Chapter 5: Alabama

After traversing Northern Florida, I hugged the Gulf Coast, stopping overnight at campgrounds, before I rode north into Alabama. Travel was slow because of the touristy nature of the route along the beach, but I enjoyed the travel and even took a few swims in the Gulf or tributaries to cool off.

I wanted to see the famous bridge in Selma where in 1965 Martin Luther King had led a small group of civil rights marchers before troopers attacked the unarmed crowd. The Edmund Pettus Bridge became famous that day, and the adverse publicity helped break the back of those against extending voting rights to blacks. Selma was also known for several civil war battles that ravaged the countryside in the area near the end of that war. Selma at noontime in May barely stirred in the stifling heat and humidity – nothing like the struggles there in the 1960s or 1860s.

Karen’s ashes drifted downward into the noonday breeze from the middle of the Edmund Pettus Bridge. I took my pictures and walked around near the bridge, reading some of the historic plaques that dotted the downtown area and feeling the history of the Deep South.

As I rode out of Selma to the west, I saw a Harley dealership. I decided to stop, and shortly found myself showing off my bike and talking about my travels – past and future. Several groupies at the shop urged me to follow them to the town of Forkland for the Memorial Day weekend. They enthused about a motorcycle rally, and the ‘biggest party in the state’ to be held there, complete with events, live bands, free beer, hot showers, and a 24/7 biker bar. Although I’d never been to such an event, I opted to take an hour’s ride west on U.S. 80 with the others and checkout the rally.

The rally did not impress at first. A large field off a dirt road sported a few tents, some food stands, and a dozen portable toilets. A group of men were sectioning off parts of the field, and others were setting up a large stage. We’d gotten there too early. My friends all rode through the area and then circled back a couple of hundred yards to a biker bar on the main road next to where the dirt road branched. Everyone stopped and parked.

One yelled over to me in a friendly way, “This is where we pay to attend; they’ll give you a ticket and check you in if you want to race or enter any of the contests. Come on in, my treat for the first one.” We introduced ourselves; it turned out he was a civil engineer from Tallahassee.

I parked and followed the four other Harley men into the bar. Quite a crowd had gathered inside in the air-conditioned comfort, and beer was flowing at a prodigious rate. I got introduced to several dozen other bikers, all of whom seemed to sport acres of tattoos and had nicknames like Shark, Blade, Spike, Rat, and Sinker.

I saw four distinct groups attending the rally. First, there was a class of older guys, many Viet Nam vets. I guessed that some of them were retired. Each wore a headscarf, salt and pepper hair, an impressive moustache, blue jeans, boots, and a cutoff denim shirt. Most also wore a well-worn Harley Davidson leather vest, some with the name of a local biker club somewhere in the southeast. This group stuck together and seemed passive in their participation at the rally other than to watch.

Another group was closer to my own age – late thirties and earlier forties or even later. These were working men who’d taken the day off being a bank teller, high school teacher, a CPA, or other middle-class job. They dressed similar to the older guys, with me being an obvious exception. Most of them wanted to recapture some element of their youth by participating in the various events.

The third group of rally attendees consisted of the young turks – men in their twenties and early thirties that had something to prove to themselves and to the world. They strutted around like the newest rooster in the barnyard, and in their swagger forced others to move out of their way or to wait on them. As with so many others, they also wore the boots and jeans; however, many of these men wore only the leather vest with no shirt. Several had grown long beards. This group made most of the noise in the bar with a lot of yelling at each other, cheering, and other macho acts designed to prove their manhood.

The followers of the first three groups made up a group by themselves, all women – biker babes. The older ones dressed similar to their husband or boyfriend. The younger ones wore less clothing on top and often cutoffs; however, as a group they seemed to stick together and converse by themselves separate from the men. I watched some of the older women take some of the younger ones under their wings. Some had that ‘well used, and put away wet’ look.

The crowd was alive, the beer tasted good, my friends congenial, and later the food not half-bad. I stayed on the promise that the next day, Saturday, the rally would really come alive. The live music would start in the morning and continue until very late. I left the bar about ten o’clock, mindful that most would stay for hours more. I found a quiet corner of the parking lot field to camp in, near some RVs, the showers, and restrooms.

