Mr. Hot Pants

This is all true. It was Gatlinbug in mid-July, and I’d just hit town, and my throat was, well, dry. I was eager for some semblance of civilization, a cold beer, and a good steak. Maybe I could find me an indecent girl in a rowdy bar to take me home for a little drunken loving, and more importantly, a warm bed. After sleeping on the ground for three weeks, and riding the motorcycle for countless miles my back was crying. Though with how I surely smelled, I’d probably still be sleeping on the ground tonight regardless. But seeing that Walgreens and a Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. gave me a weird sense of comfort anyway.

I had just expertly navigated the Kawasaki Vulcan 1500 Classic through a sudden rainstorm as I was coming down on route 441, and leaving the Great Smokey mountains. My clothes were soaking wet, but I had gotten used to that after being on the road for however many miles it had been since New Orleans. I wanted a stiff drink to celebrate, but first I had to find an open camp site, and set up for the night. I passed the Ripley’s BELIEVE IT OR NOT on the right, and the Ripley’s MARVELOUS MIRROR MAZE on the left. After passing MARGARITAVILLE, I decided maybe I would just turn around and head back into the hills. I didn’t need that much civilization.

This reminded me of the time I was haphazardly researching a trip to Italy, and had googled Florence metro. On the map, mere blocks from the train station, was a ROSS DRESS FOR LESS, a TACO KING and a fucking CHUCK E. CHEESE!! To say I was shocked and confused, and incredibly let down would be the exact right words to use. What un-exotic, bullshittery was this?! Only after some bitter mumbling did I realize I was looking at a street map of Florence, California. A section of southern Los Angeles not far from my home. I mean I’m not sure what I expected to find in Gatlinburg TN as I adhere to a very strict habit of doing as little planning as possible when I hit the road. Partly for the sense of adventure, and mainly because I just don’t have the patience. So I have decided early on that knowing as little as possible about where I’m headed is much more romantic, and lends itself to stories that only come from improvisation. Work harder, not smarter I’ve always said.

But damn if this wasn’t the Disney-fuck-land version of what I imagined Gatlinburg was like when Cash sang that song. Or at least what he imagined it was like when he sang it. At some point. Right?? But here I am, and it’s been a long trip, and I’m road weary, and I’m hankering for a steak. So I pull into the North Gatlinburg Park campgrounds, pay the nightly fee, find my camp site and begun unloading the bike. Not much to it really: sleeping bag and mat, lantern, axe, tent, clothes, bug spray, a pot, a pan, pocket sized utensils, cans of beans, and pouches of beef jerky. One quick note about the tent: I had wondered why it was so cheap at the store, and I found out whilst setting up for my first night on the trip. Seemed awfully small once all popped up. So I re-read the carrying case. For two small children. So for the entire trip I had been sleeping with my feet out in the elements. Rain or shine. But the apple pie moonshine I picked up somewhere made it possible to get a good night's sleep no matter the conditions.

I make quick work of the set-up, find the showers, get out of my wet clothes, and put on some mildly drier ones. They stink a bit, but they’re cleanish. Everything is pretty stiff now. Clothes and bones. I place my belongings in the tent, zip it up, and hop on the bike to head back into the Las Vegas version of the ol’ west. I stop for gas, and ask the attendant if he knows of a good place I can get a steak. He says surely, and gives me directions to some fancy place on top of a hill. I follow the winding road up and up until it dead ends into a parking lot for the Cherokee Grill and Steakhouse. With its faux rustic entrance, like one of those cartoonish log cabins at Disneyland, the theme of the town continues. But like I’ve said, hankering.

I walk into the restaurant's front door, and find the hostess stand empty. I look around at the open seating area, and there’s not a soul in sight. Every table empty, and definitely not the hustle and bustle of an open restaurant at dinner time. When it looks like my hankering will go un-hankered a head pops out from behind a wall and the heads voice says, “Can I help you?”

“Well I was hoping to get a steak,” I say purposely pathetically.

“Oh, we’re closed,” he says.

So I nod my defeated head and turn to leave. I have a high penchant for optimism and rolling with the punches. Partly cause it’s my nature, but mostly because I’m just to lazy to fight against the stream most times and life is too short to stress out about steaks.

“But we’re all back here having beers if you wanna beer?” says the head's voice.

I quickly turn back around with a smile and say, “That’ll do sir!”

