When I was 8 I would go to work with my dad at two
businesses downtown in Provo that gave him referrals. They were a
pawn shop and a furniture store owned by former spouses about half a
block away from each other. My dad would go to both to repair
machines and take referrals. Sometimes he would need me to run an
errand between the two while he was working but the problem was there
was a bar right in between that catered to a motorcycle riding
clientèle, and if there was one thing that I knew for absolute
certain was that motorcycle rider with beards killed kids. I would
head out to run my dad;s errands by poking my head out the door of
the furniture store and see if there were any motorcycle guys on the
sidewalk, if the coast was clear I would just run as fast as I could
to the end of the block and pick up whatever I needed and run back
really fast. However, if there were motorcycle guys I would stand
their in the doorway with just my forehead and eyes peaking around
the corner and try and wait for them to go into the bar or drive off
before my dad got impatient and yelled at me. If they were just
lolly-gagging and my dad was all done waiting I would do a brisk walk
watching them intently, all the time having a vivid day-mare type
fantasy that their motorcycle tires were filled with kidnapped,
murdered, dismembered, and stuffed into tires children. I know it
seems more logical to run when the motorcycle-kid-killers were out in
the road but my high speed mode was paralyzed with fear and my dads
anger was driving the low speed so it won out. Not to spoil the
ending but I was never kidnapped and used for motorcycle tire
filling. I got lucky I guess.
