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THE NIGHT OF THE DIMP
A short story by John Hurley
Reprinted without permission from Cycle Guide january 1974
If you said something to me like. "Your motorcycle stinks,"
I guess I couldn't argue with you very much. At least not
after what happened the other night. It was crazy.
This friend of my sister came from out of town to our house
to visit. She's what yoU call a dimp, I guess. You know
what a dimp is. It's the other girl in the pair commonly
referred to as "the pretty one and the dimp." Pretty ones
always go around with dimps, because it makes them look even
prettier. And no female can go to the bathroom alone, so
the dimp and the pretty one help each other that way too.
My sister's a neat chick, and this girl is a dimp.
Now the thing about dimps is that they're usually not a
total loss. They have good points sometimes. Sometimes
they have great personalities. Sometimes they're smart.
Sometimes they're rich. This particular dimp happened to
have a terrific body. Really put together. But her face
was a clock-stopper, the kind that guys who are really
prepared carry a grocery bag in their back pocket for.
imagine Raquel Welch's body with Keenan Wynn's head on it
and you've just about got the picture.
We picked her up at the airport and by the time we got home
it was almost our normal dinnertime. My mother can't stand
that; she thinks it makes her look bad to have dinner off
schedule. She acts like she should have been basting a pot
roast in the back of the car on the way home. So in order
not to spoil her record of always being on time, we decided
to call out for Chinese food, and I was elected to go pick
it up.
I thought my bike would be faster so I decided to take it.
That way the dimp couldn't go along like she wanted to.
Dimps like to go out for Chinese food.
So I got out the old Beezer and she watched at the kitchen
door as I kicked it over. And over. And over. An old
Beezer is a lot like a dimp-they both need a lot of
attention.
"Does it go fast?" she asked, shouting so she could be heard
over the lumpy idle.
"Very fast," I said.
"Oh, I love motorbikes," she said. "Maybe you could take me
for a ride or something."
That was what I was trying to avoid, but on second thought,
the idea didn't seem half bad. If she were behind me, I
wouldn't have to look at her. But I could still feel her.
"Maybe," I said. "Later on tonight."
"Oh goody," she giggled.
I gunned the Beezer and sped away. About thirty feet away.
I forgot to turn on the gas, and the Beezer stalled dead.
Twelve kicks later I was on my way again. I looked over my
shoulder and saw the dimp standing at the driveway waving
goodbye. Then I looked ahead again, just in time to ride
through this guy's front lawn. He was waving at me too.
With his garden hose.
The dimp saw it all, which was quite embarrassing. Even if
she did have a weird face, she was a girl, and I could see
that I hadn't impressed her much. But maybe I had earned
her sympathy.
I got the chop suey and egg foo yung, but then I discovered
that I had left the bungee cords in the garage and had no
way to hold the packages on the bike. So I carried the bag
of Chinese food on the tank in front of me. By balancing on
my toes on the pegs, my thighs were higher than the tank,
and I could cradle the food. Except with every gear change
my left leg dropped, and the bag kept listing to port. Chop
suey juice leaked out of a carton and made the bag soggy. I
think it was shift to fourth that broke the bottom of the
soggy bag. By the time I got home, goop had run down the
tank, on the seat, on my Levi's and finally onto the fins
and pipes of the bike. I stopped a block from home and
pushed the rest of the way so no one would hear me.
I got the tank and seat wiped off and into the kitchen
through the back door before anyone saw me. My loony aunt,
who has come to expect anything from her "strange nephew,"
as she puts it, was making the tea when I came in. She
looked at my Levi's and her eyes said it all.
I got changed and we all ate dinner. It was pretty good,
except for the dry chop suey and the milk I dribbled down my
chin (I had been looking over the top of my glass at the
dimp). It ran all the way down my leg into my shoe. But it
wasn't really very much; you couldn't hear the squish unless
you knew what to listen for. and nobody was listening for
it.
It was time for our ride. Me and the dimp. It was cool,
except for one problem : what would I do if one of the guys
saw. her? I wasn't one of those guys who is always
prepared ; the only grocery bag in the house was a soggy
one.
Then it dawned on me. As we walked out to the bike, I said
to her, "It's a state law that passengers have to wear
helmets." And I handed her my Bell Star. With the tinted
visor. I showed her how to put it on, resisting the
temptation to put the window in the back. It was a real
improvement.
I started the bike.
"Whew!." said the dimp. "What's that smell.?"
Have you ever smelled baked-on chop suey juice coming from
hot exhaust pipes? Probably not; you'd know if you had. I
looked down at this tough brown coat all over the fins and
pipes, like Teflon or something. Maybe I had discovered a
revolutionary product: New! "Heat Resistant! CSJ (Chop
Suey Juice) Engine Paint!"
"You'll never notice the smell once we get going," I said,
almost gagging.
Seventeen kicks later we zipped away from the curb. Well,
that's not quite true, since you don't exactly zip anywhere
from a standstill in third gear. But superior torque
prevailed, and away we lugged.
