You Can Call Me Al

April 21, 2008

Saturday afternoon was more summery than many summer days, and I called Jason to see if he wanted to enjoy it with a motorcycle ride.

Since it was getting a little late in the day for any long-distance trips, we kept it local. I met Jason and Erika in Windsor Terrace, at the garage they rent for their bikes. I arrived early and waited outside their garage door. Actually, I waited outside someone else's garage door, because I couldn't remember which one was theirs. Turned out to be the first one at the bottom of the street —an alley, really, with a string of garages lined side by side.

When Jason arrived, he saw me parked further up the alley and called me down. The guy who rents the garage next to Jason's was there, taking the top off his Jeep Wrangler. Jason introduced me to him (I can't remember his name), and he started asking me a few questions about my bike. I hardly had time to answer before another neighbor, a wiry, high-strung comedian named Al, came bounding across the alley to join us in shooting the shit.

"How ya doing?" Jason asked Al when he saw him coming.

"Me? I'm the luckiest guy in da universe," he said in a booming Brooklyn accent.

"Did you win the lottery?"

"Oh man, I got a thousand stories that'd make winning da lottery look like nothin'"

Jason took a moment to introduce us, and Al shook my post-operative hand with a crushing shake.

"Nice ta meetcha," he said. "I came over to see your bike. Dats a British bike, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me anything you want to tell me about it," he said, as he circled the bike.

"How about you ask me whatever you want to know?"

"What year is it?"

"68."

"Oh that's my favorite number, did you know that?"

I’d just met the guy, so it was a silly question. Even Jason, who had spoken to Al a bunch of times, didn't know Al's favorite number, but he ventured a guess as to the reason why it was 68. "It's the number before 69," said Jason. "So it's full of anticipation."

"Dat's it, dat's it. You what they say about 69, well—"

Before the conversation veered any further toward complete nonsense, I asked Al, "Why are you the luckiest guy in the world?" He'd made it sound like he'd just heard good news, and I was curious to learn what it was.

"Oh, I say that every day," he said, waving his hand. "Mostly 'cause I got two beautiful daughters at home. But I got stories. Lotsa stories. Like the other night, I told you about my car, right?" he said, nodding to Jason. "The other night, my car got hit by a truck while it was parked on the street, but I caught the guy. It was the middle of the night, like three in the morning, but I was awake 'cause my daughter was crying. So I was up, fretting about her when all da sudden I heard this crazy sound. You know how you hear stuff and you usually know what it is, well, his was like nothing I ever heard before. It sounded like a box of cornflakes. Only. like a three-thousand-pound box of cornflakes, right? A three-thousand-pound box of cornflakes gettin’ crushed. I was like, What the hell was that? You know? I'm thinkin', did I leave my cornflakes on da street or somethin'? So I go runnin' outside, I'm barefoot, wearin' my pajamas, and I see my car on the sidewalk, turned around, totally smashed up, and I seen this guy getting back in his truck starting to pull away. I go running after him. He tells the cop later he wasn't gonna run, he was just looking for a place to pull over. Ha. Anyway, I got him. Nine-thousand dollars later and the car still don't run right."

"That's not exactly lucky," I said.

"Well, yeah, but if the guy got away, it coulda been nine thousand dollars that I woulda had to pay so—”

Al had a lot of "lucky" stories, and he continued with more, while Jason telephoned Erika. "I'm not calling to tell you to hurry up," Jason said to her before she had a chance to tell him, Okay, okay, she was coming. "I just want to ask if you can bring me something I left at the apartment."

"I was in my Camero, stopped at a red light," Al was saying, "Oh man, I loved that car. Anyway, I'm stopped there at the light when dis guy, I dunno, he thought we were racing or somethin' — thought I was still racing him from a mile back — I dunno, maybe I was racing him way back when, but that was over, and right then I was stopped at the light. The guy, I dunno, who knows what he was thinkin', but he slams into my rear end and sends me sailing through my windshield. It was over by where that Brooklyn Harley dealership used to be, and they had this huge billboard, and as I go sailing through my windshield, it's staring down at me, getting closer an’ closer. " He used the palm of his hand to represent the billboard inching toward his face in slow motion. "I see the billboard and I think, I'm done with cars. Maybe I'll get a motorcycle instead."

Of course, not surprisingly, motorcycles turned out to be just as "lucky" for him as cars were.

"After I got hit by an off duty cop who ran a red light and sent me flying thirty feet in the air — the kids playing in the street said I almost hit the traffic light — anyway, after I wrecked that bike, I decided I wanted to get a bigger one. I'd been working double shifts, driving a cab to pay for it, and when I finally had the money, I took the five grand to the dealer and got the bike. It was a big bike, like 600 pounds or some shit like that, and I was fucking tired from driving the cab all day. On my way home, I was stopped at a traffic light and fell asleep. Just fell asleep right there at the light, and I dropped the bike. It was a heavy fucking bike, I remember trying to pick it up."

After a few more arguably lucky stories later, Erika arrived.

"Okay," said Al. "I don't want to hold you guys up. Have a good one."

"Later, Al," we said, and then rode to Sheepshead Bay.