WHAT A DORK
Posted By The GYPSY on May 7, 2012
Recently an old friend of mine, a girl I dated in high school, sent me a photo that I had given her when we were seeing each other. The photo is of me and was taken in 1972 when I was 15 years old. I posted it as my profile picture on My Space last night. I do not have many photos of myself from my childhood as my mother made the mistake, several years ago, of entrusting the family photo albums to my sister. I have had no contact with my sister for 17 years and my mother hasn’t heard from her in almost 3 years. The albums are lost forever to whatever alcohol based, drug induced fantasy land she now resides in. So it is easy to see that this photo is important to me.
Betcha can't guess who this 15 year old dork is in this 1972 yearbook photo.
As I look at the photo I have to laugh as the memories of that period of my life come flooding in upon me. Who is that young man with the thick shiny hair combed into bangs and wearing his fuzzy Elvis sideburns? To look at it today I cringe and think to myself, Geez, what a Dork, but then again that “Dork” is me and that “Dork” was in the process of becoming the man I am today. At that time in my life I did not consider myself a “Dork” not at all. I was cool, my friends knew I was cool and the girls definitely knew I was cool. I was 15 and the world was my oyster, spread out before me and mine for the taking, I was indestructible!
That soon would change. Within a couple of years my hair would be well below my shoulders. I would be smoking pot and dropping acid. I would be chain smoking cigarettes as I hung out with my friends at “Ross’s Drive-In” shooting pinball and telling lies. I would get drunk on Saturday nights and stick my mindless penis into any girl that would lift her skirts and spread her legs or open her mouth for me. Yep, in a few years all that would change but on that fall day in 1972 when that photo was taken for the schools year book I was still an innocent with one foot in childhood and the other foot in manhood.
One of my fondest memories of my fifteenth year has become a lifelong obsession that remains with me to this day. It was June of 1972 and we had just moved from Topeka, Kansas to St. Joseph, Missouri. It was quite a culture shock for me. Topeka was a great Midwestern metropolis of the plains, clean, modern and bustling. St. Joe was a industrial river town, old, tired and at the beginning of crippling death throes. As I walked the town exploring my new territory and lamenting the fact that this was my new home I soon found myself walking past a large brick building that proclaimed across it’s dirty glass window, “Beckley Motors / Atlas Auto Parts / Authorized BSA Motorcycle Dealer.” Below the word “BSA” sat, in the show room, a red and chrome motorcycle. I did not know what kind of motorcycle it was, for at that time I was ignorant of such things, nor did I care, all that I knew at that point was (to paraphrase a popular TV commercial starring Jessica Simpson), I totally don’t know what that is, but I want it! It was love at first sight.
I ran inside where I found the proprietor, Barrett Beckley, residing in a Barcolounger and reading the St. Joe News Press. “Mister, excuse me sir,” I blurted out, “How much is that red and chrome motorcycle in the window?” Mr. Beckley, for that I later learned was his name and that is what I would forever call him due to the respect he was due, slowly lowered his paper and took me in with a long hard stare. Mr. Beckley at that time was 60 years old, ten years older than the age I am now, and to my fifteen year old mind an old, old man. Balding, thick glasses, slacks, button down loop shirt and penny loafers he was your stereotypical Jewish merchant. What went on behind his squinting eyes that day as he gave me a once over is hard to say. He grunted, “$650.00″ and went back to reading his paper. I headed for the door, looked at the bike more closely, on the side of the bikes gas tank was a brass plaque shaped like an egg, BSA was embossed within its surface with a sunburst behind the letters. So this is a BSA, well it will be my BSA, I thought as I headed out the door.
I ran downtown, breathless I entered the circulation department of the St. Joe News Press, the paper that Mr. Beckley had been reading and the catalyst of the idea that had formulated in my head. Before long I had two newspaper routes and was saving all of my money in a savings account at the “Pony Express Bank” across the street, coincidently from the “Pony Express Stables.” Beckley Motors was on one of my routes so I got to see “My Motorcycle” everyday. I had used the first money I had earned to purchase an owners manual. I needed to know everything about “My Motorcycle” that there was to know. I now knew that it was an A65T 650cc 1970 model BSA Thunderbolt with single-carb head. It was not an oil frame and had been manufactured for speed as well as looks to compete with the ever growing Japanese market. It had five test miles on it and Mr. Beckley had uncrated it just shortly before the day I walked through the door. Mr. Beckley had a warehouse full of new crated bikes that he would uncrate to fill gaps in the floor as they were needed. He had new Gold Star’s, Rockets and Thunderbolts just like mine waiting to see the light of day.
