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 He was plain-spoken, witty in a dry manner, and somewhat withdrawn.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...”

 

 

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 3: Tavern

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

Grafton, West Virginia was not a city generally known for tourist attractions or natural wonders. It had evolved as a population center, only to become stuck in the limbo of stalled progress. Yet for inhabitants like Bodean Pringle, there was no better community in which to raise a family and enhance the authenticity of Mountaineer culture. He knew every memorable spot in the city. Along with historical facts that could be recited at will. But most important of all was his knowledge of local watering holes. Juke joints, restaurants, bars and taverns, where fellowship and good conversation could be had with a well-mixed drink. His favorite of these was a dingy, dilapidated roadhouse, situated right down by the riverbank. Tucked neatly in between an IGA Foodliner, a laundromat, a closed fuel station, and a crummy Dollar General site that predated the ubiquity of that chain across America.

 

Poole’s Stumble Inn was cramped and dirty. The walls were lined with framed photos from years of customer traffic. Autographed portraits of Don Knotts, a native of Morgantown, and Ted Cassidy, who grew up in Philippi. Along with Terry Bradshaw, the Steelers hero, and Governor Joe Manchin, astride his custom, Harley-Davidson motorcycle. There were signs and advertisements for an assortment of brands, many of which were no longer produced. The front window was a narrow slot in the brick façade. With a neon sign fashioned by a local builder, which depicted a long rifle, and a moonshine still.

 

Bodean knew every patron by name. He visited almost daily. So, when his cousin came to call, it was the first venue to pop into his mind. But when they mounted stools at the hand-carved, wooden slab that served as a counter, his relative stiffened. Something in the atmosphere seemed to trigger this response, but the cause was not obvious.

 

“C’mon Feesh, let’s drink a toast ta old memories and good times. And yer pappy, Podmore. He was a good dude, everybody in the bloodline respected him as a man of the cloth! That ought ta count fer somethin’ I reckon!  It damn sure counts with me!”

 

Parker Redman sighed heavily before lifting his whiskey glass.

 

“I don’t figure he’d appreciate any alcohol being downed in his honor. But, here’s to him, anyway. Cheers...”

The crowd of patrons was somewhat subdued at first. But with draft beer and liquor flowing freely, and the small dance floor reverberating from a live-band performance, body heat soon raised the temperature. A raucous version of the Garth Brooks standard, ‘Friends in Low Places’ got everyone moving and milling around. Eventually, a pair of young cowboys forced their way to the bar, and demanded service. Both were clean-cut, visually correct examples of the cartoon outlaw breed. In broad-brimmed, white hats and faux chaps. Clean, manicured, and photogenic for the lovely, booted ladies who were present.

 

The taller of this duo reached over shoulders at the bar, as everyone sat dribbling suds and Evan Williams bourbon. Then, the counterfeit ranch-hand jostled a frosted mug from its place, spilling brew everywhere. Bodean stood up reflexively, wiped foam from his denim trousers, and cursed.

 

“What the frig, boy? Watch yerself, dammit! I’m tryin’ ta have a drink with my cousin here!”

 

A look of surprise and amusement blossomed over the young buck’s face. He grabbed hold of the countertop, and swung himself squarely into position. Taking the stool away from its rightful sitter.

 

“I NEED SOME ROOM HERE, DIRTBAG! THIS SCENE IS MAKIN’ME THIRSTY. COMPRENDE?”

 

The cowpoke gestured for attention from those waiting on customers. But with the crush of patrons arriving for an evening libation, their response was undeniably slow.

 

Parker pushed his own mug across the wood, because it had run empty. He turned around on his pedestal perch, and came eye-to-eye with the offending interloper.

 

“Friend, if you’re parched, I get that vibe. But wait your turn. My cuz was sitting there. Don’t be rude about things, show a little respect. He’s an Army veteran. Three tours of duty in Iraq...”

