One day I sent out for a usual bike ride 'round the block. It seemed like a very normal Sunday with the usual goings on of a Sunday afternoon. Except, bored with the old route, this particular day I decided to take a different route through the neighborhood. I came to a large hill and decided it'd be fun to ride down it as fast as I could. Little did I know that danger awaited me below. I took off gliding easily down the hill with the wind in my hair. Then I saw the turn of the street up ahead. I tried hard to slow down yet my breaks just didn't seem to be working. Suddenly I felt the bike go out from under me. I slammed hard against the ground and my bike slid right in front of a large, blue, worn down truck which was comin' down the road. The truck stopped, but not before it halfway crushed my bike. A tall stranger wearing dark blue jeans, a dress shirt and cowboy boots stepped out of the truck. He sprinted over to me.
"Are you alright?" he asked in a thick Texan accent. "Huh?" I asked.
He knelt down beside me and again asked if I was alright.
"Yeah," I managed to say.
"Kin ya git up?" he asked extending his hand. He helped me up and led me over to his truck.
"Where ya live?" he asked.
"I'm not really sure," I replied.
"Well, what's your name?" he asked.
"I don't seem to remember," I mumbled.
"Howdy, I'm Mike. How's about you comin on with me to live for awhile? At least until you kin remember where you come from and all."
"Sure, Mike, where do ya live?" I asked.
"Well, I live in California at this point. So ya wanna come?"
"Yeah," I replied, having no idea where California was.
"Well, hop on in then," says Mike. He lifts up my crushed bike and throws it in the back.
I crawl in and he comes in beside me, shuts the door and starts up the trucks noisy engine. Then he flicks on the radio to some station which was playing a song he said he wrote. I was surprised at this and congratulated him.
The ride was long and hot, but Mike and I talked and he taught me the words of his song, which made the ride seem not so bad.
We finally arrived in California and went to a big beachouse near the cost. Mike told me he lived with three friends who were in the band.
I first met Peter who was sitting on top of a table playing a banjo and singing a folk tune. He had sorta long brown hair which was parted in the middle, he wore a bunch of beads, was very friendly and immeadiately said hello.
The next I saw was Micky, who was about 6 feet tall, had wild curly hair, and a crazy grin on his face as he ran wildly down the stairs , grabbed a bag of pretzels, said "nice to meet you", and ran back up again.
"C'mon, Mike," said Peter. "Davy's outside walking along the beach. I bet he wants to see you."
Mike motioned for me to come. We went outside on a balcony, down some stairs and were down at the beach.
"Hello, Mike!" says Davy. He was shorter than the others, yet it didn't seem to matter to me. He had shorter cut hair than the others, and a British accent.
The two exchange greetings, and Peter comes over to me.
"Want me to show you around?" Peter asks.
"Sure," I replied.
Just then Micky comes down the stairs. "Hey, Peter! Hey, uh, what's your name?"
"I don't seem to remember," I replied.
"Well, how about I call you Mary?" suggests Micky.