Phil and Andy pulled into Woody's Harletopia and Cyclevana before four.

The former Richfield truckstop just outside Palmdale city limits had three main buildings and a mobile home parked on the back of the lot. The front building was the working garage with a small attached show room where Woody sold cycles on consignment. The building on the south side of the lot had once been a small diner but was now used mostly for storage, though the front room still with tables, booths and a counter was sometimes rented out for cycle club meetings. The back building contained more storage, three showers and a barracks-like room with six bunk beds and thirty lockers.

Andy had used Phil's cellphone to call ahead when they were passing through Palmdale and Woody came out of the garage to met them, wiping his hands on a red-orange shop towel. He wasn't a tall man but only a little under middle-size with a lean stringy build in comfortably worn Levi's jeans and a black Burning Man t-shirt. He had on motorcycle boots, a Harley-Davidson baseball cap and yellow prescription sunglasses. A neatly trimmed graying goatee and mustache surrounded his smile.

He stuck out a knobby-knuckled hand to Phil as he walked up, "I'm Woody," he said. "You must be Andy's boyfriend, Phil, right?" Then he spent ten minutes laughing about Phil's and Andy's expressions after he said that. He even told them about it three times just so they could appreciate how funny they looked.

"Shoulda seen it," he said, "shoulda seen it. But 'course you couldn't, you were on the wrong side of yer own faces, hah! I shoulda had a mirror with me, hah!"

Andy rolled his eyes. "Let's get inside the house, okay?" he said looking around. No one else had heard the exchange because the shop was empty but Andy wanted to get inside before somebody showed up.

Phil got Woody to laughing again when he asked, "What if I had said yes?"

"So this is it?" Woody asked when they had settled around the dining table in the mobile home with Cokes.

"It's the contract for the TV show, for me to appear in," said Andy, pushing the paperwork toward his father.

Woody made a show of taking out a pair of reading glasses, the kind with only the lower half of the lenses, and perching them on his noise. He read a few lines to determine that it was indeed a television contract. He looked back up at Andy. "You read all this?" he asked.

Andy nodded. "And I had a lawyer read it, too. You talked to her on the phone."

"Lawyers, woo," said Woody. "Holl-ee-wood! Double woo."

Phil grinned and Woody smiled.

"Kid's way smarter than his old man," Woody said to Phil. "You must be happy with it or you wouldn't have brought it to me to sign," he said, turning to Andy.

"Happy enough," agreed Andy.

"I think the kid is smarter than some producers I know," said Phil.

Woody chuckled. "I knew some of those kind, too, back in the day before I got so ugly the cameras would break when they pointed them at me."

Phil opened his mouth and closed it again quickly, as if he thought better of saying something. Both Andy and Woody cut their eyes at him and smiled. Phil shook his head.

"Where do I sign, I gotta sign cause Andy is under age, huh?" He turned to a shelf behind him and pulled a pen out of a jar shaped like the bottom half of a hula dancer.

Andy found the places and Woody signed quickly, an unreadable scrawl beside which Andy wrote in block print, "Thomas A. Wren, Jr."

"Ah, you didn't have to include the junior, did you?" asked Woody. He looked up at Phil, his eyes twinkling. "My dad's living in Cucamonga with his fifth wife, a gal in her twenties. Fat gal, but pretty, Rhetta is her name." He grinned. "She'd make two of the old coot, but it evens out, he's nearly four times her age." He laughed, "but he calls himself Alvin Thomas, now, he don't go by Thomas A. Wren, Sr. -- so I don't see why I have to have that junior on there."

"It's on your driver's license," said Andy.

"Bullshit," said Woody. Then, "It is?"

Andy nodded.

Woody hauled a thick leather billfold out of his hip pocked and searched through the pockets until he found a battered California Driver's License. He examined it through the half glasses, "Son of a bitch, you're right," he said. He took three twenties from the wallet before he put it away again and held the money out to Andy. "You two go have dinner somewhere, and bring me back a plate from Dave's, you know what I like."

Andy nodded, taking the money. "You like barbecue?" he asked Phil.

"I do," said Phil. "But we can...." He stopped when Andy shook his head.

"We'll be back in an hour or so, Woody," said Andy, getting up to go.

"Yup," said Woody. "I'm gonna close up and wash up. Be sure you get some corn-on-the-cob."

When they got back in Phil's car, Andy explained. "Woody wanted to pay, he knows you have an expense account."

"I got that," said Phil. "Why do you call him Woody?"

Andy shrugged. "Everyone does."

"Yeah, but why Woody?"

"Oh, it's for Woody Woodpecker," said Andy. "I guess he was a troublemaker in school and back in the fifth grade someone said he was more of a Woodpecker than a Wren." He grinned.

Phil laughed. "I guess he is at that." And he did the woodpecker laugh.

After an early dinner, they delivered a platter of St. Louis style ribs, with an extra corn-on-the-cob, back to Woody. Phil waited in the car while Andy walked the food into the mobile home kitchen.

Woody sniffed appreciatively. "It may be a chain restaurant but that Dave's really does some Famous ribs."

"Yeah, they're good," said Andy. "I gotta go, Woody. I'll be staying in Glendale, call you with the info tomorrow."

"Moving out, huh?"

Andy nodded.

"Guess I'll have to take Edna up on her offer to move in and mother me," Woody said trying to keep it light.

"She'll do good by you," said Andy. Edna Lofton was the widow of one of Woody's oldest friend, her husband Gene had been killed on his motorcycle by a wrong way driver two years before.

Woody took the styrofoam container out of the bag and lifted a corner to snag one of the corncobs. "You ain't coming back, are you, son?"

Andy didn't answer right away. He watched his father add salt and pepper to the corn-on-the-cob. "Probably not," he finally said.

Woody nodded. "This corn is still hot," he said. He took a juicy bite, stripping the kernels off the cob and making appreciative sounds.

Andy waited.

"I'm sorry about what happened with your mother," said Woody. "She didn't have to leave. You know I haven't had a drink since she moved out."

"I know, Pop," said Andy.

Woody looked at him and smiled. "Not even a beer," he said. "When I feel the urge, I call my sponsor and he reads me the right words." He shrugged. "But you don't want to live with and take care of an old drunk, not even a dry one. And you deserve better."

"That's not why I'm leaving, Woody," said Andy. "I've got to do this. And you've got to see a doctor about those pains. But we've argued enough about that, maybe Edna can convince you." He suddenly moved forward, putting his arms around his father and pressing his face into the taller man's shoulder.

"Hey," said Woody, holding the corncob out of the way. "You'll get butter on your nice shirt." He returned a one-armed hug. "You ride and dump as many bikes as I have, you earn a few pains. Hell, I broke my neck once, remember that? I got better. I'm a tough old bird."

Andy held onto his father a minute longer and neither of them said anything about tears.

"Gotta go," said Andy. They separated and shook hands.

"He's a nice looking fella," said Woody, looking at his corncob as Andy headed toward the door.

"Who? Phil?" said Andy.

Woody grinned slyly. "Your boyfriend," he said.