I asked: "Any a you girls like to go for a ride, even though it's really late?" "Sure," Veronica replied following my not so off-the-cuff query.
Another girl shot Veronica a look that was meant to instill caution, but instead the look seemed to increase Veronica's intentions on setting her pretty, pixyish, pale, petite self perfectly into the hand-sewn red-leather flamed passenger portion of my hog's saddle. (Harley Davidson motorbikes and New Car Smell cologne are nearly 100 percent effective when being used as bait to attract Vermont girls. That's no joke.)
On a steamy warm August night several years before the late-night motorcycle ride, I sat and watched Veronica change from a delicate summer dress into a pair of comfy pajamas. She was on stage playing the lead in the local theater's end of summer musical-the kind you go and see your kid, or postmaster, or preacher's wife, strut flamboyantly about the stage in ill fitting costumes, overplaying the very thought of their character's motivation.
Veronica sang as she changed; we all watched as we all blushed a shade of bright red that is normally reserved for fire trucks, autumn apples, and sultry summer sunsets.
Normally, town hall musicals are pure as sap from the core of a healthy rock maple tree, but because of Veronica's changing scene (after removing her second sock she gently flicked at a piece of lint that had clung to the soft under part of her big toe)-well let me put it this way, I've not watched a more sexy, tantalizingly effective performance in a live show since. I've seen all varieties of live shows. The scene was so outrageously seductive that halfway through I took out a buck and stuffed it into the knee-high of an old grandma I was sitting next to, who, to my surprise, promptly left her seat and returned not a moment later reeking of tobacco smoke and cheap perfume.