 

The wannabe western star laughed out loud at this warning. He did not heed the caveat, and instead, settled himself on the leather-topped stool. With a glance of indifference, and a tilt of his head indicating a cocky mood of confidence.

 

“LOOK, ASSWIPE, I DON’T TRAFFIC IN BULLSHIT! NO PIECE OF MULLET-HAIRED, BIKER TRASH IS GONNA GIVE ORDERS TO ME! UNDERSTAND? I WANT SERVICE HERE! I WANT SERVICE FROM THE BARMAIDS! SO SHUT THE EFF UP AND STAND ASIDE, OKAY?”

 

With a hard shove, the youngster knocked Bodean off his feet. This caused a commotion of sorts, as other revelers were also tipped off balance. A scrum erupted on the worn linoleum. Grunts and groans echoed, as the live music paused. Then fists began to fly.

 

Parker raised his right hand, as if to still the chaos with a silent incantation. Yet instead of preaching or praying, he put his paw onto one shoulder blade of the primary offender. He twisted on the circular seat, leveraging his body mass for use as a cudgel of brute force. The greenhorn cowboy slammed, face-first, into a plate of nachos and wings. This feast scattered everywhere, as the other young provocateur watched in disbelief, while his partner slouched, and slid to the floor.

 

Bodean righted himself, and took both of the tenderfoot cowpokes by their ears.

 

“Y’all are leavin’ right now, gentlemen! This establishment is over capacity, I reckon! It’s time ta thin the herd! Yer skinny asses are outta here! Have a yerselves a good night, and don’t bother comin’ back now, ya hear?”

 

As if on cue, the band resumed its popular set list. A rousing version of the Travis Tritt classic, ‘Country Club’ immediately put everyone in better spirits.

 

Parker ordered another round of whiskey, and a fresh pour of Miller High Life. Then moved to a distant corner of the room. He shunned everyone else at the tavern, even his cousin. In the morning, his exit would be swift and sure. But for the moment, he wanted only two things.

 

To be drunk, and left alone.

