c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-26)
After his forced exodus from New York, Parker Redman wandered aimlessly around the region. Through Pennsylvania, Ohio, and then back into West Virginia. All territories where his late father had once preached the gospel, in past years. He had no particular direction in mind. Instead, the Shovelhead Harley that carried him forward seemed to have its own compass in effect. There were twists and turns along the road that occasionally found him lost, and yet seeking new vistas. He paused only to relieve himself, burn through cigarettes, and to top off the tank of his iron steed. Otherwise, he remained in motion simply for the purpose of not being anywhere else, in a literal sense. He yearned to find a convenient cliff or craggy hilltop, that would let him join the spiritual continuum, in a motorized leap of faith. One that might end his wanderlust, and sins, forever. And snuff out a life force that had been gifted, seemingly by mistake.
But having reached the Mountaineer community of Buckhannon, he felt a more basic, visceral need calling for attention. His belly grumbled loudly with emptiness. So, at a Huddle House location which had opened early, for the breakfast rush, he slid into a parking space on the concrete apron. Then, allowed his cycle to lean lazily, on its sidestand. He took the chrome, chopper helmet from his shaggy dome, and hung it on the handlebars. His leather jacket peeled away like a snakeskin shroud. He reeked of motor oil and exhaust fumes. But guessed that with visitors arriving for a waking feast, and caffeine, his presence would be lost in the shuffle of humanity.
A server named Sonja Mae took his order, while gently rolling her eyes. She appeared to be slightly amused at the poor condition of his clothes, and the pungent odor of his neglected body. Yet a learned habit of waiting on customers without paying too much attention to their appearance or habits kept her disciplined. She wore a plain, uniform polo that was standard to the chain. And dark leggings dotted with flour or spots of bacon grease.
He ordered a platter of biscuits and gravy, with a bowl of cheesy grits on the side. It was his first meal in three days. That fact had pushed him to the edge of collapse. But now, he feasted on the hillbilly vittles. Around his spot at the counter, other diners were sleepy and yawning over their mugs of coffee. Conversations buzzed with the intensity of summer horseflies, staying busy. He ate quickly before ingesting more rounds of black java to clear his head. Finally, his bladder could not take any more punishment. He slid off the stool and turned to locate their restroom. It sat in a far corner, opposite the kitchen.
Having satisfied his need for release, he paused in front of the mirror. What was reflected shocked him slightly. The muscular, aggressive kid from yonder years had given way to a shaggy, stooped old drifter. Someone who had outlived his original mission as a mechanic, adviser, and outlaw supporter. He looked oddly fatigued. And seasoned from many miles, unprotected, out in the elements. He had scars everywhere, each with its own story to relate. With many tattoos, now faded. He stood half-bent from failing joints and slipped discs in his back. Yet amid this natural evolution, he still had eyes that were strong and bright. And a grin of mischievous intent. A trademark carried since kindergarten.
At the front register, Sonja took his receipt and rang out the order, politely. She pretended not to notice when he belched repeatedly. Then rudely passed wind, by accident.
“Y’all don’t look familiar. Is that your motor-bike out at the curb?”
Parker nodded while chewing on a complimentary toothpick.
“I like to travel. One of my cousins lives nearby, so now and then, I’ll pay him a visit when there’s nothing else to do...”
The waitress stayed pleasantly detached from her position at the restaurant. So, she was able to endure shifts on duty as a genuine professional. But her curiosity could not be hidden.
“On that thing, you go ridin’? I’d reckon it’s a hoot for the first few miles. But what about when it rains? What happens then?”
The veteran biker shrugged and raised his eyebrows.
“Umm, when it rains... I get wet! Have a good day, ma’am!”
She had an expression of regret over this short dismissal, as if there was more to be said.
“Hey before you go ridin’ off, I’ve got something you can have as a souvenir. There was a group here before y’all arrived, folks from the church crowd uptown. We get a lot of them in this place. They left it on the counter about an hour ago. I couldn’t think of who would want it, or need it, but right now, I’d say it’s a godsend. This had to be meant for somebody like you!”
She held out a book adorned with the photographic image of a rider on his Electra-Glide, minus its faring and windshield. The description read, ‘Holy Bible for Bikers. NIV Version New Testament.’ He trembled slightly, before taking it in his right hand.
“Well, I think maybe you’re mistaken there, miss. Keep it for the next guy in line...”
Sonja wrinkled her nose and smiled with certainty.
“I believe in miracles, do you, friend? Y’all have to take this, please! If nothin’ else, it’ll bring you some good luck maybe. Stick it in your saddlebag at least. Remember that you had a hot meal here at our house, and a little bit of small talk. Be safe out there on the road. People are crazy, right?”
Mentally, he made a note to dump the printed volume at his next stop for gas and a piss break. He had no interest in carrying it around like a prayer cloth or spiritual talisman.
“Like I said, have a good one, ma’am. If I’m out here again, I’ll be sure to stop in for more coffee and grub!”
Outside, the air had stayed cool and crisp. He donned the custom helmet, zipped up his sheath, found a pair of gloves. Then made a perfunctory check of the scooter before jumping on its kickstarter. Everything appeared to be in order. When his Milwaukee beast fired on both cylinders, the rattle echoed from windows up and down their crowded boulevard. Heads turned in vehicles of all sorts. A minivan pilot shielded her young brood with an embrace of concern. From across the street, a law officer watched intently as the Shovelhead dropped into gear.
Parker still had no plan for his sojourn across the region. Anywhere and everywhere could be his next target. It did not matter enough to decide. Only to keep moving. Always, always, always moving.
The journey itself was his destination.
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