Fishtail Redman, Chapter 10: Breakfast

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

Parker Redman fell asleep on his rollaway bed long after midnight. The unexpected visitor he had received was curled up like a feline companion, and tucked under his chin. Her hair tickled his nose. Its sweet fragrance lingered in his nostrils. Yet upon waking in the morning, he saw that the 40-something woman was gone. Once again, the garage had become a vacant space fit only for mechanical repairs, and introspection.

 

Instead of returning to his labor on the Shovelhead Harley-Davidson, he made a fresh round of instant coffee, and then sorted through shop manuals that were on a shelf over the workbench. Bodean seemed to have engaged in collecting for a period of time, because several of the printed volumes were for motorcycles that his cousin could not remember being in the family stable. One related to a series of BMW twins from the 1950s. Another was for the Kawasaki W1, which had been based on a BSA model that came before. A third had been included with the purchase of a Sears & Roebuck Allstate model, made by Puch in Austria. These variations were all odd and outdated. But interesting to review. The last relic to be uncovered struck him as most unpredictable of all, however. It was a copy of the ‘Bible for Bikers’ he had been offered at the Huddle House location in Buckhannon.

 

Disbelief took hold as he thumbed through the artifact. There were greasy fingerprints on its pages, as if it had served to inspire readers while they were busy tuning up steel steeds, for fun and adventure. He noted comments scribbled in the margins, almost as if someone had carried the book while participating in a church meeting or class on the scriptures. Despite their common heritage, he could not recall Bodean ever having been particularly religious or observant of such traditions. But the evidence remained clear.

 

With temperatures plunging below zero, and more snow falling, he decided to climb the hillside in spite of inhospitable conditions that would make this effort challenging. After a brief period of celebrating his isolation, he wanted to join the family circle which waited nearby, and gather clues about the holy manuscript and its history in the household.

 

Bundled up and ready to face the inevitable winter blast, Parker opened his side door and emerged into a chaotic bluster of seasonal rage. Mother Nature seemed to have forgotten the concept of showing mercy to her children. So, as he moved slowly up the incline, fierce winds blew crystals of ice into his eyes. An ominous howl filled his ears. It was difficult to stay on course, with little to see or hear other than the wild cry of meteorological mayhem. But he knew that stopping along the way would invite being frozen in place. That kind of death was one he did not desire by any means. When the moment of his mortality was at hand, he hoped for a better fate. Like being launched from the custom-fabricated, cobra seat of his chopper. His final ride would be glorious, he hoped. Not simply a fade into oblivion, buried under mounds of thickening muck.

 

Upon reaching the rear entrance of his cousin’s shack, he paused to scrape at the window. Inside, he could see grandchildren around the kitchen table. A furnishing that was long, draped with a lace runner, and full of homemade breakfast items, like eggs, country ham, sausage gravy with biscuits, bacon strips, and fried potatoes. Angelette Pringle, who was a wife, mother, grandma, and house matron, busied herself herding kids and organizing this morning feast. She appeared to be oblivious to anything other than the focus of her duties. But when a knock sounded on the outside wall, her demeanor changed instantly.

 

Parker appeared in the doorway, with a dramatic lope akin to a Polar Bear. He gestured while coughing out an apology. Yet this act of contrition was unnecessary.

 

His host stomped her foot, and pointed toward an empty chair.

 

“Git in here, brother! We’ve been a-wonderin’ why ya didn’t come up the hill fer vittles before now! But with how it looks outside, I reckon that’d be a silly question to ask. Y’all must be starvin’ though, there couldn’t have been much down in that old garage. Maybe a bag of corn chips or somethin’ left by one of these young’uns. My husband said yer kind of a loner. Which I remembered from when ya visited us around a dozen years ago!”

 

The stumbling biker fell into a high-backed seat at one end of their table. He dripped melting ice and snow. Crystals dangled from his shaggy beard. He shivered a bit when shucking his zippered, leather skin.

 

“I got some company last night, believe it or not. A woman from the bar, we met while I was having a drink. She said her name was Krista Pearl...”

 

Bodean hooted loudly from the living room. He had overheard the conversation while picking up toys left by their console television.