For the most part, we had a very nice ride that night.
Sure, I could feel the milk curdling in my shoe, and if we
slowed up, the CSJ smell was there, but it was still nice.
Those curves were very soft and warm, just as I'd thought.
I even saw a couple of the guys as we went past the pizza
parlor. They looked at me and the foxy chick on the back
and were impressed. I could tell by their tongues. Thank
God for the Bell Star.
Then a rotten thing happened to spoil whatever magic the
moment might have held. We were leaned over in a nice
lefthand sweeper when I saw these funny round things in an
orderly row on the road. Since we were on a country road
with ranches nearby, I quickly realized what I was up
against. But not quickly enough. I tried weaving in and
out between them, but like a magnet, the front wheel of the
Beezer was drawn toward one. A big one. Splursh !
Shwleep! There we were, kind of sliding along, first
sideways one way, then sideways the other, arms and legs
flying, flinging the stuff all around and all over the
Beezer and everywhere. We didn't go down, but we did have
to stop to wipe off the headlight. When the wind stopped,
we could smell the chop suey juice as it mingled in the
night air with the ripe aroma from the latest misfortune. I
decided enough was enough.
"Let's head back, okay?." I said.
"Gluarg," seemed to be the closest translation of the dimp's
reply, Altered through the spattered faceplate of the Bell.
I took it to mean "You're bloody right, let's head back," so
we made for home by the most direct route, never slowing
enough to let the wind catch up with us.
As we turned the corner of my block, I saw Hanny waiting on
the porch. Hanny is short for Hannibal, our faithful and
mostly-bewildered family mutt. He has terrific hearing.
Mom says he hears the bike long before she does, and
scratches on the screen door to be let out to greet me.
Usually he'll wait until I'm close and then run down to the
curb and waggle a greeting.
Hanny started down from the porch like always. he cool
night breeze fanned across us as we pulled up to the curb.
Hanny was downwind. He stopped dead at the bottom of the
porch steps. He has a terrific sense of smell, too.
"Hi," boy I said.
With a kind of nervous caution he shimmied toward us. Then
the wind carried our aroma to him again. He stopped, and I
swear that dog wrinkled his nose! He jumped back, all four
legs in the air at the same time, and then he high-tailed it
for the backyard. I don't think Hanny will ever go near the
Beezer again.
Well, that's what happened the other night. As I said, it
was crazy. It would have been a total bummer, except later
that night (after a bath), the dimp proved to be not so
dimpy after all, if you know what I mean.
A short story by John Hurley
Reprinted without permission from Cycle Guide january 1974
If you said something to me like. "Your motorcycle stinks,"
I guess I couldn't argue with you very much. At least not
after what happened the other night. It was crazy.
This friend of my sister came from out of town to our house
to visit. She's what yoU call a dimp, I guess. You know
what a dimp is. It's the other girl in the pair commonly
referred to as "the pretty one and the dimp." Pretty ones
always go around with dimps, because it makes them look even
prettier. And no female can go to the bathroom alone, so
the dimp and the pretty one help each other that way too.
My sister's a neat chick, and this girl is a dimp.
Now the thing about dimps is that they're usually not a
total loss. They have good points sometimes. Sometimes
they have great personalities. Sometimes they're smart.
Sometimes they're rich. This particular dimp happened to
have a terrific body. Really put together. But her face
was a clock-stopper, the kind that guys who are really
prepared carry a grocery bag in their back pocket for.
imagine Raquel Welch's body with Keenan Wynn's head on it
and you've just about got the picture.
We picked her up at the airport and by the time we got home
it was almost our normal dinnertime. My mother can't stand
that; she thinks it makes her look bad to have dinner off
schedule. She acts like she should have been basting a pot
roast in the back of the car on the way home. So in order
not to spoil her record of always being on time, we decided
to call out for Chinese food, and I was elected to go pick
it up.
I thought my bike would be faster so I decided to take it.
That way the dimp couldn't go along like she wanted to.
Dimps like to go out for Chinese food.
So I got out the old Beezer and she watched at the kitchen
door as I kicked it over. And over. And over. An old
Beezer is a lot like a dimp-they both need a lot of
attention.
"Does it go fast?" she asked, shouting so she could be heard
over the lumpy idle.
"Very fast," I said.
"Oh, I love motorbikes," she said. "Maybe you could take me
for a ride or something."
That was what I was trying to avoid, but on second thought,
the idea didn't seem half bad. If she were behind me, I
wouldn't have to look at her. But I could still feel her.
"Maybe," I said. "Later on tonight."
"Oh goody," she giggled.
I gunned the Beezer and sped away. About thirty feet away.
I forgot to turn on the gas, and the Beezer stalled dead.
Twelve kicks later I was on my way again. I looked over my
shoulder and saw the dimp standing at the driveway waving
goodbye. Then I looked ahead again, just in time to ride
through this guy's front lawn. He was waving at me too.
With his garden hose.