In the morning, I ran and limbered up before hitting the showers. I walked about a mile to a diner to have breakfast. When I got back to the rally field, the temperature had topped ninety degrees and the afternoon would bring more heat. I didn’t care what anyone else wore; I put on shorts and my hacked off t-shirt.

As advertised, country music started mid-morning and a steady stream of motorcycles started to arrive. Also by then, several booths hawking biker gear and t-shirts had opened for business with various food stands selling everything from barbequed ribs to snow cones. By noon at least a thousand people had filed into the field. I watched several contests of motorcycle precision driving and acrobatics, and wandered around checking out the increasing number of bikes being parked from new arrivals at the rally.

The wet t-shirt contest started at eight o’clock that evening with raucous shouting and cheering. I stood to the back of the crowd clustered around the stage as chilly water got poured down the front of each buxom contestant. Even from my position I could see the sexy details of each well-endowed young lady. Most wore stiletto heels, a thong, and a top that started as see-through even before it got wet. Many had tattoos of some variety scattered around their body.

The judging of the winner involved an applause meter supplied by a local radio station. In the end, wisely, the disk jockey emceeing the contest declared all the women ‘winners,’ and gave each a fine prize. I watched the girls step off the stage into the crowd, and not surprisingly saw them groped and pinched as they walked around. Everyone seemed to be laughing, especially the contestants.

Entertainment had been going all day, mostly unknown country bands that believed kilowatts of amplification would make them sound better. It didn’t. The evening’s entertainment consisted of three well-known country bands. By now, I estimated the crowd at five thousand, but not all were bikers for the evening show; many had come in regular cars or pickup trucks. I found a patch of ground on a slope looking down on the stage, and enjoyed the spectacle of the crowd as much as the music.

In the middle of the third band’s gig, I got up and walked around, finding my way to the portable toilets. After relieving myself, I decided to walk back and check on my bike and camping gear, cutting through part of the field dedicated to parked cars. The music and yelling were still loud.

As I rounded the last car in one row, I saw four ‘young turk’ bikers mauling a pretty blonde. The lighting wasn’t the best, but I went on alert, stopping to watch what was going on. The woman struggled hard to get free from two men that held her – a guy in baseball cap and another with a ponytail. Baseball hat grabbed her t-shirt and ripped the fabric off her body, exposing her generous breasts to the night air. She screamed, “No, no, leave me alone. Let me go, right now! LET ME GO!”

I heard one of the other toughs say in a loud voice slurred with alcohol, “Honey, we are going to fuck you every which way tonight ... so you better shut up and enjoy it.”

The petite blond continued to twist and to try to pull away from two other thugs that held her. She kept screaming, “Leave me alone. I don’t want to fuck, you meatheads. Let me go!”

Her screams sounded sincere, as did the various names and threats the four men made to her. She got one hand free and mauled the face of the ponytail man, drawing blood. I watched as he pulled back and slapped her so hard, her head jerked to the side. She started to sink to the ground from the blow, but the two men who had been holding her pushed her dazed body on the hood of the nearest car. The third man, who I took as wingman to the young turk leading the four, yanked her jean cutoffs down and off her body, throwing them aside.

I moved in toward the group, shouting, “Hey, guys, it sounds as though the lady doesn’t want to be molested. Why don’t you leave her alone?”

The lead turk yelled at me, “Fuck you. We’re just havin’ some fun with this little slut.” As an afterthought he added, “You can fuck her too if you want.”

I could clearly see the girl now. She’d been one of the wet t-shirt contestants. She recovered from the hard slap across her face and started yelling again. “Help me. Help me. I’m being raped. Get these guys off me. HELP!” Her voice was on the edge of hysteria.

Again, I persisted in my authoritative military voice, “Gentlemen, leave the woman alone. If you don’t, you will come to harm.”

