c. 2026 Rod Ice
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(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 These variations were all odd and outdated.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!”
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