Cosmic returns
A beautiful large brick Tudor home stands before us. It’s 8:45 in the morning. Even though it’s 36 degrees and the gray sky threatens snow and rain, we’re standing outside the black Ford pickup truck which brought us here. I don’t fancy the cigar smell in the cab. I’m too excited to sit still.
Staring at the house does not make the seller appear any faster, so I turn away. My gaze wanders over the yards separating the homes at this end of the cul-de-sac. Wood piles neatly stacked, trees mulched, clean carpets of grass returning to life and free from children’s toys. My Minneapolis neighborhood has a tiny park that would fit inside these spaces three or four times over. I look beyond them all, across the county road to the west, and search the homes and docks nestled up to the lake’s shoreline.
“Those lake homes remind me of being out east. Quaint. Inviting,” says Greg.
“He said he only ever took the bike out for short rides to circle the lake, washed it and put it back in the garage. That lake.”
The garage door lifts to break our spell, and the motorcycle is centered in launch position. In this light, it evokes the name Tom bestowed on it: Rootbeer Beemer. On a different day with direct sunlight, it will sparkle like cayenne pepper.
“Good to see you Tom. This is my buddy Greg.”
Through introductions and handshakes, we made our way into the garage, circling the bike.
“I didn’t think you’d come. I kept waiting for a text about how cold it was.”
“Yeah—I’m not much for waiting. Do you mind if I look it over and try to start it?”
“Go ahead, it’s yours.”
“Well, maybe in a few moments. I just don’t want to make presumptions and get grabby.”
The key turned, the dash lit and the starter gave a single disheartening click. Nothing else.
Right—it never liked the cold.
On any other day, a bike that doesn’t start is anything but amusing. But this non-start situation with this bike starts a conversation between old friends.
Remember that time we stopped on Snelling? You had a sausage and a beer inside with friends while I sat outside for over an hour. When you were finally ready to leave, you turned the key and I said, “Not today!” You spent 15 minutes in the parking lot trying to convince me to start. Your friends noticed and lingered near their car waiting to see if you would need a ride home. That was a great night!
Tom’s been talking this whole time. “… was fine last week. If you give me a minute, I can find my battery cables…”
“It’s OK, Tom…”
I don’t lift my eyes from the bike. They are rapidly flashing over the bike for any sign it has changed or is not what I remember. The spot of rust near the triple clamp, the scratch on the muffler from when I changed the shock, the knobby tires worn down by city streets. It’s still Baby Red.
“I’m thinking about the last time this bike didn’t start and Greg was around. I was out of gas. I didn’t know it—I swore up and down that I had just filled up the day before, I was sure of it. He went home, got his truck and we drove it to my mechanic after his shop had closed. He called the next day to tell me I owed him $10—for gas. It was so embarrassing.”
“I’ve run out of gas on this bike, too.”
“Greg, you can get the ramp. She’s coming home.”
The non-start situation didn’t matter. The salt and early signs of corrosion on the engine casing didn’t matter. It was all decided before we ever left home. By this point, I had made my way to the truck with an armful of accessories included in the sale. Tom, the current guardian, was in my wake, pushing the bike out to the truck. The three of us worked together to push it up the ramp, hold it in place and tie it down. Only after it was secured did we remember the title or the cashier’s check. We stepped into the garage to make it official.
“When I got your email, I thought, ‘Sure. He is the steward of this bike. I have enjoyed it for a few years, and I am OK returning it. A few years from now, who knows? I enjoyed it for the time it was here. That’s enough.’”
As we drove away from the house, Tom’s words kept playing in my head. Maybe it was just my body and brain coming down from the adrenaline it had felt all morning. Maybe it was because this was so different from most transactions. Maybe it was because Tom’s words evoked things about ownership, abundance and freedom I want to metabolize and take into my bones.
I reached out to Tom several weeks before after a slip of paper fell onto my desk. It was the bill of sale for this very motorcycle, just a few years old. I had been feeling nostalgic one day, watching YouTube videos of old BMW motorcycles, wishing I never sold this particular bike. The reasons I sold made sense at the time–the money from the sale funded a convertible to enjoy with my son. That wonderful fad passed and the convertible moved on; I was wishing the world could be different. The very next day, that slip of paper fell onto my desk. Instead of kicking myself, I dared to wonder if I could get it back. I found the buyer’s email and received an immediate response.
Hello and thanks for the note, of course I remember you.
I have been a proud trustee of what I affectionately call “Rootbeer Beemer.” So yes, if you are serious, we could reverse the deal this spring.
Let’s give it a few weeks and see where we end up. I was traveling this past week, and leave in a couple hours for Portland, Oregon.
Hope all is well,
Tom
I would have been fine if that’s where this story ended. I would have happily held all of this as a symbolic message from the universe.
The things you desire? They exist and they are available to you. I watch over and protect them. Keep noticing what your heart longs for. Let’s keep talking.
Time passed. Minnesota’s winter held on, and Tom and I had no contact. I wondered if he had changed his mind. COVID had not been kind to motorcycle inventory and prices, and I was unnervingly attached to this particular bike. If he was as smart as I believed, he could change his mind or ask a steep price. I grew impatient and emailed again, asking if he had considered what price would make sense for him. His response stunned me again. He wanted what he had paid, and not a penny more.
When we completed the deal today, he pulled out every item I had been included the first time: the service manual, the tool kit, the OEM light fixtures and shock. Then, he pulled out his copy of the original bill of sale. “I’m writing ‘reversed’ on this,” he said.
When I got home, I couldn’t stop myself from digging out my own original copy of the bill of sale. On behalf of the universe, I wrote:
TRUST.