The dimp saw it all, which was quite embarrassing. Even if
she did have a weird face, she was a girl, and I could see
that I hadn't impressed her much. But maybe I had earned
her sympathy.
I got the chop suey and egg foo yung, but then I discovered
that I had left the bungee cords in the garage and had no
way to hold the packages on the bike. So I carried the bag
of Chinese food on the tank in front of me. By balancing on
my toes on the pegs, my thighs were higher than the tank,
and I could cradle the food. Except with every gear change
my left leg dropped, and the bag kept listing to port. Chop
suey juice leaked out of a carton and made the bag soggy. I
think it was shift to fourth that broke the bottom of the
soggy bag. By the time I got home, goop had run down the
tank, on the seat, on my Levi's and finally onto the fins
and pipes of the bike. I stopped a block from home and
pushed the rest of the way so no one would hear me.
I got the tank and seat wiped off and into the kitchen
through the back door before anyone saw me. My loony aunt,
who has come to expect anything from her "strange nephew,"
as she puts it, was making the tea when I came in. She
looked at my Levi's and her eyes said it all.
I got changed and we all ate dinner. It was pretty good,
except for the dry chop suey and the milk I dribbled down my
chin (I had been looking over the top of my glass at the
dimp). It ran all the way down my leg into my shoe. But it
wasn't really very much; you couldn't hear the squish unless
you knew what to listen for. and nobody was listening for
it.
It was time for our ride. Me and the dimp. It was cool,
except for one problem : what would I do if one of the guys
saw. her? I wasn't one of those guys who is always
prepared ; the only grocery bag in the house was a soggy
one.
Then it dawned on me. As we walked out to the bike, I said
to her, "It's a state law that passengers have to wear
helmets." And I handed her my Bell Star. With the tinted
visor. I showed her how to put it on, resisting the
temptation to put the window in the back. It was a real
improvement.
I started the bike.
"Whew!." said the dimp. "What's that smell.?"
Have you ever smelled baked-on chop suey juice coming from
hot exhaust pipes? Probably not; you'd know if you had. I
looked down at this tough brown coat all over the fins and
pipes, like Teflon or something. Maybe I had discovered a
revolutionary product: New! "Heat Resistant! CSJ (Chop
Suey Juice) Engine Paint!"
"You'll never notice the smell once we get going," I said,
almost gagging.
Seventeen kicks later we zipped away from the curb. Well,
that's not quite true, since you don't exactly zip anywhere
from a standstill in third gear. But superior torque
prevailed, and away we lugged.
For the most part, we had a very nice ride that night.
Sure, I could feel the milk curdling in my shoe, and if we
slowed up, the CSJ smell was there, but it was still nice.
Those curves were very soft and warm, just as I'd thought.
I even saw a couple of the guys as we went past the pizza
parlor. They looked at me and the foxy chick on the back
and were impressed. I could tell by their tongues. Thank
God for the Bell Star.
Then a rotten thing happened to spoil whatever magic the
moment might have held. We were leaned over in a nice
lefthand sweeper when I saw these funny round things in an
orderly row on the road. Since we were on a country road
with ranches nearby, I quickly realized what I was up
against. But not quickly enough. I tried weaving in and
out between them, but like a magnet, the front wheel of the
Beezer was drawn toward one. A big one. Splursh !
Shwleep! There we were, kind of sliding along, first
sideways one way, then sideways the other, arms and legs
flying, flinging the stuff all around and all over the
Beezer and everywhere. We didn't go down, but we did have
to stop to wipe off the headlight. When the wind stopped,
we could smell the chop suey juice as it mingled in the
night air with the ripe aroma from the latest misfortune. I
decided enough was enough.
"Let's head back, okay?." I said.
"Gluarg," seemed to be the closest translation of the dimp's
reply, Altered through the spattered faceplate of the Bell.
I took it to mean "You're bloody right, let's head back," so
we made for home by the most direct route, never slowing
enough to let the wind catch up with us.
As we turned the corner of my block, I saw Hanny waiting on
the porch. Hanny is short for Hannibal, our faithful and
mostly-bewildered family mutt. He has terrific hearing.
Mom says he hears the bike long before she does, and
scratches on the screen door to be let out to greet me.
Usually he'll wait until I'm close and then run down to the
curb and waggle a greeting.
Hanny started down from the porch like always. he cool
night breeze fanned across us as we pulled up to the curb.
Hanny was downwind. He stopped dead at the bottom of the
porch steps. He has a terrific sense of smell, too.
"Hi," boy I said.
With a kind of nervous caution he shimmied toward us. Then
the wind carried our aroma to him again. He stopped, and I
swear that dog wrinkled his nose! He jumped back, all four
legs in the air at the same time, and then he high-tailed it
for the backyard. I don't think Hanny will ever go near the
Beezer again.
Well, that's what happened the other night. As I said, it
was crazy. It would have been a total bummer, except later
that night (after a bath), the dimp proved to be not so
dimpy after all, if you know what I mean.