A MisGuided Signing, Part 1
A Mackinac Island Novels Mini-Saga.
The Unexpected Upgrade
The first upgrade was the best upgrade: a mystery bargain car from Hertz. After a 32-hour flight with a stop in Istanbul, Turkey, I wandered out into the lot to see what kind of vehicle I was actually going to get.
You can't expect much for 360 bucks for a week.
But whatever I was supposed to get was nowhere in sight, so I asked the big, friendly woman who was wandering around with the Hertz logo on her sweater vest what I should do. She stopped and smiled conspiratorially from ear to ear. "Let me see your paperwork." She looked it over, then looked up at me and said, "You want?" I looked over. There was a sort of mean NASCAR-looking maroon machine with black rims. It seemed to nod and wink at me. It gestured. I felt the power of Hugh McVeigh’s ghost, the consummate Chrysler dealer. "Take the Chrysler, kid.”
So I did.
Downstate
The first four or five days in downstate Michigan were a bit of a blur. Thanks to my old pal Jim Munson, former Milford Redskin, Class of 1985, and the amazing farm property he's had since I was a kid, we were able to have a good old-fashioned field party like we used to in the old days. Beer, no food, and a lot of laughs. They rolled in from all over SE Michigan. I think I may have even heard some Van Halen playing at one point. Maybe “Atomic Punk.” Hard to remember.
All 30 years disappeared instantly. Okay, fine. All 40 years. Milford dogs repeatedly toasting our many bad decisions. It was a good night.
The Journey North
Flash forward to a week later as I dropped off the Chrysler, which had now become a solidified lifelong friend. I wanted to call it “The Bandit,” but after lengthy research, I discovered the name was already taken. So I named it “Cole,” after Cole Trickle, Tom Cruise’s character in Days of Thunder—one of the worst great movies of all time. Or was it the opposite?
Jim Bolone and I had done a little preproduction planning, and he scooped me up only minutes after I dropped off Cole and the paperwork at Detroit Metro. I hopped in his ride with my big blue suitcase and my backpack, and we were on our way north. Nonstop jabber and hilarity ensued. The mile markers whipped past, and it seemed like we made it to Mackinaw City in a blink.
We stopped off for gas at one of the “G” towns, either Grayling or Gaylord. I’m been confusing the two cities since I was nine. We considered buying matching Davy Cockett hats but decided to buy Doritos and a sixer of IPA instead.
Ferry Adventures and Starline Chaos
We finished off the beer and swung by the fishery, per Master Conkey’s orders. He'd given us a list, thank God, because we definitely would've screwed it up. We dropped the fish into a cooler, and moments later, we were on a Shepler boat—thank God—heading to the island. This was the very moment that Star Line, the rival boat line, was melting down, although we didn’t know it at the time.
Looking back, I did notice, as I looked out the window of the blue Captain Shepler, a long line of Star Line ferry boats, none of which I recognized.
Clearly, Starline was pulling in every single vessel that had ever carried passengers across the Straits. It wasn't pretty. As a 1980s dockporter, I was admittedly a staunch Arnold Line guy, mainly because back then, they gave porters free rides, had a friendly, relaxed vibe, and owner Bob Brown (unknowingly) let us mix up batches of porter punch on the dock.
But that was a different era.
I am a full-on adult now.
Arnold Line is nothing but a fantastic green-and-red memory.
I prefer things to work.
I’ll just say it: I’m a Shepler guy now.
Island Arrival and Book Business
When we got to the island, our first stop was the Island Bookstore. Jim had printed a full poster-size version of a design I had made for all three books as a gift to the bookstore, so we swung by and dropped it off (after a quick pat on the back from Archie "Arch Rock" Horn) along with the tricorn hats we planned on wearing for the signing, which seemed like a good idea at the time.
I secretly exhaled when I saw stacks of boxes of MisGuided piled up in the corner. This book was published so close to the signing that I wasn't actually 100% sure the books were going to show up on time, although I let no one in on that fact.
A good salesman never shows his cards.
The books were there.
The hats were there.
The poster was there.
Jim and I were there. We had written a trilogy.
All was set in motion for an island weekend for the ages.