The lead turk turned and faced me. He took a couple of steps towards me and said, “And who’s gonna stop us, you?” He turned slightly to his companions and laughed, clearly indicating that it’d be a four to one fight if I wanted to go further. He played the role of a motorcycle tough guy to the limit, even his swagger.

I smiled at him and said, “Yep, little old me. Now, leave the lady alone.” The blond continued to struggle against the two men holding her, revived somewhat by my offer of help. She tried to kick each man.”

The turk came at me, pulling back his right fist to hurl a blow to my head. As he swung, I dodged to one side, and augmented his forward momentum with a turn and push of my body; he went sprawling flat on the ground face first: no damage, just embarrassment. The move had taken him completely by surprise.

The guy I’d taken as the first’s wingman stepped closer, cocked a fist, and fired the hand in my direction. I grabbed his fist in midair in one of my hands, my reflexes being much sharper than his, no doubt because of excess alcohol in his system. He tried to hit me with his other hand, but I kneed him in the groin, and pushed his aching body away from me in the same direction as the other turk. He toppled over the first guy just as he tried to get up. Both went down again.

I moved closer to the man with the baseball hat as he continued to hold the woman – he’d been the one that had ripped off her shirt. He dropped his grip on her arm, and swung wildly in the air at me. She twisted away from the ponytail man, and ran off to the side of our fight area.

Without waiting for a threatening move from him, I popped a sharp punch to his jaw. I guess he had what in boxing vocabulary is a ‘glass jaw,’ because his eyes immediately rolled up in his head, and he crumpled into an unconscious pile of blubber as his overweight body fell backwards against the car and slid to the ground.

I glanced quickly at the two behind me, and the fourth man just starting to come at me – he had to be next. Before number four could act, I stepped forward to him and sank a fist into his beer gut with all my strength. He doubled over, and I heard the air rush out of him. He sank to the ground, and vomited up beer.

I turned to face the first two I’d dispatched. The turk stood about ten feet away, steadied himself, and pulled a ten-inch Bowie knife from his boot. The guy behind him rose and backed away. He wouldn’t be a factor for at least a moment.

Turk made a couple of feints with the knife, slicing through the air between us in a menacing manner. “I’m gonna cut you into little pieces, Asshole – teach you not to butt in where you’re not wanted.” He made more slices through the air.

This fight had just gone from bad to worse. I turned to the blond, caught her eye, and said, “Run. Run for your life, babe! Get help!” I watched long enough to see her start to run to the concert area. At least, I figured she’d be safe there.

Turk advanced slowly at me, still slicing the air around me. He’d been drinking, and I hoped that his reaction time might be a little slow. Given the situation, I had to stake my life on it.

I got into a slight crouch, and started to dance around as though his slices through the air were coming close to me. At that moment, they were still about five feet away. I’d jerk back with each slice he made through the air; he’d laugh maniacally. I’d had a rule drilled into my head in the military about knife fights, and that is to avoid them at all costs because most likely you’ll lose even if you win. There didn’t seem to be a way to avoid this one. The other rule that went with the first was to fight as though your life depended on it, because it probably does.

The one factor working in my favor was eight years in Army Special Ops with continuous training. I did admit to myself that those years ended a decade earlier; however, I believed I might remember some of the things drilled into us.

As the turk swung his knife hard to his left, he left an opening for a second as he recovered to make the next parry through the air at me. I lunged at him, almost in flight, and kicked hard at the side of his leg, right at his kneecap – the patella. I put every bit of energy I could muster into that kick with my hobnail boots. I connected as the turk reached the end of his swing. I could feel his leg resist, and then heard something snap deep inside – probably his fibula or tibia breaking from my kick.

Turk couldn’t recover his swing, and he rolled onto his left side, as I hit the ground and rapidly rolled away from him. He screamed in pain, and swung the knife back at me. The knife hit my shoe and didn’t do damage. I rolled away faster.

I came back on my feet in a scramble, still between the wingman and the ponytail man who had recovered from my gut punch. I looked rapidly between the two of them, and then saw the really bad news in this fight – a gun.

