Jason routes us to a food truck when I mention I’m hungry. “There’s a tater tot burrito I get. It’s the only thing worth getting.” I pay more than I’d like for food that’s meh at best, but like my Dad says, “It’ll make a poop.”
Jason follows up the food with a two-for-one beer deal at a nearby bar, but with the sun’s location closing in on set, he says, “Finish up. There’s no place better than seeing the sunset at the Easy Rider Saloon.”
Once we get there, we wind our way up two dark stairways, more drinks in hand, and exit onto an open patio area. A crowd has formed. I squeeze past a group and, fortunately, find a prime spot at the railing. Then I turn and wave Jason forward to join me.
Looking at Sturgis’ main drag’s ant-like busyness from a protected, arms-length distance is soothing. With my camera ready, I capture a stopped stretch limousine with the age and lip color of a vintage lady of the night.
After taking a selfie with Jason with the saloon’s sign directly above and behind us, I cross my arms, hang on the rail, and wait.
At the sight of a gray square-ish shortie van, I turn to ask Jason about it. In his tattooed hands, he’s holding something small. “What is that?” I ask, pointing to the street.
“Oh, that. It’s a paddy wagon. With the number of arrests, it’s pretty necessary out there.” I turn to watch it, but am curious about what’s in Jason’s hand. From the corner of my eye, I watch as he places it gently on the rail before him. It’s a 2-inch metallic container, like something you’d dab a quill in for ink in the olden days.
“What’s that?” I ask with interest.
“A close friend of mine died, and I take his ashes with me. His dad gave me one and a few of our closest friends these urns to take and spread out his ashes when we travel places. I think he likes being a part of what we’re doing. It means a lot to him.”
For the first time with Jason, I soften and feel a change towards him. There’s more to him than hardened edges. It’s subtle yet nice. He flips his phone to a horizontal orientation, frames the golden and metallic vase, and then, after putting his phone in his pocket, picks up the vase, tilts it, and shakes some of the dust into his hand. He holds it momentarily and then tosses it. We watch as it floats downward, catching the breeze.
This experience is another “Did that just happen?” moment for me—the first happening only the day before fishing with Jim and Robbie and now so abruptly again with Jason. The complexity, pain, and depth of who we are as humans leaves my mouth agape in awe. Now, if only Jason could have stayed a tad more sober, he might have had a chance of unzipping my tent later that night.
Going On 40 
2 thoughts on “Making Memories of Us (Book Part 20)”