The Great Bike Hunt
The next stop was to try and dig up my dockporter bike. Rumor had it that it was mothballed in a barn up on the island, thanks to some undying generosity from an old friend of the dockporter crew. I trudged up the long hill to the Annex to find my bike. Somewhere along the way, as I walked, I heard a voice say, "Dave McVeigh?" It was Laura Raisch, riding her bike down from the Annex. She was full of kind words for the books, and my long walk suddenly felt lighter and faster.
Jet fuel for the ego-propelled writer.
I made it to the Annex cottage, but nobody was home. A small dog barked from inside. I knocked and called. Called and knocked. Knowing the island and all its rules, I just wandered around the side of the house and began opening random doors, hoping to find my bike. The first 47 doors led to nothing but other people's bikes. However, the barn in the back was a gold mine of bikes. All of my buddy’s Swain’s bikes, which he had purchased a few summers back when he was convinced he’d be spending the rest of his life on Mackinac, were lined up…
…including my old/new dockporter bike.
The back tire was flat as a pancake, and there was no seat, but other than that, it was solid. I pulled a seat off another bike and began walking the deflated bike down towards town.
Soon, I felt ridiculous.
There’s nothing more pathetic than a former dockporter walking a bike. It’s just not done. I hopped on the bike, flat tire be damned, and started riding without a seat. I must’ve looked pretty ridiculous on my way into town with the "thump-thump-thump" of the flat back tire.
Luckily, the mechanical geniuses at the bike shop were able to replace the seat post and slide Swain’s stolen seat back on.
I pumped up the tire, and all was well.
Meanwhile, in another part of town, Jim had made a deal with a pal to buy a porter bike. Later that day, we both felt better having bikes with big steel baskets. It made us feel like men again, not weenie little emasculated writer-types who were too green and pathetic to puzzle through how to score bikes on an island we wrote three books about.
On bikes, we were at least now dockporter-adjacent. Old age and aching knees faded quickly, and soon the island air had energized us.
The Old Crew
Day by day, more old friends rolled in off boats. Scott Kennedy, Sam Oliver, Paul Repasky, Dave Trachtenberg. Mike Vice. John-Lou Derochia. More. Many were already there. Each one of these names could be carved in some sort of twisted version of Mount Rushmore in the limestone cliffs of the island, perhaps one made out of fudge and drenched with Stroh’s Beer. Yes, we were missing a few key members, but we'd make do. Our friend Brad, who had settled into some sort of elder statesman role in our gang, hosted a fantastic whitefish dinner on his porch. Later, Earth Wind and Fire played “September,” and Jim dry-humped Brad’s porch pillar while gazing longingly at the Mackinac Bridge like only Jim could. Wild man.
A Night Out
On Saturday, we burst into Horn’s Bar with a swagger that reminded me of the old days. Somehow Sammy and Paul had already commandeered the back of the bar, and we were welcomed to sit down like gentlemen. We could only think of all the great men who had commanded those seats in the past—business owners from the old days. Tough SOBs, these men. We always respected them. We never took their seats.
Ever.
Were we elders now? None of us owned businesses on the island, but for that brief shining moment, we felt like we did.
Is being an elder the same as being “old”?
“All the Old Men are Gone!” Jim kept lamenting. Eventually, it got a bit repetitive, but one thing Jim knows how to do is wear out a phrase. Besides, we all knew what he meant. The men who made the island what it was. For generations, they sat at the end of the bar at Horn’s Bar. Many had moved on to another dimension where they now, no doubt, still ruled.
But tonight, it was our spot, and we owned it.
Brad slyly showed me his phone. He had texted Steve Moskwa, the owner of the bar, telling him he better get up to the bar —-quick. Steve was a man we'd known since we were in college—40 years? He'd held the reins that long … and still did. He'd thrown all of us out so many times, yet we kept coming back.
I'm quite sure that the group assembled that night had probably helped him purchase at least one of his boats, with the amount of cash we left in that place. But Steve deserved every cent. He’d given us a clubhouse. He brought us cold drinks and live music. In the 80s, as now, Horn’s Bar was the place. When he came out and saw our group assembled at the end of the bar, his jaw dropped.
The air crackled with excitement as Steve scanned the murderers' row parked at his bar—where the Old Men once sat. For a moment, I saw a flash of fear. Just a tiny flash. Like a firefly, you could miss it if you blinked. Then, like the sun breaking through fog, a smile spread across s his face.
Steve always understood.
Steve doesn’t know it, but the man practically raised us.
STAY TUNED FOR PART 2
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