The decision occurred just a little after 2 AM on Saturday morning. I had been partying with friends and indulging in alcoholic beverages at one of Denver’s hottest nightclubs, Cervantes Masterpiece Ballroom, when I started talking with a tall fellow in a flat brim hat with shaggy hair and a plaid shirt. As if that wasn’t enough to get my attention, I was extra intrigued when I noticed he had not one, but two Grateful Dead-related tattoos on his inner forearms. One involved the coast, where he was from, and the other involved the mountains, where he is now.
What was he, my soul mate?
Ink dude said he lived in my neck of the Denver woods and I decided I would ask him if he could drive me home after the show. He said sure.
I continued to make conversation with this fellow and asked him on several occasions if he was feeling alright because he seemed a bit out of it. He insisted he was fine and that he’d only had two beers. Shortly before it was time to go he asked if I wanted to sample a treat he had in his pocket, but I declined.
Outside the venue after the show I waited around while Ink dude smoked a cigarette and talked with friends. Part of me wondered what the hell I was doing and why I didn’t leave with the people I came with, and part of me was thinking I would get a ride home with Ink dude. I was about ready for bed, and his ride would be cheaper than a cab…
For some reason while we were standing outside the venue I decided to ask what kind of vehicle he would be driving. (Intuition? Intelligence?)
“Yamaha,” he said.
“Yamaha!? Like, a two-wheeler? Are you kidding me!? Why didn’t you tell me earlier!?”
“I can’t ride on that with you! I don’t even have health insurance!”
With that I said goodbye to Ink dude and ran up the street to find my friends. As it turned out, I got a ride with a more trusted driver and somehow ended up riding shotgun in a truck full of people.
“Guess what, everyone?” I said as we pulled away from Cervantes, “I finally made a good decision!”