Your Chariot Awaits

“What can I help you with?” Jake asked the young man in his bike shop using a tone that suggested anything but helpfulness. 

“I-I’m not sure. Where’s your paint?” Jake shook his head, disgusted.

“So, that’s your game. You’re one of those huffers. Well, I got news for you, son. Number one, you’ve got to be at least 18 to buy spray paint. Number two, I ain’t going to sell it to anybody who’s gonna use it to get high. It’s my prerogative. You got me?” The young man’s face shifted from confusion to horror.

“No, no. It’s for my nana.”

“What do you mean?”

“She can’t ride a bike anymore or do much of anything physical. She’s feeling really depressed, so I thought she might enjoy it more if we made it weird and colorful. She lived through the sixties, so…”

“So you thought she might like to huff some paint out of a paper bag?”

“No!” the young man said with revulsion. “She’s really into Boudicca, so my sister and I thought that…”

“This is a family business. I can’t have you using language like that.”

“Boudicca? She was an ancient British warrior queen who fought against the Roman army and took poison rather than be captured.”

“Your grandma’s depressed so you came here to get her some poison?”

“No, I don’t want to kill her. I want her to start living again. She was always so active her whole life. She was on the basketball, volleyball and track team in high school. She was an alternate for the women’s hundred-yard dash at the 1968 Olympics. She rode a bicycle from Sweden to…”

“The south of France,” Jake finished for him. “Is your grandmother Pearl Jenkins?”

“Yeah, that was her maiden name. Did you know her?”

“We were in high school together. She was a year ahead of me. Your grandma was a beautiful woman. She probably wouldn’t know me from Adam, but I sure remember her.”

“She had a fall when she was hiking in the Sierras last year. It tore up her knees bad. She can’t walk but a few steps, so my parents bought her a really nice electric scooter. When we gave it to her last weekend, she burst into tears. Not the happy kind. She always pictured herself as Boudicca riding in a war chariot, not some old lady in a scooter. So, I thought…”

“Bring the scooter by here tomorrow. Along with a picture of that Booty-gal.” The young man was so surprised, he didn’t even bother to correct him.

A week later the young man pushed Nana Pearl’s wheelchair out into her driveway. A beautiful chariot glinted in the sun, painted to look like wood, adorned with ancient celtic symbols and accented with chrome. She burst into tears once again but needed no consolation, only to ride off in defense of her kingdom.