A Speck of Adventure

My neighbor Mark Coyle died.

It struck me as odd because he was a sturdy man. Couldn't have been more than 65. Not fit per se, but he was always clear-eyed and lucid, up-to-date on the latest in politics and technology.

Our conversations were infrequent; brief and always hovering at the surface. A morning wave. Some weather talk. Maybe a complaint or two about the asshole in the White House. But I didn't know Mark and Mark didn't know me, and it was clear that we both liked it that way.

So when my phone rang last week and the Caller ID revealed McConkey and Sons, which I assumed was spam, I let the call go to voicemail. Two minutes later, I read the transcript of the message.

"Hi, this call is for David Anzalone. My name is Laurel McConkey and I am handling the estate of Mark Coyle. There's a matter that we need to discuss. Please call me back at the number I called you from at your earliest convenience. Thank you."

My first move was to Google Mark's name to see if his death was public record yet. That would indicate this could be a scam. The search turned up nothing. But a search of "McConkey and Sons" did turn up a legitimate-looking website with a photo of three blue-eyed lads who looked like they would be McConkeys.

Though the tagline had a lot to be desired: Estate Planning and Elder Law: From bed sores to falls, we got you.

The phone number on the website matched the number that had called, so I phoned back. A receptionist named Rosa, who I pictured sitting behind a huge desk emblazoned with the name McConkey in neon lights, answered and patched me through to Laurel McConkey, who did not sound like one of the sons.

"This must be some kind of mix up," I said.

"Were you not friends with Mr. Coyle?" she asked.

"Not really. I mean there was one time he rode out East and I fed his three cats some chicken and lamb-flavored kibble and cleaned out the litter box, but that was about the extent of it."

"Hmm," she said. Letting the silence sit just long enough to make me feel guilty for what was next.

"Well, depth of your relationship with Mr. Coyle aside, the deceased has determined that you will inherit--"

Her voice trailed off. It wasn't to build suspense, she genuinely sounded confused.

"Interesting," she resumed. "Your neighbor has left you Pride and Joy, his two beloved motorcycles. We'll just need you to stop by the office to verify your identity and handle the paperwork to transfer ownership.

I was floored.

I couldn't believe that Mark left me anything, let alone something that I knew he loved so much.

He would spend hours polishing the chrome handlebars and exhaust pipes. Jockeying the hogs (is that what bikers call their bikes?) in and out of his garage depending on the weather. And disappearing for days at a time as he rode through upstate New York, seemingly on winding roads with his biker buddies.

Laurel McConkey roped me back in.

"Will some time this week work to come in for the paperwork?" she asked.

We agreed on Tuesday and disconnected.

I've never ridden a motorcycle before. In fact, I quite hate them. The loud sounds. The dangerous speeds. Heck, come to think of it, I've never even sat on one. And frankly, anytime I heard Pride and Joy revving up, I would tell Becca here comes Mr. Loud and Obnoxious.

That night, I tossed and turned. It wasn't dreams of my legs wrapped around a hunk of steel, hair blowing in the wind on the open road that kept me awake.

It was the why. Why did Mark choose me?

I replayed all of our conversations in my head.

The time he told me that the landlord keeps his rent down and lets him use the garage because he takes such great care of the place. I knew it was true, because whether he was mowing the green lawn, shoveling the white snow, or removing brown leaves from the gutters, Mark was always out doing something to keep the house in good standing.

"You take more pride in the house than a lot of folks around here," I told him.

"The banks own the houses anyhow. It's all about having respect for the space you inhabit," he said.

There was another conversation we had about an alleged break-in on the next street.

"Let them try that shit with me," he said firmly.

Never one for awkward silence, I reached for a platitude. "Some boundaries aren’t meant to be crossed."

I didn't ask if Mark had a gun. Or if he was proficient in Jiu Jitsu. I did what I always did and that was serve up a neutral response and look to keep moving on with my day.

There was a morning in late October when Mark asked if I wanted any bulbs for my bare garden beds. He was dividing his tulips, had more than enough to share.

"I kill everything I plant," I said, which wasn't exactly true. I'd just never really tried. "Best I stick to my dirt patches."

He shrugged and went back to working the soil. The following spring, his yard erupted in yellow and white and pink, while mine stayed brown.

I had never asked a single question about the motorcycles. Or taken a tulip or a tomato or swig of beer.

Worse yet, I never really showed any real interest in getting to know Mark.

I visualized myself riding Pride, then swapping to ride Joy. Watching the houses swirl by as I take the side roads to the beach as I get my sea legs. By the time I reach Ocean Avenue, I'm feeling more confident. I squeeze the throttle tighter, and the sand and waves to my right become parallel lines of beige and blue. I finally sleep but wake up tired.