 

“Buddy, that girl has been lookin’ fer a man since Jesus was a private! She split with her dude some time ago, eight or nine years at least. I think it weighed heavy on her heart. Especially when the boy became a Marine, he got shipped out of state. Now, I don’t figure she’s bad in any way, to be honest, but not the kind of female to hook up with a drifter like yerself. No offense meant there, cuz. It’s just a matter of a good fit or a bad fit. You know, like getting’ parts fer yer bike!”

 

Parker nodded with understanding. His nose was still red and numb.

 

“I got that impression. She was entertaining for a moment though. When I woke up today, it was minus six degrees around that garage, and she had disappeared. I could’ve used the extra body heat. But definitely don’t need any baggage that might come along with sharing it...”

 

Angelette smiled knowingly. She was plain and skinny, yet confident in her manner.

 

“You don’t need it, I’ll tell ya! Yer better off ridin’ solo. Keep yer freedom, boy! Be smart about things! My gender ain’t given to keepin’ life simple. We complicate everything, just ask my ol’ man!”

 

 

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 9: Snowbound

  

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

Bodean’s hillside garage was a perfect hideaway where his wandering cousin could rest and recuperate. Situated a short distance from the main house, which sat with a corner of its front porch literally touching the asphalt. On a rural route that ran right through Grafton. A single, propane shop-heater kept the space warm enough. Though its concrete floor stayed perpetually cold. Enough room existed between the buildings, that a measure of privacy was afforded. But when a meteorological event crossed their continent, from west to east, the physical divide seemed to grow. As ice and snow blanketed the region, access to the square hut became blocked.

 

Parker had been busy rebuilding the Shovelhead motor of his Harley-Davidson chopper for a few weeks. But when the air turned oddly stale and still inside his cubicle, a sense of being trapped took hold. He could hear the howl of a winter gale, sweeping across the river valley. Yet from within the confined space, there was only a slight indication that another world lay beyond its walls. Piles of frozen precipitation had insulated the structure like an igloo. He had to force the narrow, side door open for a peek outside. Through the swirl of white flakes, he could see the outline of a long, meandering ridge above his vantage point. And occasionally, patches of open sky which were gray and foreboding. But beyond those indications of an environment blighted by seasonal conditions, there was little else. He felt isolated as if some magic spell had transported him to Alaska. The yield of this separation was a complete freedom to continue his work, however. There were no interruptions from relatives or neighbors with good intentions.

 

He had almost closed the entryway when a cascade of icicles dropped from the roofline. This unexpected crash made him jerk sideways, and look in the opposite direction. Against the colorless monotone, he spied a figure struggling along through the harsh environment. Someone bundled up in striped, black fleece and spandex. Like a snowboard enthusiast, or skiing fanatic, who had lost their way. He had to blink several times, to be certain that it was not some kind of illusion. Perhaps a trick of the muted light.

 

Krista Pearl was limber from her employment as a cashier, barmaid, and dancer, around the city. She navigated the hillside course with skill and confidence, despite the blustery weather.  But when the open doorway appeared, she did not hesitate to abandon her trek. Curses spilled from her ruby lips. She fell inside eagerly, scattering an accumulation of frosty debris around the one-room shop.

 

“Damn, it’s friggin’ nuts out there, boy! I figured y’all would be stayin’ with yer cuz and his kin, in their shack. But Bodean said ya were down here wrenchin’ on that motorcycle. Don’t ya ever get tired of lookin’ at it?”

 

A grin of amusement caused his eyes to roll.

 

“Get tired of it? Well no, ma’am. That bike has treated me better than any of my ex-wives did, or most of our family. Though that isn’t something to brag about, I suppose...”

 

The middle-aged woman stripped off her outer layer of insulation. More snow scattered on the concrete under her boots.

 

“I figured y’all might want a little company here, I know most people in this town kinda keep to themselves when there’s a stranger in their midst. I mean, yer cuz has vouched fer ya and all that, but I reckon it ain’t like bein’ at home, wherever that was, right?”

 

Parker shrugged and sat on a shipping crate that had once held parts from a local dealership.

 

“I don’t have a home, miss. A judge in New York took care of that...”

 

Krista shivered as she stood by the propane hotspot, for warmth.