I worked long and hard, throwing my papers in the heat of Summer and the cold of winter. Rain, Sun, Sleet, Snow and Gloom of Night no postal worker had one up on me. Then one day I made a deposit to my account and when the teller handed me back my savings book my total was $674.38. I shouted, “Yeah” as I ran out the door. That night I could hardly sleep as my heart pounded against my rib cage trying to escape my chest. Open roads and long highways beckoned to me calling my name through the wind I envisioned flowing over me as I maneuvered curves at break neck speeds.
I danced like I had to pee as I waited for the bank guard to unlock the doors. I had thrown my two routes and had been sitting on the stoop of the bank, passbook in hand for the past two hours. I rushed inside and withdrew all but $4.38 from my savings. I ran as fast as I could to Beckley Motors. I burst into the show room more out of breath than I had ever been. My adrenaline level was so high at that point it was a wonder that I didn’t drop dead right then and there of a massive coronary when I saw that “My Motorcycle” was no longer sitting in the window. “Mr.” draw in breath, “Mr. Beck…” draw in breath, hands on knees, “Mr. Beckley…” long exhale. Mr. Beckley, as always, sitting in his Barcolounger, glanced over the top of the newspaper I had left in his door at 4:00am. “Yes,” he asks, “what can I do for you?” Taking in a deep breath and trying to hide my rising anxiety I half demand and half ask, “Where’s my bike?” Mr. Beckley gives me a puzzled look, “What bike?” he asks. What Bike? What Bike? Is he crazy? “The bike that has been sitting in the window forever, the bike that I have been saving for, the red and chrome Thunderbolt, where is it Mr. Beckley?” I almost shout. “Oh that bike,” he suddenly understands, “Well I sold it.” I look at him dumbfounded, “But it was there when I threw your paper this morning” I stammer. “Yeah, I know but we have removed it from display and are holding it for the customer,” he says. “But I’ve been saving for it.” I am now almost in tears. “Well George,” He says (always called me George and would never use my first name), “I’m in business to make money and when a customer has cash in hand I have to take it.”
My whole world collapsed around me. Everything I had worked for, everything I had wanted was tied up in that piece of chrome and red art that held my heart within it’s grip. God said, “Thou shall have no other Gods before me,” and though I did not put “My Motorcycle before him it sure ran a close second. “Were you wanting to buy a motorcycle?” Mr. Beckley asks. “Yes,” is the only answer I can manage. “Well how much do you have?” he inquires. I hold up my fist full of cash. He takes the money, counts it and then hands it back to me. “I think I have one you’ll like.” He says as he takes my arm and leads me up the ramp towards the shop. “I wanted the Thunderbolt.” I say in almost a whisper as I allow myself to be guided.
We pass through the big double doors and there in front of me is “My Bike” with a big yellow tag tied to the handle bars. Large red letters proclaim, “SOLD.” I feel the tears welling up as my vision starts to blur. I can’t look at it, I must go on and forget that it ever existed. I walk pass the bike and head for the shop. “Where are you going?” Mr. Beckley asks. “To look at whatever it is you want to show me.” I can now feel the anger starting to replace the shock and hurt I feel. “Well,” he says, “Isn’t this the bike you wanted?” I look at him uncomprehending, he knows it is, why is he trying to torture me like this? “Yes, it was.” I say threw gritted teeth my fists balled up. “Then give me your money and lets get your paperwork done, took you long enough to save for it. Hell, I could have sold that bike a couple of dozen times waiting on you.” My jaw drops as the realization hits that this stoic, humorless (or so I thought) old man just yanked my chain and pulled a practical joke on me. “Are you serious?” I ask. “Of course I’m serious,” he says, “I’m always serious about money. ”
I later found out that when Mr. Beckley figured out how intent I was on owning that bike he called my mother up to see if I was really serious. “God I wish he had never seen that motorcycle,” she told Mr. Beckley, “that’s all he talks about.” Mr. Beckley had not sold the bike waiting for me to buy it and on the day I had my money my mother had called him and told him I was on my way.
