Packin’ Henry
"..Lake Don Pedro is a hard scramble and not a very inviting place to have a run. East of Modesto, it’s one of California’s “best-kept secrets,” tucked in the Sierra Nevada foothills in Gold Country. The MMA (Modified Motorcycle Association for you nonriders) used to hold an annual run at Lake Don Pedro at the same time as the world-famous Frog Jumps in nearby Calaveras County. The frog jumps were inspired by Mark Twain’s story that put the county on the map back in 1865. For a long time, the promoters of the Frog Jumps weren’t too friendly to bikers, so the MMA started its own run at the same time to create, shall we say, a more tolerant alternative atmosphere.
One year Cincinnati was there, and having arrived early, he was sitting in the shade just inside the entrance, hanging out with friends. It was a little boring until Brother Ray from San Jose rode up. The two of them decided to take a putt over to the nearby small town of La Grange, a few miles down Highway 132. After a few drinks in the local tavern, Cincinnati and Ray took a walk around the tiny Western-style town for the express purpose of firing one up. Just up the corner, down the main street, they walked around behind a small hotel (circa mid-1800s). After a few minutes of puffing, things began feeling really weird, and it wasn’t just the weed. The vibes were icy and damned spooky.
While both felt it, neither wanted to ’fess up, so they toughed it out a few more minutes. Finally, Cincinnati and Ray both looked at each other, said, “Fuck this,” and headed back toward the main
street corner. Ray was a bit ahead of Cincinnati, and when he turned around to say something, glancing past his buddy, he got this strange look on his face. Cincinnati turned around and saw this guy stand-
ing right behind him. He was wearing old-fashioned bib overalls and brogans. Cincinnati asked him, “Something you want?”
When the strange character didn’t respond, Cincinnati barked back,
“If you don’t want nothing, then split.”
Which he did, right in front of Cincinnati’s eyes. Turning around, Ray was already heading around the corner real quick, with Cincinnati not too far behind. Stopping back in front of the bar, both were more than a little shaken up.
“Did you see that?” asked Cincinnati, hoping Ray hadn’t.
“Yeah, and what the fuck was going on?”
The two headed back to the bar, acting real cool. Cincinnati asked the woman barkeep if La Grange was an old gold-mining town.
“No, sir, La Grange was a lumber town.”
“So you ain’t got ghosts here like they do in gold towns.”
“Oh, yes, we do,” she answered. “In fact, we have one who lives right next door, at the old hotel and livery stable.”
Right then it was time for Cincinnati and Ray to get back to Lake Don Pedro.
The following May, it was back to Don Pedro. Bored again, Cincinnati decided to ride back over to the La Grange lumber town, hoping to find some human life. When he got to the bar, finding it closed, he started to make a U-turn. Cincinnati decided instead to sneak a peek around the corner at the old hotel. As he looked behind the tavern, he noticed they were tearing down the livery stable part of the old hotel where the bartender had said the ghost lived.
“I guess, Mr. Ghost, you’re out of a place to be ghosting now,” thought Cincinnati.
Shouting and shaking his fist, he yelled out, “Hey, Ghost, hey, Ghost, if you want to split, hop on!”
Cincinnati reached down and lowered his rear pegs when all of a sudden he felt someone—something—get on the back of his bike.
“Oh shit.”
Cincinnati slipped into gear and started down the street. As he cornered the bike, it was wiggling and shaking so bad, he had to pull over and straighten out this damned ghost.
“Look, man, if you’re going to ride with me, just sit still or lean in. Don’t you wiggle or anything.”
Just then a middle-aged couple on a full dresser rode by. They probably thought the day had been a little too kind to Cincinnati.
Back on the way to Lake Don Pedro, there were no more further problems, except now Cincinnati’s thinking what the hell to do with his new friend. Spotting One-Armed Paul, he borrowed a tent,
which he set up in the farthest corner of the campsite he could find, taking his new friend inside. It was there that he learned the ghost’s name was Henry. He was nineteen (when he died?), and like Cincin-
nati, he was scared shitless. When Cincinnati and Henry talked, it wasn’t through normal communication methods. It was more like telepathy, mind to mind.
Meanwhile, just about every road-dog friend at the run made their way up to “Henry’s tent,” some looking for a place for their ladies to crash. Cincinnati got a lot of weird looks when he said the
tent was already full.
Now, Cincinnati has always been a stickler on rear pegs. When a girl gets off the back of his ride, the rule is she pushes them right back up. Cincinnati never rides alone with his pegs down. He says
it looks like a taxicab driving down Madison Avenue with its doors open. So after the run, eight or ten of the mob were coming down the Mother Lode, Cincinnati with his rear pegs down, Izzy wanting to know why. Cincinnati pretended he didn’t hear. As they glided into Oakland, everybody veered off onto their off ramps until it was just Cincinnati (and Henry) left.