“Broken Bed, 1977”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

Out of bed, nearly one o’clock

On a morrow blustery and chilled, no thaw in sight

This is the way

That doors swing on their hinges

Embracing creative binges

That tax my reserve

A snippet, sampled

Of what it means to be seen and heard

I used to look forward, longing for such an escape

When sitting in that plain, ranch house

About three miles out

From the city’s edge

Unknown, unloved

Unaware of what awaited

An adventure written in ink

A cough of circumstance, over the kitchen sink

Nursing a bottle of Wild Irish Rose

Things began to appear from the ether

When this trick was employed

I was an oddball schoolboy

Shunned by popular friends

Quill in hand

Jotting down notes, like formations in marching band

I kept a bound book on the typewriter table

A sheaf of short takes

Scribbled, when I was able to write

Trading lost hours, overnight

In exchange for a warm glow of patronage

A salutation to sorcery, of a kind

Delving into crevices of the subconscious mind

The homestead was quiet

But not in that corner room

Not while I sat by the light repurposed from an aquarium hood

And channeled words, unspoken

Silent at their inception

Yet vocally amplified

With the majestic tone of an eagle’s cry

Careful and quick

Mother and father must have wondered

What reason I had

For breaking bad

Sister in her comfort zone

Brother in the basement, nodding off

A radio under his pillow

Its tiny, tinny speaker loosing the flow

Of a broadcast bruiser

That moment passed with the intensity of a seasonal gale

Lingering just long enough

To remind me of morning, and a rote routine

Back to the classroom, in my bell-bottom blue jeans

Legs akimbo, in a back row spot

Pencils flipped from end to end, and back

The lesson plan made me laugh

A messy moral, yielded from a mimeograph

Intended to inspire

When all I wanted, all I needed

Was to be awake when the day reached its daring denouement

When the vacuum of a vacant eve

Gave me what I was eager to receive

A restless ride, with eyebrows raised

A run toward the shadows

A preamble in the margin

Noted and knotted

Dutifully ink-blotted

Before finally surrendering to the fade of fatigue

Torn-out pages across my knees

Pens on the rug

A trace of cheap wine left in my coffee mug

A telltale sign of magic, deployed

Standing wobbling, stiff and slow

Back to the broken bed I go

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 2: Escape

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

Hearing that his father had passed away affected Parker Redman in two conflicting ways that unsettled his inner sense of balance. He was grieving for the loss of his sire, and guilty over having abandoned the family for so many years. Yet oddly, he also felt a sense of release. One that finally freed him from the metaphorical prison of being destined to follow in footsteps that were not his to inherit. He had remorse for the distance placed between himself and the bloodline, but not over having escaped willfully, to find his own path. The dirty, damned existence into which he had fallen was his alone. He owned no one else a tribute of any kind, for choosing to wander, and taste mortal pleasures, without inhibition.

 

On the first night after receiving news of this tragedy, he got drunk at a local tavern. Something that was not out of the ordinary. Except that instead of playing the jukebox, flirting with trashy women who happened to be present, and playing billiards, he sat alone in a dark corner, brooding silently. In the morning, he awakened to sensations of fatigue and regret, instead of celebration over having imbibed liquor with friends. Then, his next course of action became apparent. He had reached an inflection point. A time to make decisions that would be difficult and challenging. It was not a task that he welcomed.

 

What followed was emotionally raw and true to form. His significant other would not understand.

 

He trashed the apartment where they lived, in a righteous fit of rage. Furniture, vinyl records, photo albums, beer signs, and the front windows all fell to his swinging fists and a long-handled sledgehammer. His girlfriend and main squeeze, Sandra, had been at work at the tavern. She came home to discover the chaotic aftermath, once he had departed. She collapsed on the carpet in their living room, sobbing over the wreckage left in his wake. Her eyes reddened with tears, and a sweaty smear of cosmetics. In the distance, a roar of his Shovelhead Harley could be heard fading into the background.

 

They would not see each other again.

 

Fishtail had a cousin in the West Virginia city of Grafton, a distant venue nestled in the hills. Living in a shack situated along the Tygart Valley River, in Taylor County. It was a place that had transcended time with a careless disregard for the progress and preferences of more populated areas. Homes dotted the road, here and there along the main route, as if they had been dropped from the heavens. Bends were sharp and unpredictable. Often curving right at the edge of a building or garage. Yards sloped precipitously downward, with rooflines bordering the blue skies overhead. There were brick structures still in use from more than a hundred years before. Cars and trucks parked with their metal hindquarters dangerously close to the flow of traffic. Lights flashing out warnings unheeded, as if they had no purpose. Pedestrians leaping the curbs while carrying shopping bags full of pepperoni rolls. And stray pets navigating narrow corridors in between one crooked street, and the next.

 

From central New York, on a hardtail cycle beset with vibration of the mechanical kind, the ride was one that rattled his bones. He nearly went deaf from the twin blast of unmuffled, drag pipes. His right hand ached from twisting the throttle. At sufficient intervals, he stopped for gasoline, grub, and a piss break along the tarmac. He was not shy about unzipping his denim trousers in public. Though any bystanders he encountered quickly averted their gaze. At over six feet tall, weighing 300 pounds, and carrying a mass of hair styled in a windstorm environment, he did not present a friendly profile.

 

It was long after sunset when he arrived at the clapboard hovel. Sheets of aged, tarpaper-shingles hung from the walls. There was a bare light, on in the kitchen. He could see the outline of a shotgun, aimed at the front entrance.

 

“Hey there! It’s yer cuz, boy! Don’t shoot me when I’ve just gotten here. I’m making a social call of sorts. Dad died in Kentucky, I heard. I’ll be heading out that way pretty soon. But for the moment, I wanted to make sure you were aware of what happened...”