Over the years Mr. Beckley and I became fast friends. I purchased all my parts from him. Got “My Bike” serviced once a year in his shop (Ralph, his mechanic, was a genius) and spent many an hour just hanging around and bullshitting with the two of them. Many was the time that I did not have money for some part I needed and Mr. Beckley would let me take it on the cuff until I could afford to pay him. We might be visiting, having a coke that Mr. Beckley had pulled a quarter from his pocket and instructed me to get from his machine, and someone would come in asking Mr. Beckley if he financed. Mr. Beckley would look at them and say, “The only person I ever gave credit to was George here,” indicating me, “and he has never been good for it.” It was his little joke, I always paid Mr. Beckley what I owed him. Time passed and I moved away from St. Joe to Weston, Missouri back to St. Joe then down to Abilene, Texas and back to St. Joe again but I always kept in touch with Mr. Beckley.
In 1980, one month out of the Army, I was struck on “My Bike” by a hit and run driver while coming home from work. I was cattycorner across the street from my home when the driver ran a stop sign and hit me. He backed up went around me and the bike laying in the middle of the road and disappeared up the street. “My Bike” did not sustain any damage the same could not be said for my left leg. I was laid up for almost a year from the accident. My wife’s paycheck barely covered our bills and the rest was made up for in food stamps and a small welfare check. Times were hard and I found myself one day calling Mr. Beckley and asking if he would buy “My Bike” from me. He sent Ralph to pick up the bike and title and gave me $450.00, I cried myself to sleep that night.
I healed and was released from the doctor. We returned to Abilene, Texas where I became an apprentice zookeeper, then onto El Paso where I was a senior keeper. In 1986 we returned to Abilene where I opened my tattoo studio full time. Soon however the oil boom went bust and my wife left me for another man. Life sucked and I needed a change. Putting my belongings in storage I went to truck driving school and started driving over the road to earn a living and find a new studio location. As luck would have it I found myself under a load going to St. Joseph one fine day in 1989.
I was going to have a layover in St. Joe that night so I disconnected the truck from the trailer and “bob tailed” over to Beckley Motors to see my old friend Mr. Beckley whom I hadn’t seen in years. To be truthful I did not even know if he was still alive. But there he was, sitting in that ancient Barcolounger reading the News Press just as he had been the first time I saw him seventeen years earlier.
“George,” he said as if he had just saw me yesterday, “how have you been?” Before I could answer the phone rang and as he picked up the receiver I heard the old familiar greeting, “Alice Beckley.” It had always sounded that way to me but what he was really saying was, “Atlas Beckley.” While he chatted on the phone I let my eyes wander around the show room floor. Scattered with old bikes and in a state of disrepair I assumed the worse, Ralph had passed away and there was no one to maintain the premises the way he had. As I scanned the dim once brightly lit interior my eyes caught a glint of chrome nestled among other bikes in the middle of the show room. Working my way through the maze of metal I made my way to the chrome object and felt my heart leap in my chest. Could it be? No, not possible! I reached down and removed the side cover, turning it over with trembling hands I saw my mark on the underside. I reached out and wiped the grease from the frame, my serial numbers. Oh my God it’s “My Bike!”
I went back over to where Mr. Beckley was just hanging up the phone and had a seat on an old dining chair that was sitting there. For the next hour or so we passed the time, me telling Mr. Beckley of my life him telling me of his. Ralph had passed, as I had suspected, and Mr. Beckley was in poor health. So he spent his days selling parts and old motorcycles but had little use for organizing the shop. He hired young kids from time to time to wrench for him but they never lasted, “They want more from me than I can give,” he explained. At one point a young guy came in asking if Mr. Beckley would finance a motorcycle. “The only person I ever gave credit to was George here,” giving me a wink, “and he has never been good for it.” This gave me my opening.
Dealing with Mr. Beckley had it’s rules I had learned over the years, you did not go straight to business, there were the social amenities to observe. You greeted each other, caught up on news and gossip then when that ran out you talked business. Let me repeat that, you talked business, you did not discuss, you did not push nor demand, you talked. “So Mr. Beckley, how much would you take for that A65T 650cc 1970 model BSA Thunderbolt with the single-carb head over there. He looked across the room in the general direction of the bike. “Well,” he began, “you know them things are collectors items. A few years ago some fella’s from England came over to the States and were buying up parts right and left. They wanted my whole inventory but I wouldn’t sell. Offered me almost a million for everything. Told ‘em I wipe my ass with hundred dollar bills why do I need their money?” He leaned towards me and whispered conspiratorially, “Invest in stocks George, it’ll make you rich.” He picked back up where he left off. “Nope, I told ‘em just leave. I had sold so many BSA’s over the years that I had to keep the parts to service the motorcycles. Didn’t you use to have a BSA?” he asked. I told him that I had but did not say anything about it being the one I had asked about. “Well they left pretty pissed off but they bought out everyone else in the US so I don’t think my little bit hurt them any. Anyway George, I have had plenty of chance to sell that single carb head but haven’t done it. Could get more out of that head than what the bike is worth.” I looked at him a smile playing at the corner of my mouth, he had left the opening, it was now barter time.