“Now what?” Cincinnati was thinking.
Cincinnati decided to dump Henry off at the clubhouse. After situating him in the upstairs room (near the crap tables and pinballmachines), Cincinnati jumped on his bike and headed for his pad in
the Oakland Hills. He pulled into his garage just as his lady and kid were pulling up in the pickup. Cincinnati’s old lady looked at his bike and immediately asked, “Who you been packing?”
“Well, baby,” Cincinnati owns up, “I guess I brought a ghost back with me.”
This went over big, so Cincinnati loaded his lady and daughter up in the pickup and drove down to the clubhouse. Once they got there, Cincinnati decided to stay downstairs.
“Go on,” Cincinnati told his lady, “go on upstairs.”
A few minutes later, his lady came back down with the hair standing up on her arms.
“Told you,” Cincinnati said.
She gave him a look that could stop a train and told Cincinnati he sure as hell better get whatever-it-was the heck out of that club-house because he didn’t seem any too happy. Cincinnati ran upstairs, and truly, Henry wasn’t happy at all. That was when he found out that Henry flat-out didn’t like women or kids. So Cincinnati drove his wife and daughter home and returned later to the club-house to pick up Henry.
Cincinnati lived in the Oakland Hills, and his garage sat right on the street, while the rest of his house was two floors down the hill, below street level. Very rustic, but homey enough for everyone con-
cerned, including a ghost. Cincinnati’s neighbor was hardly home,except for the occasional weekend. The neighbor’s remodeled house had a hot tub, and Henry took to hanging there quite a bit.
Henry was not what you would call retarded, only a little slow. Cincinnati found out that he was orphaned at a real young age before dying at nineteen. The gentleman who owned the hotel/livery
stable took him out to a farm he owned outside La Grange, where Henry was to be fed and watered like an animal by the man’s wife. By the time he was ten, someone had partitioned off a front stall of
the livery stable where Henry lived. The kids in town teased the hell out of him for being thick. The girls turned their noses up at him for being plain. Between the kids, the girls, and his benefactor’s
wife, that must have soured him on women and children forever. In 1896, Henry died before seeing his twenties.
Henry taught Cincinnati a lot about spirits, that there’s no such thing as an evil ghost. Some apparitions are merely more aggressive than others. Not all spirits haunt. Some move around more than
others. They travel the spirit highways to areas where ghosts prefer to gather, the Elysian Fields of spookdom, so to speak.
One night Cincinnati and Nic Tolbert were sitting in a bar when they decided to go on the whorehouse run that one of the chapters down south was holding in Beatty, Nevada. Cincinnati went home to grab a few necessities for the trip. He and Nic agreed to meet at his place. Cincinnati barely got there before Nic. Parking his bike in front of the garage, Cincinnati went down to the house just a few
minutes before Nic pulled up. Now Nic and Cincinnati look a lot alike, especially at night, with long hair and full beards. Henry must have heard a bike, looked up, and saw Nic. Thinking he was Cincinnati, the ghost threw a paranormal fit. Nic noticed something weird right away.
“Cincinnati, you’ve got a spirit in here or something? All of a sudden these lights started moving around.”
Half joking, Cincinnati told Nic, “Yeah, I’ve got a ghost living in my garage.”
On October 20, 1991, Oakland suffered a huge firestorm. Five years of drought left a ton of dead trees and vegetation to feed the fire, with plenty of wind to fan the flames for miles. Hospitals in Oakland and Berkeley stayed on red alert. Hundreds of houses fell prey. The whole mess missed Cincinnati’s place by three houses. After the evacuation, when people were allowed to venture back to their homes, Henry, freaked by the heat, went missing for several weeks. When he returned, he did so with a healthy curiosity about women. Cincinnati explained the best he could about the birds and the bees, the differences, the advantages, what to look out for, and the best way to handle the girls. Henry must have liked what he heard, because he confessed that in the heat of the firestorm, he’d met a lady.
“Cool,” Cincinnati said to the love-struck spirit.
Several days later, Cincinnati was lying on the couch when his daughter came in from playing to announce that Henry and a lady were standing out by the garage. Cincinnati and his daughter went
outside, and sure as shit, there they were. Henry introduced them both to Edith, his new girlfriend. At that moment, the most appropriate response seemed to be good-bye. Henry would be leaving
Cincinnati’s garage for good, and from that day on, he hasn’t been seen again.
Now every time Cincinnati sees a passing bike with its rear pegs down, he thinks about Henry, hoping he’s finally happy. While I can’t say I believe in spirits, who but Cincinnati would pack a ghost
like Henry?.."
semneaza: "ralph" sonny barger, keith & kent zimmerman
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