The head's voice is Matt and he’s one of the waiters here at the Cherokee Grill and Steakhouse. Behind the wall is a little bar area where all the restaurant employees gather after work for their post-shift drinks. Waiters, cooks, bartenders, a hostess or two. I don’t really catch everyone's title or name, because, well, it doesn’t fucking matter. We were all strangers 10 minutes ago, and we will be strangers again in another few hours. What matters are not details of titles, but the cold refreshing beer on my cracked lips, and the ease in which these strangers have welcomed me into their post-work ritual. They ask me what brings me there, and I say besides my daydreams of steak specifically, I’m on a road trip. I left my home in New Orleans a few weeks back with some clothes and a child’s tent, and I’ve been exploring America. I tell them of my ride through Mississippi, and about the time I did a play in a Biloxi casino there several years back. “The Best little Whorehouse in Texas.” And how one night I acted blind while playing the blackjack tables there. And I tell them about some discomfort I felt at a bar outside Spanish Fort, Alabama, and how the heads turned when I walked in, and the whispering started. Only made it through half my beer. I tell them about this beautiful girl I met in Destin, Florida, and how we made love for a few days in our beach bungalow until we got into a drunken fight, and she left for the airport at three in the morning. I tell them about the ride north up through Georgia, and stopping in Charleston, South Carolina to go fishing with my nieces. And how I surprised my father who was slowly killing himself with booze, and was not expecting company nor happy about it. And then I tell them of going up into the Appalachian mountains and the beauty that surrounded me, and how I sometimes think of living in a cabin, and learning how to build furniture.

About then a super friendly fella named something or other said, “Hey! You were in that show!”

And I agreed and he thought that was pretty cool, and everyone else seemed to agree that was cool, and so I took pictures with all the waiters and cooks and a hostess or two. After that, and several beers in, an older man, about 70, with tiny tufts of grey hair, like little patches of white mold growing from his head, spoke up from the back corner table where he had been nursing a beer.

“You still hungry?”

He was looking right at me, so I said “Yes.”

“Well what you hungry for?” he asked.

“Well I’d been really hankering for a steak,” I replied.

The older moldy man stood up and yelled to another younger man still in his white chef's jacket.

“Jimmy, fire the grill back up.”

And he looked back to me. “This is my restaurant. Baked potato on the side?” said the man about to curb my hankering. Let’s go ahead and call him Hank. Old, mossy-headed Hank.

“Please.” I said. And off Hank went with Jimmy to cook me a steak.

Before I get back to the rest of the story, and how I ended up with Mr. Hot Pants let me just take a moment to tell you how damn delicious that steak was. It was everything I had been dreaming about. No fancy sauces, just a little seasoning, and the perfect medium rare. I soaked up all the remaining steak juices with the potato, and I was one damned happy camper, man. I could go back to living off pork n’ beans and beef jerky for the rest of the trip back down to New Orleans just fine.

Now, while Jimmy was off grilling up my steak, the super friendly fella was getting more and more friendly. I’m not much of a complainer as nobody likes that guy and I’m nothing if not a people pleaser, but I was aching a bit from being on the road and sleeping on the ground for weeks. My lower back especially was really getting stiff on me. Well Mr. Friendly guy knows an opening when he sees one, when and took his shot.

“I’m a masseuse,” he says, “I got a table and I could work that out for ya.”

I’m sure you could buddy, I said in my head.

Then “I’m sure you could buddy,” I said out loud with a sly grin.

I’ve never been much bothered by a little attention from either sex, I’m easy that way. I figure it’s simply all my archaic DNA that makes me this very boring, run-a-the mill hetero bro. Sometimes I imagine it’s only the evolved human that can flow back and forth between genders-fluidly, and maybe I’m an old model that will eventually fade away like vestigial tails and travel agents. I just know the gay guys got the better bars anyway.

The bartender’s closing us down, and some of the guys are heading to another bar in town, some dirty biker bar with “pretty gross babes, but it’s cheap and open.” I politely decline as I had previously promised my mother I would be careful on the bike, and so I try where I can. I say goodbye to all the soon-to-again-be-strangers, and a special thank you to the old Mr. Hank.

Now I’m making my way to the bike, and Mr. Friendly guy approaches with an open smile and says, “Offers open if ya still want a good back massage, and I might even have a comfy bed for ya.”

I bet you do I once again said to myself. But I could tell Mr. Friendly was rather harmless if not full of piss and vim. And so what he wanted some company, and wanted to put his hands on my body? Sometimes you take what you can get. And my back was really in bad shape, and at this point a massage from a one-handed leper sounded good. And possibly sleeping on something comfier than the hard ground... This seemed like a mutually beneficial arrangement, and after a few beers I’m known not only for my adventurousness, but also my curiously misguided trust in strangers, and my total disregard for personal safety and common sense. It’s all about the story after all.

So here I am, riding my Vulcan up a winding narrow road, into some unfamiliar dark hills, following the tail lights of a strange gay man to his little cabin in the woods so that he can put his hands on me. This should be something. I remind myself he seems harmless, I can take him easily, and try not to imagine that he will have a gun drawn when I arrive, force me to put on furry handcuffs and a leather outfit with mouth zipper and show me to a little wooden box in the basement where I will be chained for the next three years until I die. This is all fine.

I pull up to this squat, reddish brown, single-story cabin, park the bike and Mr. Friendly escorts me inside. The place is cozy in a disheveled, lived-in kinda way. And there in the center of the living room like a present from Santa stands a legit masseuse table. It’s actually taking up most of the space, and I gather this is how homeboy pulls most of his action. His pièce de résistance of moves as it were. “Oh poor weary traveler, come to my quaint cabin and let me work you out” or something. He pulls two beers from the fridge, and we head out back. He cracks the beers with the side of an axe, and hands me one. I try not to overthink the axe as we sit around a fire he has expertly erected, and we chat about things like why the stars seem so still, and if/when Madonna will have a comeback album. He says if you see a bear, you don’t play dead, you make loud noises, and if you see a mountain lion you don’t worry about it cause you’re already dead.

