David Muir

By David Muir

Sunny. Clear. Wind whipping. I squeezed the clutch. Toe tapped gears. I shot past a string of semis in fifth. The dark blue corduroy blazer puffed and snapped behind me like a flag mid storm. I flew through rays of light. No helmet, just specs. Exposed was a T-shirt boasting iridescent, metallic colors favoring the structural coloration of a tropical predator. I grinned. I got caught in the rear view mirror of a Porsche 911 4S. The driver accelerated for the sake of respect. I growled, crouched, caught and ate the black beetle on steroids alive. I flew past the 4S hitting 110 MPH, then past the Peterson exit heading south at 117 MPH.

… 120 MPH. 120 MPH. 121 MPH… 121 MPH. 121 MPH. 121 MPH. 123 MPH. 125 MPH… 128 MPH… 128 MPH.... 128 MPH. 130 MPH... 132 MPH.

I saw blood being washed off a machete over a metal laundry bucket.

120 MPH… 128 MPH… 128 MPH...128 MPH. 130 MPH. 132 MPH. 133 MPH...

I saw tropical landscapes with bodies folded and broken on the side of the road.

133 MPH… 133 MPH....  133 MPH… 133 MPH....  133 MPH. 132 MPH...

I saw pumpkin patches being worked by the adolescent survivors of the dead.  

133 MPH…  …  133 MPH …133 MPH… 133 MPH.... 

I saw onion patches nurtured by the elderly.

… 133 MPH… 133 MPH....  133 MPH. 133 MPH... 133 MPH... 134 MPH...

I saw young women in shallow water catching small sharks with nothing more than hook and twine.

… 133 MPH… 133 MPH....  135 MPH. 135 MPH... 135 MPH... 136 MPH...

I whizzed past another exit, then another, and another humming, "I Love You" by The Bees.

The wind picked up. The Ducati folded under me…

… Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

I was air born.

As a child I chased my grandparent’s goats to hear the sounds the kids’ bells made. Four years old, I fell often. One of the kids always waited for me to recover as it shook flies and grazed on the Jamaican countryside’s prairie. I’d look up, get up, brush my knees as if to wipe the scrapes off my legs, then continue. This particular goat and I became playmates. We did this all day. Every day. We named her Khaki. Not just for her color, but because she ate a pair of Grandpa’s khaki pants – right off the clothesline. Years later, when I was seven or eight, I would slaughter, help curry and serve this goat as a Christmas dinner to family and friends.

At twelve years old I returned to Jamaica to claim a gift. It was a Honda CBX 1000 Super Sport. It only fell into my hands because my uncle had a chance to leave the island with an Italian woman who had met and fell in love with him at the beach. By the time she had returned for him, he had become fluent in Italian. I guess most impressive, was that within a year’s time he was also singing reggae songs in Italian. He had amazing range with an unbelievable falsetto. His voice was heart piercing, if not unforgettable. That Christmas he left with little more than the clothes on his back, sunglasses and his guitar.

As for the bike he left me, it was in very good condition both cosmetically and mechanically. The gas tank had no dents or dings. The tailfin had no cracks as most of these bikes on the island often did. The engine was in near mint condition. I shoveled snow, carried groceries and did odd jobs in Chicago’s brutal cold to raise airfare. I had to cruise the island on my bike. With family as my excuse, I shot to the island every chance I got. Thanksgiving, Christmas, spring break and all summer long. Family? Friends? Girls? Sports? Later. Riding was my first true love.

Jamaica, 1984. The sunshine was an orange to yellow haze. Returning to the island at fourteen years old, I buzzed through lush landscapes that included pumpkin, onion and assorted melon patches. It was there that I encountered a short, lean dark skinned man under a fedora, in military boots and a khaki shirt. He had matching pants. A leather belt centered his neatness. We met at a gas station nestled between backdrops of scenic beauty in every direction. The filling station felt like it belonged in America’s rural south. Say, 1930’s.

Dark aviator glasses hid his eyes. His skin was clean and cool. His age was hard to call. His hair silver, he had a thin platinum mustache. I’ll never forget it, when I got close enough, I realized he was washing blood from his hands and arms in a steal washtub set near fuel pump number two. A bloody machete, its handle wrapped with the type of tape you would find around a tennis racket for grip lay on the concrete next to the steel tub. Just in front of him at pump number one sat a 1970’s Ford pickup truck. It was as neat as it’s owner. His associates dressed the same as he did and sat at least ten deep in the truck’s flatbed. They all had riffles. The driver’s side door was wide open. "Black Roses" by Barrington Levy rang out of the Ford, and in due time turned into "Burn Babylon" by Sylford Walker.