 

Bodean Pringle peered through a loose slat in the exterior wall. He was scrawny and long-legged. A different wrinkle on the family’s genetic profile. With a careful droop of his elbows, he lowered the antique firearm. Then appeared from the shadows, inside.

 

“Gawdamn, Feesh! I knew the sound of that bike, but couldn’t believe ya would show up here, right now. Ain’t there still warrants out fer yer arrest? Shit man, it’s good ta see ya though!”

 

Parker shrugged and let his pinging hawg lean restfully on its sidestand.

 

“No warrants. Nothing so crazy as that, trust me. Though I did leave the Empire State in a hurry. I might’ve hurt some feelings. Not that it matters at this point...”

 

Bodean stroked his jutting chin and huffed slightly.

 

“I never knew where y’all had ended up. My folks haven’t kept in touch with yer pa. Though they did tell me he was still in his pulpit. Still thumpin’ that Bible like a backwoods prophet! Ya shoulda followed his lead, cuz. Yer name has been mud ever since. The talk around here is ya wasted yer talent!”

 

There was a pause as the visitor clenched his fists. Then, he slumped against a post on the concrete stoop. He spoke slowly and with an edge to his voice.

 

“I’ve heard it for years. You can guess where that started. My sister, Rhubie, bless her memory! Truth is though, I never wanted to don that straight-jacket. I’d prefer my leather, instead...”

 

His cousin nodded and grinned, with understanding.

 

“I get it dude, I get it. Y’all are independent as frig. That’s all good in my book. But it didn’t win any awards around here. A lot of the old preachers are dyin’ off. There ain’t enough men willing ta take on the mantle, ya know? Ta wear the cloth, and the white coilar. It’s part of our traditions. I might not go to church, but I’ll always consider myself ta be a Mountaineer.”

 

Parker shucked his jacket, and lit a smoke.

 

“One night’s accommodation, that’s all I ask. I’ll be riding to Kentucky in the morning. But for the moment, I’d be grateful for your hospitality...”

 

Bodean smacked his relative on the right shoulder.

 

“GET YER ASS IN HERE, FEESH! WE’VE GOT TA CHEW THE FAT, AND DRINK SOME WHISKEY!”

“Ready”

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

Are you ready?

Ready for a spin on Let’s Make a Deal

Rushed into experiences, sublime, yet surreal

With a howling of hucksters, an overwhelming appeal

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

For a chance crossing of a two-lane road

Like a chicken chasing wildly, after a toad

Under a bald eagle screeching, ‘Hey, look out below!’

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

To admit that life is a gamester’s get

A full measure of captives in a butterfly net

A memory too precious to ever forget

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

To read a love letter to the one you desire

While sitting on the perimeter of a blazing, bonfire

Wondering about goals to which you aspire

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

To bow your head low, and accept having failed

With all of the guilt that act would entail

A step off the edge of a woodland trail

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

To witness the elevation of a saint to his spot

Above all the faithful, waiting out in the parking lot

A tradition, time-tested, for those who have not

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

For a cadence of marchers, high-stepping along

With a chorus of carolers, uplifting their song

While a dance is performed to the clang of a gong

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

For the last gasp of breath that comes before sleep

When the darkness enshrouds those who quietly creep

Into a realm of spirits who boldly repeat -

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

For a gift given after the experience has passed

To be first on the roster, and shuffled to last

To receive a proud pouring, into the wine glass

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

For a sunset of days that will erase all creation

Like a blackboard swept clean, of its information

Will you weep or rejoice, with sheer adulation

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

To be lifted on high, with wings to behold

Wide and feathered lightly, with trimmings of gold

A compensation offered, growing feeble and old

Are you ready?

 

Are you ready?

To read the last sonnet composed by a bard

Spray-painted crudely, on a garage in the yard

Dealt swiftly and sure, like a hand of playing cards

Are you ready?