 

“Look, I don’t mean to pry in yer shit, okay? We all got our stories. I just reckoned on sayin’ hello and maybe havin’ a little drink, if yer so inclined. Call it a welcome party fer two!”

 

The tattooed loner was puzzled by her boldness. She did not seem shy about confessing her plans, openly.

 

“I don’t imbibe and work at the same time, ma’am. That’s guaranteed to cause a headache. It generally gets things screwed up. But if you want me to take a break, I guess that’ll be acceptable. Maybe a mug of Irish coffee would help burn away your chill?”

 

The truck-stop clerk brightened at this offer. Her face was still red from being exposed to the elements.

 

“That’d be a pleasure, friend! Y’all got the fixin’s fer some o’that?”

 

Her host bowed his head and spoke directly.

 

“Well, not a proper Irish coffee, maybe. There’s some stuff Bodean left here in the bottom of his workbench. A bottle of Old Grand-Dad, some Nescafe instant, and a hot plate. I can melt some snow for water. Honestly, I’m not picky, being a guest. How about you, miss?”

 

Krista stood over him, with her mouth trembling. Then, put her right hand on his shoulder.

 

“My husband was a gawdamn, effing bastard! But sometimes, when my bones ache and the nights get lonely, I still remember the good parts of our marriage. Y’all can be sure I’d never take his sorry ass back again. But now and then, ya know, I get to feelin’ empty and old. And wishin’ fer somebody just to visit my neck of the woods, and share a bit of conversation.”

 

The divorced mother pulled his face closer, till it nestled in between her ample breasts. This swift motion caused a spike in blood pressure he had not experienced in many months. He literally found it hard to breathe. Then, all his joints stiffened in reaction. He did not know how to react. A fleeting sensation of desire pecked at his mind with guilt, and fear. More than anything else, he wanted to be back on the road.

 

“I umm, appreciate your situation, ma’am. We’ve all been there, I think. Minds wander sometimes, and emotions get the best of us, eventually. Maybe that’s why I like to keep moving. When I have time to sit and think, then voices start to call from all those yesterdays. It messes with my good nature. It throws me off balance. I’d rather stay in my zone, that’s a safer place to live. Like they teach you in the service, stay in your lane...”

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 8: Parked

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

The temporary venue in Grafton was a comfortable spot where Parker Redman could stay and work anonymously. Yet it felt somewhat constricting to be stuck in one place, for the season. He had accepted tenancy in a downhill garage, behind the home of his cousin. An insulated shack outfitted with a rollaway bed, a small refrigerator, a television set, and a mechanic’s chest of tools. There was no schedule imposed, and no expectation of duties while residing in the extra space. He simply came and went according to his own whims and preferences. But as a sign of gratitude, he joined in leisure activities such as visiting Poole’s Stumble Inn, for games of pinball, darts and billiards. And also, another popular local tavern, known simply as the Coal Bucket. He made sure to buy rounds of drink and salty snacks, for everyone. But often, sat alone in a corner, by the end of each night.

 

The Shovelhead Harley was in reasonable condition. But he massaged the aging steed with loving care, replacing bits and pieces that had worn out over previous miles of road adventures. Spare parts came from a shop in town, operated by the grandfather of a friend from yonder days. A cranky fellow who had stopped riding after losing his legs in an accident. He was still connected to the biker community, and kept in touch with suppliers from around the region. By the arrival of spring, it seemed certain that the Milwaukee beast would be ready to emerge from hibernation. Yet marking time in a single locale offered personal challenges that the veteran rider had not expected. Because he drank and dabbled at the same clubs, every week, women began to express their interest. This temptation lured him into making bad decisions, as he had before. The danger of compromise always lingered, nearby.

 

Krista Pearl had been in his cousin’s orbit, since grade school. She was now over 40, but still carried the charm of a younger, more vibrant woman. Her longish, auburn curls, and toned legs were appealing to many patrons at the watering holes in that area. But something had failed to resonate since her divorce. Her son had volunteered for service in the Marines, and gone off on an extended tour of duty. This left her with an empty nest, and heart.

