His profile picture showed a broad man with a gray beard standing beside a large black touring motorcycle. "Is the redo open to visitors?" I replied, "Sure, it's a fundraiser." 10 minutes later, he messaged me privately. Ray went by Bear.
He helped organize charity rides for a local motorcycle group. They were already planning a ride the following Saturday. He asked if they could make my place the last stop, eat, and donate. That sounded fine. Then I asked the obvious question, "How many?"
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. "Probably around "Fifty." I read it twice. Then looked out my kitchen window at my very normal suburban lawn. I called him.
"This Jack?" "Yeah." Bear?" "That's me." His voice was much calmer than I expected.
"I want to make sure I understand what you mean by "Fifty." "Usually somewhere between 45 and 55." That did not make the number smaller. He laughed. "We don't need to park at your house.
We're not trying to turn your street into a rally." That helped. Then he said something more important. "We heard what happened to the fundraiser. That's why people want to come."
"I don't want 50 guys showing up to scare my neighbor." There was a pause. "Neither do I." Good answer. "We're coming for the rescue squad," he said.
"We eat, we donate, we clean up after ourselves. If somebody wants drama, they can provide their own." I liked him immediately. "Then you're welcome." "Good."
One problem." "Parking." "Parking." "We'll figure it out." Then Bear asked what I plan to cook.
"Ribs again for 50 riders." I looked at my coffee. "I'm starting to realize I may need a larger animal." Bear laughed. "That part I can help with."
By Sunday afternoon, my small redo had become a pig roast. Pete Alvarez, the local butcher who'd commented on the post, had access to a portable black steel pig roaster. He offered it free. Then somebody covered half the hog. Another person covered the rest.
The bakery confirmed rolls. Marcus volunteered drinks. Linda announced she was making potato salad again. I asked how much. "Enough."
That wasn't a measurement with Linda. It was a warning. Frank came over while I was measuring the lawn. He looked at my notebook. "You building an addition?"
"Trying to fit a pig roast out here." He nodded as if those were basically the same project. "How many people?" "No idea." "That sounds organized."
"Thank you." "You're welcome." I pointed around the lawn. Serving tables here. Donation station by the driveway.
Roster farther back. Frank looked toward the street. "Parking." Bear says they'll stage somewhere else. "Who's Bear?"
"Guy bringing the motorcycles." "How many?" "Fifty." Frank stared at me. Then his face changed.
Not concerned. Joy. Pure irresponsible joy. "What kind?" "I didn't ask."
"You didn't ask?" They're coming to eat. Frank. "I'm not buying one." He looked offended.
You should know what's entering the neighborhood. They're not parking here. "Even worse. Now I got to walk." Linda's voice came from behind him.