"I fly seaplanes," said the man at the bar, in response to my query.
Of course you do.
"Where at?" I asked, my curiosity justifiably piqued.
"Oh, I fly for little island resort...off the coast of India," he said, matter-o-factly.
You had me at seaplanes, sir. You had me at seaplanes...
The man had been sitting at my bar for about 30 minutes, drinking vodka cranberries, stoically taking in our mundane conversations, work gossip, the miniature quarrels between coworkers. His face was red, almost sunburned, and he appeared to be somewhere in the vicinity of 40. He wore a neat salt-and-pepper goatee that nicely accented his genuine smile, and his eyes squinted slightly as if out of habit, drawing lines at the corners. He also may or may not have been, from the moment he sat down, drunk.
Me: How's it goin' today, sir? (speaking with a forced Southern-ish accent because I think it makes me sound more friendly and personable and "Texan", but probably actually just makes me sound unintelligent.)
Man: Been riding all day, need a drink (smiling as he said this, his round red cheeks lifting, his eyes disarming).
Erica (my bartender-in-crime): What can we get ya?
Man: Oh, I'll have a vodka cranberry.
Me: Ahhh, a man's drink! (laughing, trying to gauge his "good sport" level).
Man: It's detox day. Cranberry is good for the cleansing. (Taking a drink from his cocktail.) My name is Rob, good to meet you guys.
Now, most of the time, when a middle-aged man comes to sit at our bar alone, we pay very little attention to them. Yes, we are cordial - we are paid to be cordial, are tipped on our show of goodwill to total strangers - but rarely engage them in anything other than superficial "shoot the shit" sort of conversations. Most of them have the same story anyway: There are here on business, want to know what there is to do in this town [read: "how do I get to the strip clubs?" (which reside just across the Mississippi river)], are tired from whatever meeting or convention they have been attending, are usually from Omaha or Chicago or Indianapolis. Rob, however, would not be dismissed so easily. The more I learned about the visitor at my bar, the more I wanted to know.
Me: So Rob, where you from?
Rob: Oh, here and there. A little bit of everywhere (which is usually not as intriguing as it initially seems; usually, when someone says they are from "oh, here and there," they actually mean "I was born in [insert boring, Midwest city], and now live in [insert equally unexciting, Midwest city]..."here and there.")
Me: Like, where, most recently, are you from?
Rob: Um, Milwaukee. I was there last night, just rode in to St. Louis today.
Okay. This is getting a little more interesting.
As it turns out, Rob was on a cross-country motorcycle trip. He had started somewhere in the Northeast, riding his Harley Davidson alone, and was eventually to end up in Alaska sometime later in the summer. His home, as he described it me, was where ever he chose to sleep that night. Like other bikers I had met before, I could tell he relished his freedom, his independence, his ability to change plans at a moment's notice. His self-proclaimed "homelessness," though, was an unexpected twist to the "typical biker"'s biography. [Anyone that knows me is aware that I have a affinity for vagabonds, secretly wishing their lifestyle to be my own but too grounded or cowardly to ever actually realize it.] I decided to pry further, mentally taking notes to be filed under "in case I ever want to be homeless - yet seemingly well-off - this is how to accomplish it" within the recesses of my mind.
Me: So what, exactly, do you do that allows you to take extravagant, multiple month-long motorcycle trips cross-country? (Did I sound too eager?)
Rob: Oh...I fly seaplanes...
He goes on to tell me about his line of work: He flies for a small island resort off the coast of India, and his job is to shuttle "rich bastards" back and forth from the islands to the mainland. "The pay is great, and my work schedule isn't too bad either," he tells me, explaining that he works about eight months of the year - which I gather is during the vacation season - which leaves the last four to enjoy his spoils.
Me: So, how did you end up with this amazing job, man? You ex-military?
Rob: God no. I barely have a high-school diploma. [A dropout, he went back for his GED]. I've been around planes my whole life. My dad owned an airport and operated a skydiving school, so I was always playing in the hangars, going up with him...it's in my blood. I love flying.
Me: Incredible...
Rob: But the job...ahhh...it's like any job. You love it and you hate it. I mean, I get to live this life, so it's great. But I'm away from my friends and my family. It gets old sometimes.
Me: I hear ya (briefly describing my own time spent abroad, empathizing with the loneliness that comes and goes when you are too far too away to visit on holidays).
Rob: But I don't know man...some of the things I've seen and the places I've visited...I don't know that I'd be happy doing anything else.
Rob, as I learned, has been everywhere. He has caught manta rays off the coast of Africa on fishing trips. He has eaten his way through the Czech Republic with a buddy who got them into the kitchens of some of the best restaurants in Eastern Europe. A few months ago, he and some friends rented a beach house in Phuket, Thailand, for an entire month and lived like millionaires without spending more than a couple thousand dollars. Next year, he informed me, he plans on taking the Transsiberian Railroad to Moscow and then traveling around Russia for a while...
That sonuvabitch. That was MY idea...
And what's more, he had pictures to back all this up: "Oh, here's me on our fishing trip [flashes a picture of him on a small boat holding an enormous fish]...oh, and here I am in Prague [a photo of a beautiful waitress holding an entire rack of ribs which are nearly as large as she is]." For some reason, though, Rob doesn't come across as boastful or self-aggrandizing in the least (as many who have led extraordinary lives tend to be, so very proud of their exploits and accomplishments - myself probably included in this ilk). In fact, he is almost humble, choosing only to divulge a new story when pressed, even for such an eager and receptive audience as myself. His reserve is in equal measure to his enthusiasm, which I find astounding considering his colorful histories.
Me: Man, my dad would love to talk to you. He used to be a pilot as well. I know you fly seaplanes...my dad is a huge Jimmy Buffett fan...
Rob: Oh, yeah Jimmy? Met him quite a few times. In fact, me and his copilot Randy Leslie used to get drunk together a lot when I lived down in the Keys. We used to fly around on [Jimmy's Plane] the Hemisphere Dancer when Jimmy was on tour. Nice guys, both of em.
No shit. Of COURSE you did. (how do you like that, dad?)
However, there comes a point in every conversation with a person like Rob when you have to step back and ask, "what exactly led a man like this - obviously intelligent, good-natured, friendly - to leave everything behind and pursue a life 'less ordinary'? At what point did he decide that the 'American Dream' was not what he wanted for himself?" This is always an interesting question to ask the "Robs" of this world...so I did.
"Well," he said without the slightest look of remorse on his face, "I tried the married life, the 9-5 thing for a while. Was married 6 years to the daughter of a neurosurgeon. We had it made. But it ended, and I told her, 'All I want is my motorcycle, you can keep everything else,' and I left with $250.00 in my pocket and my bike; never looked back. Took me a while to get on my feet...but I've got a little bit of money now. It's kind of nice!" He laughs deep, the vodka obviously beginning to take its toll. His cheeks look a little rosier than when he first sat down, his eyes a touch dimmer.
"So what about now?" I asked him, the two hours and multiple drinks between us serving to dissolve the layers of formality; we were no longer strangers, but friends. "What does the future hold for ol' Robert?"
He grinned big. "Just riding, man, seeing this beautiful country, meeting up with long-lost friends along the way. Of course, most of em' are married, have kids, can't quite keep up anymore," he laughs. "But that's okay. I wear em' out and then move on. I think Tom Petty said it best...it's the best advice I can give a young, ambitious man such as yourself."
"What's that?" I ask.
"If you never slow down, you never get old."
No comments:
Post a Comment