"I know." We'll still donate. "I know." That should have made me feel better. It didn't.
I'll call you back. I drove home. Frank was kneeling beside an old push mower in his driveway. He looked up. You looked cheerful.
Parking fell through for the bikes. "Yeah." "Why?" Guess. Blue blazer.
Blue blazer. He wiped his hands on a rag. How much room do 50 motorcycles need? I looked at him. "Enough."
That's not a number. Maybe 3,000 square feet if they're organized. More would be better. Frank thought for a second. You remember my old shop?
Of course I did. Frank had run a repair garage for 37 years on a property near the back edge of the neighborhood. He'd retired, sold most of the equipment and kept the property because selling real estate required paperwork, and Frank objected to paperwork on moral grounds. Beside the workshop was a large flat gravel lot. I'd driven past it hundreds of times.
I stared at him. "No." "What?" You've had that lot this entire time? Yep.
And you've listened to me complain about parking all week. "You didn't ask?" Frank, communication matters. I looked toward his house. Linda.
Frank raised both hands. "Now there's no reason to get management involved." Linda opened the door anyway. "What?" I pointed at him.
He has parking for the motorcycles. "Yes." She looked at Frank. "I know." I stared at both of them.
"You knew?" "He's been waiting for you to ask." Frank looked offended. I was helping him develop problem-solving skills. Linda shook her head.
He was waiting to feel important. That, too. I started laughing. 2 minutes earlier, I was preparing to tell 35 people not to come. Now we had more parking than before.
Denise started calling people. I called Bear. "How do you feel about gravel?" "For parking? "Yeah."
Depends on the gravel." I made the mistake of handing the phone to Frank. Within 30 seconds, he was asking Bear about motorcycle weight kickstands, turning radius, and whether anybody was bringing a road glide. Linda came down the driveway. "No."
Frank covered the phone. I haven't bought anything. "You're shopping with your voice." "I am discussing parking." "You're discussing horsepower."
Bear was laughing loudly enough that I could hear him. Eventually, I got the phone back, so "We're good." Bear said, "We're better than good." "Fifty." That evening, we finalized everything.
Motorcycles would go directly to Frank's gravel lot. Nobody would block a driveway. Nobody would park on a lawn. The riders would walk to my house. Pete would bring the roaster early.
Serving tables would stay on my property. Donation station near the driveway. Trash and recycling beside the garage. It was boring. Responsible, organized, everything.
Denise said 50 bikers couldn't be. Friday evening, I cleaned my old smoker. Faint water spotting still marked one side of the barrel. Across the hedge, Denise stepped onto her patio. She saw the stacked tables.
Then me. You're still doing this? Yep. I heard you lost your parking. "We did."
A tiny pause. "That was predictable." "We found another place." The almost smile disappeared. "Where?"