of a tennis player, hiker, writer
|It really stinks not being able to drive. Trying to get from point A to point B and then back to point A again can be frustrating. Especially when circumstances beyond your control arise unexpectedly. As was the case yesterday, when I didn’t plan on going to the other tennis center and then having to come back to my tennis center.
I got a ride there fine, but a ride back, I was frantically making phone calls. Darrell, being the friend that he is, hooked me up w/ a ride from a buddy of his, who just happened to pop in to JDS for a brief visit.
“Sure. Great,” I say, already gathering my stuff.
“I’ll walk you out to the car.”
I climb into the front passenger seat of this guy’s Lincoln Navigator. He is well dressed in huge baggy clothes, a thick gold chain wraps around his neck. Another one, holding a cross hangs from the rear view mirror. Darrell walks to the driver’s side window, and they chat. Lots of low laughing. I don’t like this and am hit with a momentary flash of uneasiness. “Darrell?” I loudly ask, interrupting their little meeting. “I will get to the Tattnall (that’s name of my tennis center) safe and sound? Won’t I?”
“You’ll get there,” he says, purposely leaving out the safe and sound part. He’s playing with me and enjoying it. I try to embrace the fact that I know Darrell wouldn’t intentionally steer me into violence, or mayhem, or whatever…
“Hi. I’m Robin.” I offer my hand. I also make a point of enunciating my words.
(don’t ask me why I did this, couldn’t tell ya.)
“Yeah, yeah. Spencer.” He shakes my hand, but I can see he thinks this is an uncool move on my part. Which was my intention.
“Spencer,” I say, still enunciating, “Can you? Take me to Tattnall Quickly? “
“Yeah, yeah” he says. He backs the car up, he and Darrell still mumbling in low tones.
Before we are even out of the parking lot, Spencer tells me he’s a – and this is his word – buck wild. I chew on this for a moment. Not exactly sure why he feels the need to reveal his buck wildness to a total stranger right off the bat.
“So…Then all those stories? About Darrell? In Atlanta?…they are true? “
“Yeah yeah,” he says. Not wanting to discount Darrell’s image. But then he adds, “Well, I’m the one. I get it started.” I guess he was trying to underscore his buck wildness. I don’t know. All five fingertips of his right hand tap on his chest as he tells me how HE is the man. Darrell is with him. But he makes sure his – and I wish I could remember the term he used – buddies get what they want. He hooks them up.
“You’re a DJ?” I ask, trying to move the conversation to a cleaner subject. I already know the answer to this as Darrell has told me. We chat about he Djing. He is also a nurse. But he prefers to DJ. Of course he does. Anyone with the B/W image would much rather be Djing than sticking needles in other people’s skin…. (well, I’m sure there are a few pervs out there who would… NEVERMIND – but I’m getting distracted)
Where was I? Oh, yeah, um, so we stop at a red light and he rests his elbow on the middle console, his left arm stretched out holding the steering wheel. Personally, I’ve never seen anyone actually sit in the car like this before, (while driving) like they were just relaxing, hanging out, getting their groove on. I look over at him. He’s a huge guy. I’m unable to determine, because of his baggy clothes, whether or not his six-pack is chiseled. However, based on the size of his massive tree trunk sized forearm sticking out from his baggy shirt, I’d say the gym was his second home.
Try as I might, the conversation always returns back to him and his favorite pastimes.
“You know what?” I say, “I couldn’t hang.” Not that I really believe he’s even considered me as a candidate for his B/W behavior. But, just to clear the air, in case. Better to be safe than sorry.
He thinks this is funny. Saying something like ‘Ya never know.’
“Yes. I know,” confirming my position.
He makes some comment about me and a ponytail and I’m thinking ‘okay’ where is Tattnall? Are we there yet? Number one priority on my to do list; devise a plan to get Darrell.
“Nope! Not me. I am soooo not ready for your league. In fact, you’re playing in a different ball park.”
We pull into the parking lot of my tennis center. Whew. “Thanks sooo much for the ride,” I say, hopping out as fast as I can.
He smiles, “Yeah, yeah.”
Immediately in the tennis center I call Darrell. ‘Oh my God! Darrell” I shriek into the phone. Mostly, I call to let him know I am back at work, not riding around with Mr. Buck Wild misbehaving. He just laughs.
Thirty minutes later, there is a knock at my office door. It’s Spencer, holding out my rolled up poster of Maria Sharapova. I accidentally left it in his Navigator.
“Oh wow. Thank you,” I say, genuinely pleased. “How sweet of you to bring this back.”
As he’s leaving, I say, “Hey, don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
He gives me a confused look.
“You know, that you were sweet. Wouldn’t want to tarnish your Buck Wild Image.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says on his way out the front door.