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!”
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