This is another exercise from my Short Story class at UCLA. The assignment was to write a “how to” story in the second person POV. This is a work of fiction, and is not intended to be read as marital advice, and the persons depicted at the dealership are not real, except for that one guy:

When you married a motorcyclist, you knew this day would come. He didn’t own a bike when you were dating since most his possessions were sold after his divorce. He didn’t even mention motorcycles during the first two years. Now you realize that all those trips to Chaparral Motorsports were not casual, especially when you remember that men don’t window-shop. Instead he lets you draw the conclusion, after he shows you hundreds of pictures on his phone, that he wants a Harley. It’s Christmas Eve, and he says, “Why don’t we go down to the Harley dealership and look around?”

You get there, and your husband has to find a spot to park between all the motorcycles. The huge brick building is swarming with bikes, inside and out, like a Harley anthill. All the workers wear bright orange long sleeve shirts, their arms and necks covered in tattoos. They’re scary but friendly, offering you coffee, and asking you what you’re looking for.

You say, “We’re just looking,” but somehow when you notice the gleam in your husband’s eye you know you’re not. He looks like a four-year old standing in the middle of Toys R Us. You feel a wave of panic, but it quickly passes. Your husband and you always talk first about major purchases. Up to this point.

Of course, there are no prices listed on the motorcycles so you have to find the guy with the long beard who nods to you with a predatory smile. At first, he’s excited that you’re looking at the newest models. Then when your husband gives him a price range, he sighs and quickly leads to their selection of used ones. Rows and row of shiny chrome, bright colors, and black leather. Some of these look even better than the new ones, with extra chrome and custom seats.

Your husband wants to sit on each one, to see how he feels on it. You play along with him, sitting behind him on the bike. Everyone at the dealership seems so excited about the bikes that you start to catch a little of it. Women walk by dressed in leather jackets and chaps, and you think you’d look pretty sexy in one of those outfits. Those women appear secure and confident, the way you’d like to feel. Curiously, your husband doesn’t even look at them. His eyes are only on the bikes. You feel like you made a good decision marrying him.

Then comes the test drive. There’s no way to avoid it because just revving the engine and sitting on the bike doesn’t tell you much about the way it moves. Your husband settles on two different bikes he likes best. One has a windshield and comfortable passenger seat with a backrest. One has ape-hanger handlebars and loud pipes and a seat that looks comfy enough for a trip to the grocery store. You tell your husband that, but he ignores you. You get mad for a moment, but then you remember that he didn’t look at the biker women.

This is the first time you ride on a motorcycle, so you don’t have the right shoes. You climb up on the back of the tall Road King, carefully placing your sandaled feet on the passenger floorboards. The backrest seems a mile behind you, so you cling to your husband with all your strength. You wish you had a jacket and gloves. The beard guy is riding a small loud Sportster, and his smile tells you he enjoys the opportunity to ride during work hours. Or maybe he’s already thinking about how he’s going to spend his commission on new grips and floorboards.

No one tells a passenger what to do, so when your husband goes through his gears to get the bike up to speed, you clunk your borrowed helmet, which doesn’t really fit you and smells like greasy sweat, into the back of your husband’s helmet. After several times, you realize you can brace your feet on the floorboards to prevent this.

As you and your husband follow the dealer guy down the road, you realize that there is nothing between you and the surrounding cars. Your unprotected leg is right next to their passenger door. You can look into cars and see drivers texting and talking on their phones, eating and drinking, and basically not paying attention to you at all. You’re holding your breath, and every muscle in your body stiffens. But no one rams your bike, and after a few blocks, you begin to relax.

The wind wiggles in through the bottom of your helmet, and you finally stop holding your breath. Orange blossoms, coffee shops, and restaurants create a bouquet of fragrance, interrupted occasionally by car exhaust and moldy leaves. As your husband leads you down a tree-lined street, you have an undiminished 360-degree view of everything around you. You remember the dealer guy called cars “cages” and now you understand why.

After you take the first bike back, you take out the second one. Climbing off the bike is awkward, and you almost fall on your bottom in front of all the bikers coming into the dealership. The next bike is customed out with ghost flames on the tank and skull embellished grips and floorboards. The guy who owned it didn’t like his wife, as the passenger only has skinny pegs for her feet. You feel a little jealous when your husband approaches it with the look he usually reserves for you. On the test ride, your husband finds that the ape-hanger handle bars hurt his neck like you suspected they would. It’s always best to let your husband find these things out for himself, preferably before you buy the bike.

You arrive back at the dealership too soon. You and your husband have to give back your helmets. There is an awkward silence as the dealer guy waits for you to cave in. Your husband looks at you, and you’re surprised when you say, “Let’s get the first one!”

The dealer guy nods like he’s known this all along, and you go to his office to sign the paperwork. That’s how you end up buying your first Harley.