 

Parker reawakened her feminine instincts. He was plain-spoken, witty in a dry manner, and somewhat withdrawn. That fact caused him to be attractive as an elusive prize. Other men in their crowd were typically aggressive. Grabbing ass cheeks, lusting after kisses and cuddles, or making promises that were unlikely to ever be fulfilled. Yet the mysterious drifter had an uncommon sense of satisfaction with his solitude. He did not seem to want attention, or validation, from anyone else. Only when prodded with alcohol did any clues to his inner composition manifest themselves. And even then, he had little to offer.

 

She enjoyed his company. That alone made him attractive in a way that had been absent from her life, for many years.

 

“You ride a motorcycle? My ex-husband had one of those things. It was a chrome horse with a big motor, and loud pipes. I had to sell it after he went to jail. That son-of-a-bitch left me with a boy to raise and no work except clerking at a truck stop on the freeway. I moved here because some of my family lived in these hills.”

 

Parker did not know how to take her confession. So, he reacted directly.

 

“Yeah, that’s a familiar story. Hard luck and hard times. They test a soul and reveal what’s inside where nobody can see...”

 

Krista tilted her head to one side. She sipped on a glass of Tito’s Handmade Vodka, with mixers and a wedge of lime.

 

“Yes they do, friend! Y’all can bet some people don’t come out right, on the other end. But I did, by Gawd! My young ‘un was dependin’ on me. I didn’t let him down, like his daddy. Somebody had ta be there fer him! And dammit, that somebody was me!”

 

The cycle mechanic raised his draft of Miller.

 

“Cheers to you, ma’am. That’s the most important job in the world, right there. Anything else is beside the point...”

 

The single mother wrinkled her tiny nose, and grinned.

 

“Yes it is, I like the way y’all think. I’ll umm, take that as a compliment. It cuts both ways though, right?”

 

He was not in a mood to bare his soul. So instead, he kept drinking.

 

“I’d say you’ve got things handled. No worries. No guilt...”

 

She was puzzled by his cryptic response.

 

“Guilt? Hell, I feel guilty every day, for not bein’ more careful with my life. My grammy used to prattle on about Jesus and Mary and things of virtue. She was a righteous old lady, not like my mother, or me! We had a wild streak in our blood, both of us. That killed mama when she was too young. And it might’ve done the same fer me. But I was lucky, or blessed, however y’all want to frame it. My kid is a good man now, he’s the redemption I never deserved. I’m thankful fer that gift. It’s more than I ever shoulda gotten!”

 

Parker nodded and chugged a big swallow of brew. Then, a recollection clicked reflexively in his brain. His voice was calm and soothing.

 

“From Jeremiah, in the Old Testament: ‘Before I formed thee in the belly I knew thee; and before thou camest forth out of the womb I sanctified thee, and I ordained thee a prophet unto the nations.’ What does that mean? It tells us that even before our birth, the identity we carry is evident. The stamp of a creator, in effect. Don’t short-change yourself. Don’t think that the contribution you have made isn’t special. You did something grand with that investment. Despite being snake-bitten by fate. It matters to your son. And just as importantly, it matters to everyone who will know him, and you, for the rest of your days...”

 

Krista turned pale. She was nearly speechless.

 

“What the heck? Was that a dang Bible verse?”

 

The wandering misanthrope bowed his head with embarrassment. He had let a trace of his old self slip out, into public view.

 

“Sorry ma’am, that’s a bit of the King James there. I had it pounded into my head, all through childhood. Call it a flashback. Call it spiritual PTSD. I see ghosts sometimes, and hear them, too...”

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 7: Exile

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

Parker Redman had been born into a family that was deeply rooted in traditions associated with both Church of Christ and Disciples of Christ congregations. Throughout his childhood, there was safety in adhering to the principles of that upbringing. He learned quickly and eagerly in Sunday School, and at his sire’s knee. Phrases such as, ‘Where the Bible speaks, we speak. Where the Bible is silent, we are silent’ became part of his philosophical makeup. He knew well that, ‘Faith without works is dead.’ And that, ‘God helps those that help themselves.’ Though these platitudes were unfamiliar to some who did not share his origin, he had studied and absorbed the scriptural basis for each of these admonitions. Yet upon stumbling along the way, not in belief, but in conduct, he had become an exile. Cut off from the foundation of his own birth, and reason for being. That left him feeling much like an orphan. One that had become stained and shunned, to the point of no return.