Wingman had pulled a pistol and waved that around in my general direction. He stood about thirty feet away. I started dancing away from side to side, making it difficult for him to take aim. I tried talking to him. I assured him that he didn’t want to use the gun on anyone or else he’d be spending a long time in some prison. I doubt my words penetrated, but he seemed to slow down to focus on what I said. By this time, I also noticed in the background several other people had gathered to watch our fight. They’d quickly moved behind a car when the gun came out.

Wingman fired a shot, and I felt a stinging pain in my left side and spun in that direction from the impact and sudden pain. I’d been hit, and I knew what would happen next – I’d had it happen twice before with bullets and once with shrapnel. I had to move quickly before incapacity got to me. Wingman waved the gun around some more, obviously happy that he’d made a hit.

I briefly wondered if I would die ... if I would join Karen in some distant heaven so we could be together again. I couldn’t savor that thought given the immediate threat.

I sensed the ponytail man move behind me over my left shoulder. I turned to him; he was close. I rapidly swung my right hand across my body and into his face with two fingers rigid and extended. In that flash of a second, I connected with his eyes. He screamed in pain, and instantly raised his hands to protect his already damaged face. I grabbed his body and swung him around to face the wingman ... just as wingman fired again. The bullet hit his friend in the sternum, penetrating to the heart. The man in my arms died instantly, and became dead weight a fraction of time later.

I heard wingman say, “Oh, shit!” He continued to wave the gun around. I pushed ponytail’s body to the moaning form of the turk, and I backed away from the pair. Wingman’s attention momentarily went to the man he’d just shot, apparently to see whether his friend would recover from an obviously fatal shot. He lurched to the dead man.

In that instant his eyes went off me; I sprang at wingman’s body, particularly his right arm, and the hand with the gun. I had to neutralize that weapon before he could shoot me again.

In a run, I grabbed wingman’s right shoulder in my left hand and his wrist just above the gun with my right, and brought my knee up as I pulled down hard with both hands. Wingman’s body bent to my upcoming knee, and my knee slammed into the elbow of his right arm. A loud snap erupted from the union of knee and elbow, and the forearm broke back across my knee in a very unnatural shape. As I’d been trained many years earlier to do, I turned and twisted, ripping the ulna and radius bones from the humerus socket, and tearing ligaments and muscles before the two arm bones broke in half across my knee in a second upward thrust of my knee. I pulled wingman past my left side, as I regained my own balance. He moaned in pain as his body hit the ground. He held his right arm in his left. The gun had dropped to the ground; I kicked it to the side away from any of the men.

None of the four men seemed threatening now: one dead, one still unconscious, one with severe injuries to his leg – unable to walk or thrust his knife at me any longer, and one rolling on the ground in pain from a mutilated and broken arm that would probably never completely heal.

I briefly wondered what to do now; however, that question rapidly got answered when two cops with drawn weapons came on the scene. I raised my hands with palms out, but then my world went fuzzy, and I fell to my knees. The first symptoms of the bullet shot were getting into my system. Behind the police I saw the blond, now wearing a leather vest over her bouncing boobs, but still in her thong. She kept pointing at me and yelling to the officers, “He’s the good guy – he’s the one that saved me. Let him go. He’s all right.”

One cop gestured, and I did the split in a kneeling position leaning against the nearest car as the other cop frisked me. I called attention to the loaded pistol and knife on the ground, telling them the gun was evidence of a murder and urging them not to touch it if they wanted fingerprints.

The blond kept insisting on my innocence. Since she was the obvious victim, the police soon listened to her. Several other people started to gather around now, despite the urging of one officer to ‘move along.’ Several stated they’d seen most of the fight, and would be witnesses. I explained that I would stay around and explain what had happened. They accepted that assurance, and let me sit on the ground nearby on my own recognizance. The blond came and knelt by me. I noted she’d retrieved her cutoffs and slipped them on again.

She held onto my arm tightly, “Thank you. Thank you so much for rescuing me. I’m Betty Sue Meyers.” She looked up at me with the prettiest round eyes I’d ever seen.

