At a gas stop, I encountered a woman. and how she knew my name is still a mystery to me 😳
I had just taken a brief break, had a drink, and lighted a cigarette. Nothing noteworthy. Just a small, abandoned petrol station in the middle of flat emptiness on a desolate Missouri road. My main goal was to get back on the road before the rain started, and my shirt was still smeared with grease from work.
I heard her voice at that moment.
— “Nico? Is that you?
I went cold. I’m no longer called that. For years, no. I go by Nick, Rider, or just “hey, man” these days. I looked over and saw her, an old woman in a cardigan similar to my grandmother’s, leaning on a cane. As if she had been waiting for me, she stood beside a malfunctioning vending machine.
– “I apologize. Are you someone I know? I inquired.
She grinned.
– “I have been trying to find you.”
I didn’t even inquire as to how she knew my name because I was so confused. As though we had done this before, she took my arm softly, and I didn’t resist for some reason.
Slowly, we made our way to the parking lot. I inquired again about her identity.
She merely remarked, “You look exactly like him.”
— “Like who?” I inquired.
She took a while to respond.
Then she said something that made me shiver 😶.
– “You resemble him exactly.”
— “Like who?”
A long silence.
She continued, saying, “My first love.” You are just like that. Nico Petez.
I came to a halt. My father’s name was that.
He was never referred to as Nico Petez by anyone outside of our tiny family in Colorado. I was thirteen when he passed away. motorcycle mishap. We never quite moved on from it. It had been years since I had heard his entire name called out.
— “Hold on… How did you get to know my father?
Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice remained composed.
— “In 1987, we met in Missouri. My vehicle had malfunctioned. He claimed he would give me the moon when he picked me up.
He sounded exactly like that. However, he had never brought her up.
“Did you… together?”
— “Not precisely. It was a wild and lovely week. California appeared in his dream. I was fleeing the farm where my father lived.
“What is your name?” —
Miss Carol, if you will.
It was a familiar name.
— “Relax… You were once mentioned by my grandmother.
— “You’re the grandson of Clara?”
— “Yes. You were acquainted with her?
— “I always felt like a secret.”
She requested a ride to her sister’s house from me. I ought to have declined. But it was impossible because of the expression in her eyes.
In my truck’s calm, she uttered these words:
— “He said he would write. I never received anything.
— “He was unaware of you. He got married young.
She gave a nod.
— “I gave it up. But I was always curious.
She produced a picture of herself and my father, both of them young and laughing.
— “I discovered I was ill. All I wanted to know was if he had left anything.
I attempted to return the photo.
— “Preserve it. There was significance to that week.
She said outside her sister’s home:
— “Thank you, Nico. I was able to close a chapter thanks to you.
I received a letter a few days later.
“Nico —
You are the closest thing to your father, although I never had a son with him.
I appreciate you giving me tranquility.
— Miss Carol
There was a $2,000 check inside.
An envelope was delivered by a man a month later. Carol was dead. I was left a storage unit by her.
Letters, furnishings, etc. with a Triumph Bonneville from 1968. A note dangled from the handlebar:
“This was his dream bike,” he claimed.
Additionally, a letter
In 1987, he presented it to me. He never returned. It’s yours now. Take it to a lovely location.
I ride a lot now. For its own sake.
And she comes to mind. of him.
Of the unseen connections that bind us—waiting to be discovered.