 

The gospel of grace and forgiveness that he had taken as righteous truth, impossibly changed to articles of damnation, which were read at his improvised trial.

 

As a teenager, mocked and cursed by fellow parishioners who honored his own father as a champion of the light, he fell away. Deep into a crevasse of darkness, where only the crude ethos of a fighter could make him whole. He learned, by necessity, to do battle with his wits and sometimes, his bare hands. This newfound competence drove him farther from the home base he had once enjoyed. But it made survival possible.

 

In middle years, after much wandering, he had attempted a rapprochement of sorts. Marrying, raising children who were not directly his own, and returning to regular worship services. Yet this outreach stalled when he was confronted by a well-intentioned brother from the flock. Questions were raised about his character. About his relationship timeline. About his tattoos and motorcycle, and oddball friends. Finally, a challenge was issued. To explain why he had not gone before church elders, to beg for permission to participate in their meetings. This struck him with the force of a lightning bolt. He reacted directly, with an intellectual response instead of a physical one. And gave an explanation born of theology, not anger.

 

He spoke honestly and with patience, while standing in the parking lot outside of their sanctuary.

 

“The scriptures talk about Christ making intercession for us, with the Holy Father, when we pray. And also, about him adding us as believers, when we receive him, and follow. It has been said that the only unforgivable sin is a refusal to accept that truth into our hearts. Additionally, that everyone has fallen short of the glory, and that ‘If a man says he is without sin, he makes God a liar, and the truth is not in him.’ This, I hold as a bedrock statement. To be perfect, as a kindred member of the spiritual community once observed to me, literally means to be complete. That happens only through divine intervention. It is not a matter of earning points on a scorecard...”

 

The yield of this unplanned encounter, was a complete excommunication. Something he did not seek or desire. At home, he made a confession to his wife. One that would eventually bring the end of their marriage bonds, as well.

 

“I do not think that I can go there again, to worship...”

 

Soon, Parker fell back on habits acquired as a mechanism of self-defense. As before, his family environment was constituted by other outcasts and bikers, and malcontents of an artistic variety. He rejoined a lower strata of the prevailing social order. Where judgment over appearances and alliances did not exist. He went back to laboring as a mechanic. And surrendered his comfortable, suburban home for a flat situated right downtown, in a seedy, gritty neighborhood which was populated by those of a downtrodden nature.

 

There, amid the wreckage of failed hopes and dreams, he once again felt a sense of belonging.

 

While on a restless tour of back roads in West Virginia, in modern times, these memories echoed with meaning. He was now quite far removed from everything that had gone before. Wives, children and career aspirations had become nearly mythical in his recollections. Talismans of a bygone age, which he rarely revisited in memory.

 

He headed around the regional perimeter at a breakneck speed, pausing occasionally at colorful locales that lay in bordering territories. Until the change in fall foliage signaled that winter was not too distant. Then, he turned with humility to a familiar path taken for refuge. One toward his cousin, and the Mountaineer embrace of Grafton. A seasonal spot for hibernation would be needed, if he were to exist with the sun hidden behind cascades of winter snow. With his father now gone to eternal rest, and an order of eviction being enforced by New York, he literally had nowhere else to land.

 

Bodean was rebuilding a section of their porch steps, when he reached the hilltop shanty. A belly-laugh and teasing rebuke made him sure that his choice to rekindle their familial connection had been wise, indeed.

 

“Yeahhhhh, I damn well figured y’all might end up back on my doorstep, Feesh! I know how ya roll! We been cousins in good standin’ fer a long, long time. That counts fer somethin’ mighty strong, I reckon. Don’t forget that I tried ta talk ya out of leavin’ in the first place. Though I know ya gotta do things on yer own schedule. I won’t gripe about that. But if yer ready ta plunk down here fer a spell, then its got ta come with a promise. Y’all have ta put yer heart into bein’ here, this can’t go sideways the first time there’s a problem. Understand? I’ll put my ass on the line fer ya, but don’t make me look foolish. Don’t make me sorry that I took ya in, okay?”

 

His close relation nodded and offered a fist bump to seal this oath.

