Oh, I look back and think of Zach many times. I'd tried so hard not to think or talk about him this weekend, however, after meeting Wingnut, the National Secretary of a biker's club. . .. a legion. He had met me at the club I worked at and offered me a gig in which me and a couple of friends which I could choose would wash motorcycles for tips. A large sum of money was guaranteed.
When motorcycles are brought up, I very often have to bite my tongue. A customer in a strip club, a motorcycle enthusiast doesn't want to hear about bike accidents, no matter how truthful and heartfelt the sentiments are. So, I switched modes, from my usual deep and depressive thoughts to shallow and meaningless. . .
"Of course, I'll wash motorcycles for you! OMG, like how hard could it be??? I mean I wash my hair," I chirped, twirling a nice little curl between my fingers, hips jutted to the right. Flaunt sexuality, act stupid, make money. "So, uhhh. . . I just like need a lil Windex, right?" Smiled big.
It's funny, when I put on my act, the smile is never fake. Just like sunshine that shines through on a rainy day, it really is genuine, although everything else that can be seen would contradict it.
It really wouldn't be better to say my real thoughts. Oh yeah, I will be a great bike washer. . . men love it when their bikini bike washers turn the topics to their mangled boyfriends, the ones who have gone from tough biker guy, to a vegetable in the hospital act.
Who wants to hear about that. Put on the mask. Wash those bikes. Make their money yours.