He motioned for me to come over. Nervous, I revved and coasted to him. I had on no shoes, no helmet and no shirt. Just sunglasses, camouflage pants, red-yellow-black-and-green wristbands and a bushy afro. He charged me with buzzing through time. Buzzing around the island like a dragonfly. He said he knew because he saw me everywhere. He pointed out that for a “Yankee”, I understood the island well. I had no idea what he was talking about. He believed that since I had seen so much, that I should try my hand at painting – he thought that I might be surprised at how fast I pick it up, if not shocked by what I could do with a brush. I was confused, but paid close attention and asked no questions. The stranger also shared that he liked the way I rode by way of feel and not by way of any law or any book. He liked that I was willing to break rules for personal pleasure. I wasn’t so sure he was talking about riding and painting. It sounded like I was guilty of something I wasn’t aware of.

In a calm cool voice with the cadence of a reggae vocalist, he continued on and on. He made clear that I should not be afraid of him. Pointing at the Honda with his machete now clean, he also shared his belief that what he did was safer than what I did. He said he was far more honest. I looked up and around. The gas station was schizophrenic. Every wall had both of Jamaica’s warring political parties, Peoples National Party (PNP) and Jamaica Labor Party (JLP), tagged with graffiti. Big murals of struggle and strife covered concrete blocks and wood alike. I didn’t know which political party this man supported, but he must have been quite the ambassador.

I took deeper breaths of the sweet tropical eve’s air to keep my head clear. The political activist continued to preach. The mystical man told me that if I wanted to escape, if I wanted real excitement, real speed, then I should come into politics. Join him for Jamaica’s health, vitality and future. He said that I should think about time, and try to find who and what I really am. I began to sweat. I was always hot, unless moving fast. I looked into the washtub. The water went from pink, to light red, to burgundy. He finished washing up, went into the station and returned to the truck with a box of cold Ginger Beers.

The activist shouted, “Aaay Buoy, Dragonfly!”

The dark man tossed one of the bottles clear across the station and into my chest. The bottle knocked the wind out of me. His men laughed. I thanked him. The Ford pulled away. White dust trailed. I gassed up watching the truck get smaller and smaller. After the gas station incident, I rode slowly. I was shook. On my plane ride back to Chicago I wondered how people could be so dangerous.

It was the last day of school. Senior year. Evanston Township High School, 1988. I had accepted a full scholarship to run track for George Mason University. Again, I was warned by my coaches, both present and future, not to ride motorcycles, as a fall could destroy my athletic career. I didn’t care. I could run fast, but I could ride my Samurai even faster. Plus, this June day was sunny, clear and almost tropical. I could feel Jamaica right here in Chicago. The Dragonfly would buzz. As usual, all the upperclassmen were sitting on the front lawn for their free period, lunch break or both. Humming "Fools Love" by The Living Funk, I popped a wheelie and revved it the entire length of the block to screams, cheers, howling and laughter. Although it was the last day of school, our principal still took great pleasure in suspending me. With a phone call from the George Mason Athletic Director, I was cleared, but not allowed to walk across the stage.

Sitting on my bike across the street from the High School stadium, I watched my friends walk across the stage in shiny blue caps and gowns. I was happy for them. What was it? A senior class of 835 kids? I never met or heard of eighty-five percent of my classmates. That night there was a party on Evanston’s Canal Shores Golf Course. As it would be the last chance to smoke before the chains of college athletics and all the bullshit and drug testing, hypocrisy, etc., I smoked herb and joked with friends to Dennis Brown’s "Black Magic Woman". We set it on repeat until the batteries died. Later we went to the lake for a late night splash. It felt good to jump. It always did. It felt good to be air born. It always did. It was like being a dragonfly. I was happiest as a dragonfly.

This time, I was air-born, but out of control. Moving at X - amount of MPH. I was flying into the rear of a Dominick’s owned semi truck, just milliseconds behind my bike, which all but exploded upon impact with the eighteen-wheeler. If I could only paint right now, paint right at this moment. Paint my way out of it. Travel through time. I’d be free. I thought of my grandparents, Jamaica’s women, mountains, waterfalls, farms, the sun and goats. The goats. Yes. The goats. I loved those kids right up until the very second I had to slaughter and eat them.