I've seen episodes of Dallas and Dynasty on TV. That's about as close to a fancy house as I ever got. Lorin and I stood at the steps of AJ's home and gawked at the white Grecian styled columns that reached past the second floor. AJ bounded down the steps with Jean, his mother, following. It was something straight out of "Gone With the Wind." Jean was, without a doubt, the sweetest person either of us had ever met. She hugged us both and told us that AJ would lead us up to our rooms. We were to stay in the west wing of the house. Wing?

After searching through the mess in the truck, we picked out a few bags and went up a staircase that curved up, over, and around the spacious white tiled entry room. Our bedroom was as big my whole rental house. We had a bedroom, a sitting room, and a huge bathroom. No sooner than we put our bags down than AJ popped his head through the door and hollered for us to get ready. We were going into town. This is where the endless selection of clothing we had brought, would drive nearly every man on our trip insane. It was the Make-the-Man-Crazy-With-Endless-Waiting syndrome. Good thing we exposed AJ to it right off the bat. We would try on outfit after outfit, trading clothes back and forth. And if the clothing preparations weren't bad enough, there was still the putting-on-make-up session to wait through.

"Ain't you girls ready yet?"' He howled from downstairs. "Hell it's gonna be dark in that bar. No one will see you clearly anyway, besides, everyone will be drunk, dammit!"

We had already gotten a good start in that dept. So we took AJ's truck and hit Beale St. The BB King nightclub had recently opened and it was the first place we hit. We ordered up two round of drinks and got a table near the dance floor. A band made up of old black guys was playing a set of some of the smoothest blues I've ever heard.

Photo by Chuck Winans

The white haired singer wore a brown suit and softly swayed with his music. Lorin and I finished our drinks quickly. The booze goes down fast and easy when you been at it for a few hours. We got up and started to dance. The place was empty. Before we knew it, the singer took a break, got down off the stage and started dancing with us. That intoxicating music seemed to go on forever, but eventually the song ended. Our dance partner kissed us both on the hand and told us what a privilege it had been to dance with us. He then rejoined his group who all waved at us. While we were dancing, it seemed as if the world ended just beyond the dance floor. We weren't prepared to see the crowd that had gathered. AJ's eyes were big as saucers and a tall handsome guy had joined our table and was eagerly waving us over.

"That was Rufus Thomas!" the new guy exclaimed. "You were dancing with Rufus Thomas!"

AJ joined in. " I don't believe it! Don't you girls have any idea who that is?"

Lorin and I, both rock 'n' roll sluts, had no clue. We also didn't know who this new guy was who acted as if he owned the place. Well, turns out, he did own the place. His name was Tommy Peters and he gazed at Lorin like he'd never seen a woman before. The two of them spent the rest of the night staring into each other's eyes and trading life stories.

AJ told me about Rufus Thomas. Born in 1917, he was a Beale St legend. He sang the Memphis blues with songs like, "Walking the Dog," "Do the Funky Chicken" and "Push and Pull."

In the 40s, he ran his own Beale Street amateur show that attracted B.B. King, Bobby "Blue" Bland, and many other performers who went on to become famous. The '60s saw him performing for Stax Records and along with Isaac Hayes, Otis Redding and Sam and Dave, he helped develop the "Memphis Sound." We had been dancing with a legend. A whole crowd of people had been watching us. And we'd had no idea. Silly, silly alcohol! Rufus would dance away to heaven seven years later.

As we staggered from the club at 1 a.m., Lorin was slurring away about how she may fly to Orlando tomorrow. Seems Tommy Peters had a private jet. I woke up the next morning to AJ begging me to go with him to the striper's. He was getting some flamed parts pinstriped and he promised it would not take very long. Lorin gave me that perturbed, cross-eyed look of hers.

"I thought we were leaving today, but if yer running off with AJ, then I'm flying to Orlando with Tommy Peters," she snarled.

I asked her when she'd be back. She couldn't say, maybe a day or two. But the clock was ticking. It was the first week of December. I wanted to be back home in time to spend Christmas with my dad. (At the time I had no idea it would be my last holiday with him.) AJ promised we'd back in a few hours. Then he'd pack and we'd leave for Fla. (Ok, this is a bike painter talking. Hours-yeah-ok.) Lorin said she would wait. Hours later the striper was still hard at work. It was late afternoon when he finished and we headed towards home.

The sky to the west, in the direction of home, was dark and angry. It was quickly turning pitch black. Oak trees were starting to bend like willows. Cars clogged the main roads. Red taillights stretched as far as the eye could see. Harsh rain pelted the truck. Something was going on at home. It took hours to return to the AJ Ranch. Power lines and trees were scattered about everywhere. Traffic lights lay strewn across the pavement, lifeless. The ranch was dark was we pulled up at 9p.m. The power came back on an hour later.

"My god, you made it through!" Jean was relieved to see us. Lorin's reaction was another story.

" I woulda gone on the private jet to Orlando, if I knew you'd be gone all day, " the blonde tornado fumed. "But tomorrow we're leaving."

Jean, ever the sweet southern belle, put her arm around Lorin and told her that it was good thing she hadn't tried to make that flight.

"Honey, it might have crashed in all that bad weather," she cooed.

AJ was thrilled about new departure time because now he could clearcoat the parts before we left. I settled in with Jean and Lorin, listening to them tell me about the seven tornados that had hit Memphis. They'd watched tornados pass to the south of the house. The sky had immediately gone from sunny to completely black. They ran to the basement and listened to the radio description of the chaos. The Ranch was one of the few places in the Memphis area with power. We were all beat from our ordeals, so us ladies went off to bed while AJ worked in the garage.

It was around midnight when I heard the screams. What the fuck? I sat up. Lorin was sleeping peacefully beside me. Then I heard it again. I threw on a jacket and went slowly out into the hall. It was coming from the garage. AJ was standing there, spray gun in hand, in a state of total shock.

"Look at them. Go look at them and tell me it's not so bad."

I walked past the heat lamps he'd set up to combat the cold and peered at the parts. The paint had wrinkled clear down to the basecoat. AJ's perfectly pinstriped orange and yellow hot rod flames over a flawless black basecoat were history. I knew it. He knew it, but like any painter who has experienced this situation, one foolishly hopes for a quick fix. I felt like a vet holding an obviously dead puppy in front of a hopeful little boy.

"Tell me you can fix it," he pleaded. I just shook my head. The paint would have to be stripped off and completely redone.

"Well I guess I can't go to Florida with you girls now." AJ moped and stared at the floor, the heat lamp bulbs smoking in the moist air. He laid on the coats of clear too thick for such damp and cold conditions. I just turned and went back to bed. I'd been in AJ's situation before and knew just how hopeless it felt. But it was less work to start from scratch, than to try and fix the damage.

The next morning I woke up early and headed downstairs. AJ was sitting at the foot of the steps, his long hair hanging loose across his tanned back. He looked up. There were circles around his eyes. He hadn't gone to bed.

"I'm going with you to Florida,' he announced. He would change his mind 14 times during the course of the morning. When Lorin and I got back from a lunchtime bike ride, his bike was packed up and ready. We swung through town, dropping off the parts at a local bike shop. Taking I-55, we headed for the panhandle of Florida. We hoped to hit the state line before midnight.

Next week-- Unwelcome guests, real flames, and the roughest biker bar in Ft Myers. Hang on.

On to Part 3....

Back to Part 1....