I think at some point I made a general comment in an English accent like “Right then, about that massage mate?” I have a weird habit of changing accents when I feel mildly uncomfortable. Like “Oui monsieur, I have zee registaćion just in zee glove box.” or “Sí Doctor Vinkas, el stool es muy soft todayo.” Back inside, I simply take my shirt off and lie face down on his masseuse table. I don’t think about wiping it down first because hey, germs are good for you, and let’s get this show on the road already.

As I’m situating my head into the little head hole, I hear the words that are now forever seared into my brain.

“Would you mind if I put on my hot pants?”

Now, one: I’m not totally sure what that means, but it definitely conjures up a certain vision. And two: in my haste to be cordial and bypass any further awkwardness I simply say, “Sure bro, knock yourself out.” When in Rome, and whatnot.

There’s some rustling about, which my imagination too vividly assumes is the ceremonial hot pants adorning of his balls. And then without further ado I’m being straddled by a pair of hairy legs. Yeah he just climbs up on top like he’s about to ride a horse except the saddle is literally my man ass. Very glad I kept my pants on at this point.

What proceeds from here, and then for the next 45 seconds is quite literally the absolute worst massage anyone has attempted this side of the Mississippi in the last 100 years. If not since massages were first invented all together. In the world. I mean, did he watch the YouTube tutorials upside down?? In his hot pants, I presume. There’s usually some kind of lubricant involved, but I’m definitely not bringing that up at this juncture. Also, someone should tell him it’s the muscles you massage, and not the bones. That someone will not be me however.

In a slightly southern accent I give a pretty convincing, “Ohhhh buddy, yeah that’s it right ‘dere, I think you done got me situated pardner,” as I begin to maneuver out from under him.

I add an “I sure do ‘ppreciate ya,” just in case as I quickly throw on my shirt, and get a glimpse of one of the most pathetic looking sights in my recent memory.

Sweet Mr. Friendly, on the massage table, on his knees, shoulders slumped forward, an earnest “was it okay for you?” look on his face, wearing nothing but a pair of tiny, tight, purple and green, glittery spandex shorts. Hot pants.

I assure him that it was exactly what I needed, and that my back feels all kinds of brand new, and boy those are some colorful shorts ya got.

“Where’d you pick up something like that?” I ask.

“Oh I just order them online,” he says.

And I feel that’s an adequate amount of time on the subject.

The rest of the evening is pleasant and passes uneventfully. A few more beers, and I finally crash out on the couch, which turns out to be mightily more comfortable than the ground. Go figure. In the morning Mr. Hot Pants has already left. For work, I assume, although I’m not even sure what day it is. He had said to lock the door when I leave, and that’s what I do. I ride back to my camp, pack up, and hit the road. I’ll stop for breakfast and coffee later on, sometimes I just like to get going, and I’m currently in the mood to just get.

The ride back to New Orleans goes smoothly and safely. You’re welcome, mom. I work my way over to the 75, and I get through Chattanooga pretty quick, and then on to the 59 passing Birmingham, Tuscaloosa and finally winding down into the Crescent City. Stopping all along the way. Getting lost in the small towns with all the churches. Exploring the MAIN street shops, shooting bb guns in the KOA campgrounds with the kids, and chatting about which way the storm was going with the out of work laborers eating hot boiled peanuts. You’d think with the majority of the country's churches, and all the praying that goes on around there that GOD would have given them something better to do than sit around waiting on the Rapture.

About a month after my trip I got a call from my father. He sounded much better than when I surprised him in Charleston. I think I had embarrassed him enough to not kill himself yet. Told me he cut the Canadian whisky out, and has only been drinking beer after his dinner at five. Good, I tell him. He also asks me if I’ve been to Gatlinburg, Tennessee lately. I tell him I have.

“Did you meet a bunch of people at a restaurant there?”

After a moment I remember that I had indeed met some people at a restaurant and ask him how he knew that.

“Well there’s a whole article about it in the Gatlinburg Gazette,” And that’s surprising.

So after a quick Google search, I find it. Front page! “NICK GOMEZ ROLLS INTO TOWN.” The article tells of how famous actor Nick Gomez rode down from the mountain, and broke bread with the locals. Sharing stories and taking pictures with anyone who asked. It’s all very flattering and kind and I’m rather taken aback by the whole unexpected thing. And just under the title, the author of the piece, the man who was there for all of it, and just happened to be a journalist for the Gazette?? Why Mr. Hot Pants himself!

Understandably he left out whole massage ordeal, but he did mention that I owed him an interview. Well if I’m ever back in that neck of the woods, good sir, I certainly wouldn’t mind obliging you that interview. Maybe over some beers by a well erected fire. Sans spandex.

By Nick Gomez