“And I’m Jim Mellon ... and this altercation went way beyond anything I expected – at least you’re safe.” I was having trouble focusing on Betty Sue as a wave of nausea swept past me. My body was starting to exhibit shock symptoms.

We watched as one officer talked into a lapel microphone, hearing but a word or two of the interchange with some headquarters above the loud music. Shortly, three more officers arrived on scene, obviously running from their posts at the concert, and then we heard in the distance several sirens heading our way.

About then, the blond noticed I had a large blot of blood on my left side. I’d been holding my shirttail on the wound on my front to stem the flow of blood. Fortunately, the shot came from a small caliber gun, although the bullet had done damage going in and out of my body. Betty Sue held a wadded-up part of my shirt against my rear exit wound. Paramedics arrived at the scene a couple of minutes later, and I got preferential treatment at the aggressive insistence of Betty Sue. When I lay down, I blacked out for a few moments as the EMT men worked on me; I could tell they were both ex-military. I hurt badly.

At the peak of the aftermath at the scene, there were eight local cops, a detective, two ambulances with paramedics, one hearse with two men from the coroner’s office, and four Alabama state troopers. My guess is that about two hundred people crowded outside the yellow ‘crime scene’ tape someone had encircled the area with. The abundance of blinking red and blue lights called attention to the scene.

The police had handcuffed the two injured men to the ambulance while paramedics put temporary splints on the leg and arm that I’d shattered. The man with the glass jaw sat in the back of a police cruiser watching the scene probably feeling he was the luckiest of the bunch. Ponytail man had been covered with a blue tarp.

I told the story about what had happened at least a dozen times. The cops had taken Betty Sue about fifty feet away, and the police officers and state troopers each took turns interviewing her too. Fortunately, three of the eyewitnesses to the fight also talked to the police, telling what they had seen.

A crime scene photographer showed up too and took dozens of pictures of each suspect, the weapons where they lay, and the body from every conceivable point of view. When the police finished with Betty Sue, she came and asked the EMT men whether I could go with her to a hospital in Tuscaloosa for treatment of my gunshot. I was feeling a little woozy from the shot and resulting shock, but the EMTs agreed. The police also decided that they would not hold me, but they did want me to come by the local police station in the morning and sign a statement. I promised I would. One cop offered to drive me to the nearby hospital, but Betty Sue insisted she drive me to the Tuscaloosa hospital emergency room. I learned the police don’t argue with an insistent and mad southern woman.

We didn’t get to the DHC Hospital emergency room in Tuscaloosa until midnight. Betty Sue drove me to the hospital, and then stayed with me, alert and insistent about my care until my every need had been met. Saturday night in Tuscaloosa produced a busy emergency room, including a few others associated with the motorcycle rally, so without her stomping around the emergency room making a scene and demanding attention there was no telling when my gunshot wound would have been attended to.

I spent about five hours under the knife in an operating room while three ER doctors probed around my insides checking for damage from the bullet, and then sewing me back together. One surgeon checked in on me about eight in the morning after the shooting, and well after I’d regained consciousness from the anesthesia; after checking my vitals chart, he said, “Mr. Mellon, you are one lucky dude. You got shot with a small caliber, full metal jacket bullet. I don’t know if you know what that means, but basically it didn’t do much damage, and it passed right through you rather than spend its kinetic energy shredding your organs, bones, or major blood vessels into unrepairable shit – that’s a very specific medical term. Most bullets spread out inside a body once they make contact, that’s how they do so much damage; yours didn’t. You had a body shot – bad, but if there was one pathway through you that would do the least damage, that bullet found it - good.

I asked in a hopeful tone, “So I can go?”

He shook his head, “Not yet. We want you here today. The bullet nicked your pelvic bone, and we removed that fragment, but it also perforated your intestine. We sewed you back up, and I think we did a really tight job of it, but you need to be on a heavy dose of antibiotics for a couple of weeks, plus painkillers as you feel you need them – and you will. Overall, I think you’ll recover in nothing flat and just have two more bullets holes to explain to your girlfriends, along with the other two or three you already have. I’m guessing you were in the military?”

