Free The Wiccan Diaries by T.D. McMichael

were thrown open. It had a
bohemian heart.
    As I drove, I was ‘transported back in time.’ Good old
guidebook. I couldn’t help smiling. Grandmothers with shopping bags on their
arms knocked here or there. Broken down cars that nevertheless still worked,
waited on their owners. Through it all I navigated my shiny orange Vespa.
    I could hear the rumbling. I was surprised, when I turned
the corner, to see them hanging outside a makeshift storefront. I caught a
glimpse of them with their helmets off. They were all extraordinarily tall, the
riders.
    The women were ‘Italian beautiful,’ with dark hair longer
than mine, and a certain cut to the way they held themselves. One threw her
head back and laughed confidently at a joke; she had a bright red motorcycle
helmet beneath her arm, and she was dangling a pair of leather riding gloves in
the other. She had on black leather pants and a jacket, trimmed out with strips
of red that accentuated her helmet and set off her hair.
    They were parked in front of Ballard’s shop. My nervousness
jumped to a whole new level.
    I was never good with introductions, and time apart, even
from close friends, caused a nervous reunion. Part of me wanted to just keep on
driving by. But I rode up on my motor scooter and parked. The sign outside
advertised AUTOFFICINA. Some kind of mechanic shop. Above it in hand painted
letters was TRASTEVERE MOTOR CLUB––WE FIX IT. In Italian, of
course. I felt foolish pulling up. When I put down my kickstand, they all
looked at me.
    There had to have been ten of the most attractive young men
I had ever seen standing there. Becca would have died. They were all athletic
and muscular and all exceedingly tall. Six-foot-nine, at least. They looked
like the scantily-clad models I had seen on billboards advertising the latest
designer fashions.
    The woman, who seemed to be my age or a little older, was
conspicuous foremost by her beauty, but also because she was the only one with
a full head of hair. The others had shaved theirs off. They were playing with
the throttles on their expensive-looking motorcycles or else passing the time.
They looked like they were waiting for someone. When I got off my bike, the
girl looked at me. She continued her conversation uninterrupted but gave me a
friendly smile. It was enough. I took my helmet off and walked up to her,
unsure of what happened next.
    “Hi.”
    Her smile got even wider. “It’s buon giorno . You got to know where you’re at ,” she said. The way she said it––it was like she had
been all over the place.
    “I’m afraid I don’t speak Italian,” I said, hoping she would
understand. She looked over at my bike. I waited nervously for her to pronounce
judgment.
    Instead, she said, “I like your wheels.”
    “I like your wheels too ,”
I said, wishing someone would put me out of my misery. She just smiled some
more. It looked like she sympathized.
    “I have three brothers. If I don’t ride motorcycles with
them, their feelings will get hurt. It’s not like we can braid each other’s
hair.” She nodded at their deficiency in the hair department. “Can I help you
with something? You’re not lost , are
you?”
    “Ballard.” I clung
to that word. “Do you know who that is?”
    She changed a little bit; there was more cunning in her
eyes. “Who did you say you are?”
    “I didn’t.”
    Her eyes became unfocused and she said something to the
others that caused them to go quiet. “I’m not here to start any trouble. I swear ,” I said.
    We stood like that for a while. “I see,” she said.
    “Do you know where I can find him?” I finally asked.
    The smile returned. “Of course. He is my little brother,” she said. My mouth
formed the word O. “Ballard! Ballard!” she shouted. She unzipped one of her pockets and took out a pack of gum, offering
me a piece. “Suit yourself,” she said. She chewed it, still thinking. “Ballard!”
    I heard a machine shut off, inside. Next second, a