This morning I woke up to a pretty girl, a panhead and 3 cigarettes left in the pack while the traces of the evening prior were nothing more than a bit of cotton mouth and a disoriented smile. I had spent the night prior with some of my oldest and dearest friends right along side the chopper side of things and I was once again reminded why all of these people are so close to my heart as I watched them laugh and drink side by side with clinking glasses and grins that infected those around us.
I spent the latter half of the night chasing a good one downtown to a club where my acme boots blended into the sea of dunk lows and canvas vans. The females had wanted to see a hotshot dj who was playing and who turned out to be an old friend of mine. As the club wound down I heard "Harlow this ones for you" followed by ZZ Top on the niteclub sound system and as the urban minds looked aimlessly at each other with dizzy stares, I tipped my glass to my friend which was recieved with a classic point of the finger and a smile.
After I got myself together in the morning I went to retrieve the truck to load her down with the big hammers and bags of concrete and fired her up to a little Ryan Bingham on the hit box. As I stopped in for some gatorade at the filling station the phone blew up and my pops was on the line wishing me safe travels to CA and ended it by telling me that he loved me.
By now the sun was high above and the heat was right behind it so the shirt came off and the hammers swung for the fences as though Pops was right there in the bleachers watching every at bat. As the sweat stung my eyes and the dust of the concrete stuck to my sweaty skin the bangers on the stoop next door brought over a couple of icy modelos and we gave each other lessons in our native tongues. The only gift one can give themselves greater than language is health and Lord knows I'm not winning that battle, but I'm trying. At the end of the day I turned some hard work into some cold cash the way it was meant to be and I wouldn't trade it for the world.
I returned home to a dog that knows how to do nothing but love the people that love her back and a roomate producing one of the most amazing pieces of art that I've seen from him or anybody for that matter. This was followed by a text message reading Lake Shore Drive midnight run, and to top this day off I'm laying down tracks on the map of every two laner forgotten by the world for our trek west on Wendsday and a month of riding a panhead across this great country and sleeping under the breeze of passing semis. These are the days of our lives and the man writing this down is the richest man in the world.