 

“I need a hole-in-the-wall, at least until spring. It’ll let me rebuild the Shovelhead hawg, and save up a few dollars. That’s all I need, a little grubsteak. A hand-up, not a handout. I know nothing comes for free. I’ll help pull the wagon. And I’ll be mighty grateful. Count on it!”

 

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 6: Discovery

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?”

 

Impulsive rage filled his head. It took all the self-restraint he could muster not to verbally explode.

 

“DO I LOOK LIKE THE GAWDAMN CHURCHY TYPE TO YOU, MA’AM? I SAID TO KEEP THE THING FOR SOMEBODY ELSE! KEEP IT!”

 

The waiflike server looked wounded by his refusal.

 

“Okay then, okay. I am sorry. So sorry...”

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 5: Return

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

After visiting the grave of his father in Kentucky, Parker Redman wandered along the Ohio River for several days. He rode as if possessed by a demonic entity. Without any clear sense of direction, or purpose. But eventually, the futility of this episode made him spiritually and emotionally tired. He was running hard, but on a journey to nowhere. Even in a state of detachment and loss, this seemed a useless exercise. He needed some sort of grounding. Some personal reassessment of his reason for still being alive.

 

With no other point on the map calling him forward, he decided to revisit what had gone before. Central New York had been his home for many years. A place where he truly attained his manhood, learned how to wrench on iron steeds of the custom variety, and developed a taste for hard liquor. In addition to defensive physical combat, and loose women. With persistence, and frequent stops for gasoline, he could be back in several hours. The fumes from that high-octane nectar made him swoon in the saddle. It inspired daydream fantasies as he wandered back to the origin point of his southern tour. In that cloud of ether, he imagined getting a merciful reboot of his life. A second chance at finishing what he had begun as a teenage runaway. But upon reaching the county line, and then, his former apartment in a brick building by the railroad tracks, a new wrinkle of fate took hold of him as a prisoner.

 

Sheriff Contrell Pugh emerged from a vacant lot, across the alleyway. He was a beefy, burly fellow, always perspiring regardless of the ambient temperature. The enforcement professional had been waiting for an opportunity such as this, supported only by intuition. Long years of public service provided the sort of insight that a classroom setting, at the academy, could not offer. Now, the gamble he had taken paid off handsomely. There were no accomplices present, no club members to provide aid and comfort. And no witnesses. The moment was his to seize, and control. He felt empowered by this stroke of good fortune.

 

“FISHTAIL? YOU ACTUALLY CAME BACK HERE AFTER LEAVING IN A GAWDAMN HUFF? AFTER TEARING THINGS UP LIKE THE TASMANIAN DEVIL? BOY, I HAVE TO SAY YOU’VE WON THE PRIZE FOR ARROGANCE, OR MAYBE, PLUM STUPIDITY. WHICH IS IT, SIR? TELL ME BEFORE I CUFF YOU RIGHT HERE AND NOW!”

 

Parker had been strangely oblivious to his surroundings. He had barely taken time to dismount the chrome horse, and get his bearings once again. He felt exposed in a way that was not customary. Normally, his wits, or fists, would make escaping such an unfriendly situation guaranteed. But in this instance, he had tripped up, and fallen flat.

 

“Howdy Contrell. I’m honored to think you hung around here just to give me a welcome home greeting. That touches my heart...”

 

The lawman was not entertained by his cavalier attitude.

 

“DAMMIT FISH, YOU ARE ONE DUMB SON-OF-A-BITCH! DIDN’T YOU KNOW SANDRA WOULD PRESS CHARGES, AFTER THE WAY YOU LEFT HER PLACE? SHE FIGURED YOU’D NEVER COME BACK HERE THOUGH, BECAUSE THAT WOULD MEAN LANDING ON YOUR BUTT, IN THE HOOSEGOW! BUT I HAD A FEELING. CALL IT A TREMOR IN MY BONES. I KNEW THAT YOU’D RUN AROUND LIKE A SCARED CHICKEN, AND EVENTUALLY, END UP RIGHT WHERE YOU STARTED! TURN AND FACE THE WALL! YOU’RE HEADED TO JAIL, BOY! AT LEAST UNTIL WE SORT OUT ALL THE DETAILS!”

