Mollie and Charlie (chapter from an unfinished book)

It was not the first time Mollie and Charlie Allen had to pull themselves off the road. They never did pay much attention to road signs, yet they always seemed to get where they were going – eventually.

But after reaching their mid-seventies, their friends and family had hoped they’d get a car and forget about the motorcycle.

“Where the heck are we now, Mollie?” said Charlie.

Molly looked up from her seat in the sidecar and glanced at the clouds; then consulted her map.

“Maryland,” said Mollie. “No, wait, there’s a damn ketchup stain on the map. I told that man no ketchup!”

Molly never liked store bought maps, so she got in the practice of making her own – from memory. And not one of them ever included anything so dull as route numbers or exits.

"Them maps are for amateurs," Mollie would say.

A typical Mollie map might have three dozen arrows; 27 white picket fences; eighty cows; a dozen red barns and many squiggly lines.

Mollie scrubbed the offending condiment off the map with her thumbnail and reconsidered.

“New Jersey,” she said. “We are definitely in New Jersey.”

As Charlie and Mollie consulted the map, a state trooper pulled up behind them and an officer stepped out of his car and approached the two travelers with an easy manner.

“License and registration, please.”

Charlie fumbled with his wallet, then handed the trooper the items. Mollie removed her helmet and smiled up at the trooper from the motorcycle’s sidecar.

“Nice day,” said Mollie. “Do you want my license? It has a nicer picture than Charlie’s. Charlie, handsome as he is, doesn’t know how to sit for a picture. He has the smile of one who is about to be assaulted with a tire iron. Then, when it’s all over, he sighs, wipes his brow with his big blue bandana and spends the rest of the day weighed down with the burden of having had his picture taken. Me? You could take my picture at a funeral and never know I had a bad day in my life. I guess it comes from something my father once said, 'Smile, and the world smiles with you. Cry, and the landlord will still come around for the rent.'”

The trooper smiled, but didn’t take her license. Instead, he walked back to his patrol car to check out Charlie.

“I hope you haven’t done anything to be ashamed of, Charlie,” said Mollie. “I don’t know that I like the idea of being seen with such a suspicious looking character.”

Charlie was used to Mollie’s ribbing; he even looked forward to it.

“Why, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that nice young man didn’t turn around in his tracks and start shooting us up like Bonnie and Clyde in that Bonnie and Clyde movie. What was that movie called, Charlie?”

“Bonnie and Clyde, Mollie,” said Charlie. “The movie was called Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Exactly,” said Mollie. “And to think I just spent a fortune on this new leather jacket, only to have it end like this; shot full of holes and oozing blood! You think he’ll go for the kill, Charlie, or is more of a limb man? Make us squirm before he finishes us off?”

“If it was me,” said Charlie. “I’d finish you off quick. Then I’d have me a new leather jacket.”

“I did notice him staring at my jacket, Charlie,” said Mollie.

Mollie started laughing, as the trooper returned.

Here’s your license and registration, sir,” said the trooper.

“You giving Charlie, here, a speeding ticket?” said Mollie.

“No Ma’am,” said the trooper. “You were doing twenty in fifty-five zone.”

“You mean you’re giving us a ticket for slowing?”

“Is that even a word?” said Charlie.

Mollie looked up from the sidecar and shrugged.

“If it’s not, it should be,” she said. “It’s a perfectly good word.”

“I’m not giving you a ticket at all,” said the trooper. “I just want to offer some advice. There’s an awful lot of truck traffic on this turnpike. You need to step up the pace a little. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you good folks, or that nice leather jacket.”

“See, Charlie,” said Mollie. “I told you he had an eye on my jacket.”

I’ll try to speed things up, officer,” said Charlie. “You see, Mollie here, has a hard time if we’re going too fast. She must have eaten a thousand bugs since we left Kansas. I tell the old girl to keep her visor down, but the woman enjoys talking too much. I don’t know who she’s talking to, though. I can’t hear a thing when I’m driving. Heck, I can barely hear a thing when I’m not driving.”

“Where you folks heading?” said the trooper.

“To Blue Beach, New Jersey, to visit our son Mike,” said Mollie. “We come all the way from Kansas. We grew up there, and plan on dying there, too; though, not anytime soon. So you can forget about ever getting your hands on this jacket.”

The trooper laughed and wished them luck.

“Same to you, young man,” said Charlie.

You didn’t have to tell Charlie to speed things up twice. Charlie put his hog in gear and roared off down the pike, with Mollie in the sidecar; her head flopping about like a life-sized bobble head doll.