I nodded, “Yeah, Special Forces about nine to seventeen years ago. I got into a couple of nasty scrapes.”

The doctor nodded. He said, “There’s a rather scantily clad young blond who’s been jumping up and down about your health and well-being since you got here. She’s a pain in the neck, but if I had to have someone on my side, I’d sure want it to be her. You got into that operating room hours before someone in your condition would have based on her doings. I assume it would be all right to let her in to see you? If your vitals don’t change, I might release you tonight after I change your dressings. I’d like you back in here every twelve hours for the next couple of days, and then daily for another week. Can you do that? Oh, and you need bed rest, no exertion, for at least a week.”

I nodded my understanding, but already plotted my escape from Alabama, providing no one had stolen my motorcycle.

A hyperactive Betty Sue burst into the recovery room two minutes after the doctor left, and yes, she remained scantily clad from the night before and the wet t-shirt contest. At least, she still had the Daisy Duke shorts, leather vest, and the glossy high heels. After she could sit with me and hold my hand, she seemed to calm down. She and I talked – me rather groggily due to the painkillers I had been given and my lack of sleep the night before. We traded life stories and aspirations, such as mine were at that moment. I fell asleep on her a couple of times.

She didn’t leave my side except for a minute here and there to get me liquids or painkillers. Late that afternoon, I got released with the promise of various return visits. Betty Sue had me in her bed in her apartment about ten minutes from the hospital with a pile of pillows. I’d argued for my tent and sleeping pad, but she insisted otherwise, and I didn’t put up much of a fight. I did express my concern about my motorcycle and camping gear.

I fell asleep almost as soon as I put my head down, no doubt because of the painkillers the doctors had pumped into me while they worked on me. I woke up once long enough to stumble to the bathroom and then back to bed.

I had this funny dream about Karen and all the women I’d met in the past few weeks. We were all dancing in a sunny field to some strange piece of music, and then someone started shooting at everybody, and one by one we were all dying. I felt such pain and loss, as one by one the people I loved and who had loved me all floated away to heaven to be together in that space ... and to leave me behind. I kept crying, “No,” until finally the shooting stopped, and I was alone in this big open field standing in the rain.

I awoke slowly still feeling groggy from the whole fight-hospital-painkiller experience. I had two immediate sensations: first, I had searing pain on my lower left front and back from the two wounds. Second, I felt a naked and robust pair of natural breasts pressed against my arm and side, and a female leg draped carelessly over one of mine. I realized I wore only my briefs. I cranked one eye open and there was Betty Sue sleeping peacefully next to me – completely naked. I liked this naked sleeping arrangement; I’d never gotten into it with my wife. I’d been raised to wear pajamas and did until I went into the military where we all wore boxers or briefs. Coming out of the service, I went back to PJs – until I started this trip; I declared them excess luggage, and now I thought I’d never go back to them.

I stroked Betty Sue’s arm lightly, and then the slope of one breast, rounding up her curve to the beautiful, dark brown nipple. She smiled in her sleep and made little mewling sounds of happiness. After a couple of minutes, I watched her pretty blue eyes flutter open. She looked up at me, and then leaned in and kissed my chest.

She said softly, “I just had the nicest dream, thanks to you. When you stroked my arm and breast, you fit right into my little sex dream.” She blushed and paused for a moment and asked in a more serious tone, “Hey, how’re you feeling? How’s your wound?”

“Sore,” I replied with a wince as I turned. “It feels as though someone shot me.”

She smiled at my gallows humor. She told me, “In the emergency room, before they took you to the OR, I watched a doctor run a long metal shaft all the way through the wound from front to back; I nearly fainted. I know they did some repair work inside you. You were lucky; no vital organs got hit. I have your pain pills in my purse.”

“I think I’d like one or two of them right away, if you don’t mind.”

I started to get up, and then got a jolt of pain from my left side. I winced. Betty Sue hopped up and ran naked out the bedroom door – and a very fine naked it was. She came back in a minute with a glass of water and a brown plastic vial full of pills. I took two.