 

The contrarian biker realized that he had walked into a trap set on the first day of his willful absence. It hurt his pride to admit being so foolish. Yet he understood that the judgment was fully deserved.

 

“Okay, I get your groove, constable. It’s time to throw your weight around, right? Got to impress those voters at election time...”

 

A shove from the back sent him face-first, into the rough exterior of his abandoned living space. He felt the cold, metal hoops clamp over his wrists. Then, the barrel of a pistol pressed between his shoulder blades.

 

“THAT GIRL OF YOURS HAS THOSE BALLS IN A VISE, FISHTAIL! IF SHE WANTS TO MAKE SOMETHING OF THIS, BY GOD, JUDGE HENRY WILL SEND YOUR ASS RIGHT TO THE LOCKUP! YOUR REPUTATION AROUND THESE PARTS IS WELL KNOWN. CONGRATULATIONS, OFFENDER! YOU’RE ABOUT TO WIN THE DAMN SHIT LOTTERY! GOOD JOB! GOOOOOOD JOB!”

 

Parker was in a holding cell with three other men. They were camp laborers from a local KOA. All part of a scheme to rob tourists who were traversing the continent in oversized travel-trailers. None of them seemed particularly muscular, or scary. But a stench of cheap cigarettes and beer oozed from their pores. None of the trio had an interest in making conversation. So, he kept to himself in a corner of the confined cubicle. He dozed lightly throughout the evening, and overnight. In the morning, a breakfast of black coffee, toast, and fried bologna roused him from slumber. One by one, each captive was escorted to a courthouse annex, across the main boulevard in town. Their cases were officially recorded, adjudicated, and a sentence was passed. But when the motorcycle bum had his turn before the bench, there was a change in tone. Loone Beale, the magistrate on duty, narrowed her eyes and scowled. Her feline spectacles hung on a silver chain, draped over an official robe made from dark, purple silk.

 

“Judge Henry is out sick today. Therefore, it is my responsibility to handle some of the workload here. Mr. Redman, I am aware that you recently lived in this county. But have been absent for approximately three weeks. The manner of your exit was written about in our local newspaper. Additionally, there was some question regarding an act of wanton violence committed against Sandra Frye, who is a native of the city. How do you plead, sir?”

 

Parker shook his head in protest.

 

“I tore up the room where we stayed, yes. But never put a hand on that woman. I was raised to know better, your honor. So help me, God...”

 

Beale sighed and shuffled papers on her blotter.

 

“I don’t have any complaints filed here. Not even by the landlord, which is a surprise. You ought to owe him something for property destruction. But let’s get to the bottom line. If Ms. Frye has no interest in pursuing a case against over this incident, then I want you gone. Out of this municipality, county, and preferably, out of the state. Pay the impound fee on your bike, and go! I hope to never see you again. That is my judgment! This court is adjourned!”

 

 

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 4: Offer

 

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

After a night of drinking and revelry at Poole’s Stumble Inn, Parker Redman was eager to return to the road, and put some miles under the wheels of his long-limbed Shovelhead. He had never been one to sit for too long. The thought of abandoning his wanderlust seemed repulsive and stifling. Yet when he had packed up his leather saddlebags and bedroll, to depart, there was a scene at the front door. Cousin Bodean was sober, pale, and insistent on having a last word before they exchanged goodbyes.

 

His voice stammered and broke, with emotion.

 

“Feesh, we ain’t seen each other in a long damn time. Now I know ya like ta keep movin’ but here’s an offer right from the heart. We could use a good wrench here in this town. Somebody with real skills, who don’t expect ta make the big bucks of a dealership mechanic. A dude who knows his way around a Harley-Davidson motor. You know what I mean? A stand-up brother who gives a shit about playin’ fair and bein’ honest with others. I can find y’all a garage ta rent around here, there’s plenty of empty properties on the market. A building where ya could live upstairs, and work fer yerself. People keep leavin’ fer jobs in other states, times are tough here at home. But this is a good spot fer livin’ free, these are good folks, with good hearts. Think about it before ya hop on that sled and jet outta town!”

 

His close relation frowned and spit before answering.

