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 He was plain-spoken, witty in a dry manner, and somewhat withdrawn.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