The next morning, Becca laughed when I asked her how to dress for the lawyer visit.

"Do you still have those black leather chaps?" she chided.

"C'mom Bec," I said. "Cut me some slack, this whole thing is just weird."

"Fine. Can I at least give you a cool biker name? Maybe Slider? Or Drifter? Oh. Got it. Daredevil Dave! Double D for short."

The only thing Becca might love more than me is watching me in uncomfortable situations. I mean, nothing that would be harmful to me or the family. But watching me as confused as a Dallasite at a salad bar? Sign her up. And me with two motorcycles? Laughs for days. Maybe even weeks.

I combed my hair back and slipped on generic blue jeans, a black polo, and my grey New Balance dad shoes. Red socks, for just a little touch of rebel.

The McConkey office was just a 10-minute drive down Utopia Turnpike in the next town over. As me and the Kia endured what felt like the 17th traffic light, I wondered how this drive would feel on a motorcycle. Would I use the space between the left and right lane to get places faster? Maybe ignore the 30PH traffic signs? Or would I just list the bikes on eBay and put the money in the bank for a rainy day?

I pulled into the office lot, finding it empty except for two cars: An immaculate grey Infinity SUV and an old green Honda Civic coupe that had to have been 20 years old. I parked between both and stepped inside.

The office directory in the vestibule only listed a single office: McConkey - Suite 120. The other side of the glass doors led to a small lobby that revealed a large green plant and wooden double doors with gold lettering.

Not knowing what to expect on the other side, I took a deep breath and grabbed the door handle.

There was no McConkey written on the reception desk, just a woman about my age who jumped when I entered.

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

She stared at me blankly for a moment, her pale blue eyes locked on mine. And then she laughed so hard she almost cried.

"You're the one with the appointment," she exclaimed. "Assuming you are David Anzalone?"

"Live and in the flesh, ready to claim my crotch rockets."

I don't know what made me say something so stupid.

But this time, the lady laughed so hard she had to sit. Pressing a Kleenex into her eyes, I noticed how perfect her teeth were. Not in a fake white veneer kind of way, just good old fashioned nice teeth. And pretty eyes, the kind that surrounding crows feet somehow amplify.

She finally mustered the strength to stand and came around the desk to shake my hand.

"Laurel McConkey," she said. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," I said.

She motioned me to sit at a small wooden table that was loaded with manila envelopes.

"Now," Laurel said, pulling a thick folder from the stack. "I know this might seem overwhelming, but we'll take it step by step."

"Much appreciated," I said.

"Now, you had said on the phone that you barely knew Mark?"

"Yeah. We're just--

I caught my tensing.

"We were just neighbors. No real relationship," I said.

"You are much younger than I expected," she said. "I mean, don't take this the wrong way, but you sounded pretty old and grumpy on the phone."

Her candor threw me for a loop.

"I dunno. Just nervous, I guess. I've never been left anything from a dead person before."

"Consider yourself lucky. Because you are not that young to not have known a few folks who have passed."

"Did you see that old green Civic out there?" she asked. "First thing I ever inherited. My uncle's. Everyone told me to sell it and buy something more professional, but..." She shrugged. "Sometimes the best gifts come with a little character."

She began walking me through the transfer paperwork, and I found myself oddly at ease. Maybe it was her ability to translate the dense paragraphs into human terms.

At one point, I leaned in and asked the question that had been burning in my mind.

"Any idea why Mark left these to me?"

"I'll be honest," she said. "I never met the man. He did everything virtually except for the notarization."

"I just find it so strange," I said.

"Can I be direct with you, Mr. Anzalone?" Laurel asked.

"Please," I replied.

She looked out the window and shifted her reading glasses on top of her head.

"You know, most people who sit in that chair are dealing with heavy things - loss, grief, tough decisions. They come here looking for closure. It's the end stages. But you? You're in a rare position, Mr. Anzalone. No debts to settle, no obligations to fulfill. Just possibility. Yet, I can see you searching these papers like they hold some secret message from Mark."

She walked back in my direction, smiled, and put a hand on my shoulder.

"Sometimes a gift is just a gift. And the only answer worth finding is what you're going to do with it."

And with that, she reached into her pocket and placed two sets of keys on the table.

I picked them up, surprised at how dainty the entry point to something so gruff could feel.

These weren't just keys to motorcycles. They were keys to something else entirely.

"Thank you," I said. "Looks like I have some figuring out to do."

"Yeah," Laurel said. "For starters, how the hell are you getting these things home?"