 

“Bo, I appreciate that offer. You’re on target about Grafton, it’s a community with strong values and residents who work hard and love harder. I get it. Family ties still mean something in a place like this. And I won’t claim that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind, on occasion. But there’s grit in the gears with your proposition. I’m not the type to be a joiner. Not a loyal clubber, I don’t wear anyone’s patch. Not even ours, not even our bloodline. I’m stained, man. Rotten at the core. That can’t be washed away...”

 

The lanky Mountaineer shook his head in disagreement.

 

“Naw, dammit! Yer a good dude, Feesh! A good dude!”

 

Parker closed his eyes and took a deep breath while reflecting on his own legacy.

 

“My ex-wife once said ‘You used to be a good man!’ That burned like a hot coal from the fireplace, because it was true. Spot on, she cut me hard and quick. I got the same opinion from my father, before leaving home as a teenager. He figured that I had surrendered my birthright. And maybe he had it pegged correctly. I can’t judge. But I do know that since I made that choice, my soul is black. There’s no soft-soap in the world that’ll wash off the stink. So, there you have it. I am what I am, as Popeye used to say in the comic strips...”

 

Bodean punched the outside wall of his hillside shanty. His knuckles began to bleed after the impulsive strike.

 

“GAWDAMN, FEESH! YER A STUBBORN SON-OF-A-BITCH! I KNEW HOW YA WERE LIKELY TA REACT. BUT HAD TA GIVE IT A TRY, ANYHOW. IT’S BEEN GREAT TA HAVE YA STAY HERE FER A NIGHT. WHENEVER YER RIDIN’ AROUND THESE PARTS, COME AGAIN! MY DOOR IS ALWAYS OPEN FER YA! THAT’S A PROMISE!”

 

The chopper motorcycle was predictably balky at getting started, after they shared a final handshake. Then, exhaust smoke billowed from the fishtail pipes. With a clunk of the homemade jockey shift, it dropped into first gear. Gravel and dirt flew in the air. A mechanical roar of unmuffled, big-displacement cylinders rattled the windows.

 

The wandering biker did not stop for gasoline until he was many miles away.

 

With the throttle turned wide open, he passed Clarksburg, rode south to Flatwood and Sutton, then turned west toward Charleston and Huntington. Somewhere along this meandering route, he paused at a convenience depot for fuel, a piss break, and coffee. Both legs were stiff and his back was sore. A consequence of the stretched, rigid frame of his steed. From there, he veered south once more, past Prichard and Louisa, Ulysses and Lowmansville. Then, the local geography turned gut-wrenchingly familiar. He bounced along the way with gravel scattering in his wake. Finally, with some effort, he reached the church cemetery that was his intended destination.  

 

He knelt respectfully, in the wet grass and mud. Then, ran his fingers over the weathered stone of his father’s grave.

 

“I’m here, papa. I’m here. Late as usual, you’d probably say. I wish the news had come through faster. But it’s water under the bridge now. I’m here...”

 

From the depths of his spirit, a wave of sorrow bent him in half. He crouched low and sobbed, openly. There were no witnesses to console him in this private moment of grief. Yet it was what he desired. To be alone and able to express himself, freely.

 

Overhead, storm clouds were gathering. The sky had turned gray and dark.

 

Parker cleared his throat, collected himself, and stood upright, once more.

 

“I know that you had a single dream for our little bunch. To sire a seedling that would grow up tall and strong, and earnest in the gospel truths. Maybe I showed some promise of attaining that goal, at least in my childhood. Maybe I made a mistake in not heeding the call you heard yourself, I don’t know. Maybe hell will be hot and full of anguish. Maybe the devils are waiting to inherit my carcass. Maybe I’ll moan and groan with regret. But I don’t think things could have gone down any other way. I’ve had a good run, on my own. I’m hard-headed, and hard-assed. You used to say it, yourself, in kinder, gentler terms. I’ve got no defense to offer, except this one statement of fact – it was your DNA that made me what I am. It was God’s will that made me what I am. For better or worse. I’m not proud of where I landed, necessarily, but there’s no guilt in my belly, either. People like to say, ‘it is what it is’ or some such bullshit, which I figure hits the mark. You couldn’t change things, and neither could I, so... this is how the story ended. A postscript will be written, when I join you here, in the ground. But I hope that won’t come too soon...”