c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-26)
After weeks of working on his Shovelhead chopper in the downhill garage at Grafton, Parker Redman had finally reached a point where starting the motor for a test run was in order. But the winter season and persistent snowfall meant that he could not ride his motorcycle to certify its roadworthiness. So instead, he forced the roll-up door to rise, and then climbed into position for a kickstart marathon, until his beast came to life. He came down on the lever again and again, until finally, enough fuel and air had mixed in the carburetor. With a chuff of exhaust smoke, his reworked, vintage Harley-Davidson began to pop and shake, and rattle the windows. Up the long incline, he could see his cousin standing on the back porch. A raised fist celebrated this moment of joyful exuberance. Then, a shout of glee echoed over the wintery landscape.
“GOOD JOB, CUZ! Y’ALL DONE GOT YER SHIT TOGETHER! I KNEW IT WAS GONNA HAPPEN, EVENTUALLY! NOW ALL WE NEED IS A GOOD THAW TO CLEAR OFF SOME OF THESE STREETS!”
After letting the motorcycle idle for a minute, he switched off its ignition. Then, took a seat on his shipping crate, with the overhead door still open. He reached for one of the whiskey bottles in his private stash, this time, a glass reserve of Wild Turkey 101. The bourbon went down hard, with a gulp of fire that made him groan and grin. His face flushed with pleasure. He took pride in the accomplishment of completing his repair work. But drooped emotionally when pondering the glistening white that covered everything he could see. There would be more weeks of frost and cold, and isolation ahead. He had not yet been liberated from hibernating in the tiny shack.
Visits from Krista Pearl had helped to pass the time, as he labored on this mechanical, renovation project. But now, he suspected that her endurance might have been sapped completely. He had not taken her up on the invite to become a household fixture. Instead, with a polite disdain for companionship of any kind, he saluted her goodwill, and let the offer expire. A shift in priorities was not something he could embrace. He wanted to resume the cause of staying in perpetual motion. Riding here and there, to anywhere other than the spot upon which he had previously landed. He did not want to be used or owned, or kept. Even if that experience might have ultimately given him pleasure.
By the evening, shortly before sunset, he was drunk and delirious. Bodean had not bothered to trek across the slippery slope between them, as he guessed that his cousin would prefer to languish in solitude. The rhythm of pouring, filling, and emptying glasses, soon had Parker tipsy and stumbling around the garage. He returned to the library shelf of shop manuals. Then, came across the Bible for Bikers, once more. Holding it in his grubby, greasy fingers inspired pangs of guilt. He felt unworthy to read the holy document in such a condition of inebriation. But as before, it fell open in his hands, to a specific passage that he did not expect.
Romans 8: 28-33, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. For those God foreknew he also predestined to be confirmed to the image of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters. And those he predestined, he also called; those he called, he also justified; those he justified, he also glorified. What, then, shall we say in response to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all – how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things? Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen? It is God who justifies.”
Parker trembled with shame and sorrow. He could hear his father’s voice, reading the passage from a pulpit in Kentucky. As a child, that sound had been soothing and comforting to him, at every service. It had centered him on the faith, and grounded his identity. But over time, that indelible stamp faded. It became a timeworn tradition that no longer held value or meaning. Something he shunned and stripped from himself, like a discarded skin.
Now, huddled on the concrete floor, his chest heaved with regret. He sobbed openly, though with no one else to bear witness to this personal spectacle. His body shook and shuddered. His eyes lost their focus. He breathed heavily, until oblivion finally eclipsed his consciousness. Then, he lay sprawled on stains of crankcase oil and axle grease. Everything went dark. The sound of rushing winds outside, turned silent.
He slept for a long time. Until a surge in his bladder roused the sentient impulse to seek relief, in a remote corner of the oversized shed. Stumbling and nearly falling, he faced the bathroom wall. And found himself leaning in the doorway. Mucous trailed down his dealership T-shirt. He had soiled his garments.
From eternity, Pastor Podmore Redman spoke in a familiar tone that still resonated with authority.
“Boy, do you remember when I taught Bible lessons right from the dinner table? That was happy work, I did not want anything more than to have a seed planted in the soil, one that would spring up and grow strong in the word. I did that out of love, for you. And even when you embraced the world, instead of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I still loved you. Maybe it was difficult to express sometimes, in a way that you would receive. But my heart never failed in its mission. I never regretted that you needed to learn of your own accord. Because I was certain that one day, the light would shine on you just as it did on me and your mother. Nothing can prevail against that kind of love. Not sins of the flesh, not fate or fortune, and not even the grave. Hear and believe, my son. Hear and believe...”
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