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...”
No comments:
Post a Comment