on my finger shortly after graduation. Long story short, Mr. Perfect was actually Mr. Cheater who married a girl from the company we both worked for within months of me leaving. I can't prove it, but mutual friends have indicated she was friends with someone in the Human Resources Department, so when they got cozy and the company had to downsize, I was conveniently one of the first to go. Then came the months of unemployment, living with my parents, and one bad date after another. The coup d'etat was being fired today after being fondled by a middle-age, balding man with a potbelly and khakis an inch too short. Just gross. After returning to my childhood hell, something seemed to change in me. It's easy to be a little less tame here, to spread your wings and people not think much of it. I guess after so many years of doing things the right way and not getting anywhere with it, I decided what the hell, why not do it the way I want and at least have fun. The bike was my first purchase after dumping my s**t Honda; then I got some guy I knew from high school to teach me to ride. I may have led him to believe there would be more in it for him than just me riding the bike. He was disappointed and gave me the bird when I turned him down and rode off. Exchanging my smart-looking clothes for comfort-jeans that hug every curve in all the right ways, tops accentuating my assets, and a plethora of leather boots great for riding or just looking hot as hell-was the next step in reviving my life. I've always been an average-looking girl but I have to admit, I've really come into my own in the last year. Ditching the Polly Anna wardrobe did wonders for my social life. Continuing my ride up through West Union, I take the exit toward Highway 11. It's a gorgeous, almost desolate road that seems to go on forever. The hills are easy with vast landscape as far as you can see. I can ride for miles and not pass a single car. With that also comes endless miles without a gas station. Before I get out of town, I look down to see I've got plenty of gas to make it to the only station located in the middle of nowhere. Until then, I lean back and enjoy the ride. Clearing my thoughts, allowing the air to whisk them all away, I go completely blank, riding on autopilot.