“So Mr. Beckley, how much is it worth?” I asked. “Well, let’s see, I think I paid $450.00 for it back in 1980, now when you consider the cost of maintaining it and it’s collectors value….” I cut him off in mid sentence. “Mr. Beckley, I have $650.00 in my pocket right now that I will give you for that bike. That is the same amount I gave you for it in 1972.” Reaching into my wallet I extracted the money and held it out to Mr. Beckley. He looked at the money in my hand and then at me, “That was your bike?” he asked. “You know it was,” I laughed. He slowly rose from the Barcolounger taking the cash from my hand. He counted it slowly and methodically as he moved around behind the counter. Taking the keys from his pocket and unlocking a drawer in the counter he extracted an old yellow stained envelope and handed it to me. I opened it and took out the Missouri title that it held, the title that still held my name, Mr. Beckley had never re-titled “My Bike.” “Took you long enough to come back and get it, I was about to give up on you.” I looked at him a grin on his usually expressionless face. “Thank you” was all I could manage to say. “Ah hell, I knew you’d be back for it someday.” I looked at this sly old man, a knot in my throat, “Mr. Beckley, I can’t take it with me today, I’ll have to pick it up in about a month. Can I leave it here until then? He nodded his head. “Sure,” he said, “no problem, give me ten more dollars for the storage fee.”
In 1994 I saw Mr. Beckley for the last time. I stopped in on my way home from the Sturgis Bike Rally. He was older and more frail than the last time I had saw him and his wife of 60 years had recently passed away. I needed some parts for the bike and asked him if I could look through his warehouse for what I needed. On the second floor of the warehouse I was digging through a pile of parts but still could not find the side cover I was looking for. “Mr. Beckley,” I yelled out, “do you know where a right side cover would be?” He yelled back, “Look on top of the bathroom.” Mr. Beckley may not have been organized but he knew where everything was. You could get to the top of the ground floor restroom from the second floor loft and sure enough their was the side cover. As I lifted up the side cover I noticed a piece of yellowed cardboard below it. I picked it up and read what was wrote on it’s face.
“Mr. Beckley, do you have something to tell me?” I handed him the old discarded piece of cardboard. He read the writing and handed it back to me. “Hell George,” he said, “How was I to know you were serious? You were a fifteen year old snot nosed kid, who would have known.” I felt choked up as I read the words out loud on the dealers display tag, “NEW 1970 BSA THUNDERBOLT $1,250.00″ Mr. Beckley had shot me the first price that had entered his head on that summer day in 1972 thinking that there was no way that I would ever have the money. After all I was just a, “fifteen year old snot nosed kid.” Mr. Beckley had quoted me his cost not the retail cost but being the honest man he always was he kept his word and took the loss. The only monetary profit he ever saw from that bike were the parts I purchased and the $210.00 he made when I repurchased “My Bike” years later.
Mr. Beckley passed away in 1997 at the age of 85. He worked all the way up until the day he died. Mr. Beckley is the man responsible for showing me what honesty in dealing with people in business is all about but he taught me so much more than that. I have carried those lessons with me each and every day of my life. I still own the BSA and I am still as proud of it today as I was on the day I first sat on it. I originally planned to leave the bike someday to my daughter as a legacy but she lost that gift when she asked me how much the bike was worth. She thought that she would sell it after I died to help pay her bills. “You’ll be gone and I don’t ride motorcycles,” was her reasoning. I don’t know, at this time, who will one day inherit the bike but I pray that they will honor it’s spirit and what it has meant to me all these years and that they will cherish it their whole life.
The GYPSY and his 1970 BSA A65T 650cc Thunderbolt in 1978.
I am forty years older than I was in 1972 and the bike, “My Bike” is forty two years old this year. God willing we have at least forty twomore years together to taste the wind and feel the road beneath us. I was a dork when I was fifteen and I first saw that bike I am proud to say that I am still a dork. An older and hopefully wiser dork but a dork just the same. Thank you Mr. Beckley!
-The GYPSY-
