Fishtail Redman, Chapter 14: Startup

  

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...”

“Two Sides"

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

Two sides, in a perpetual war

Jockeying positions held for a purpose, untoward

Loyalties divided

Insiders dutifully duped and derided

As useful herds of livestock

Tick tick goes the clock

It is not hard to draw conclusions

When thinking has evolved into a suicide solution

A cocktail shaken, not stirred

With elements of ridiculosity, misheard

Chatter chatter, what’s the matter?

The yield of this paradigm is a flat-earth splatter

Gobsmacked and googly-eyed

Like mourners at a gravesite for heroes that died

Partisan rants

Flames shoot wildly, from their underpants

Preaching to the masses

Dissertations in university classes

A hold put upon the daylight

To keep everything teetering on a pinhead’s plight

A rube’s ruse in effect

With invisible investors to protect

They champion the cause, by another name

Of bowling balls lobbed, right down the lane

Crashing on the boards

Pins felled for a final reward

Combat trophies handed out with a sweet aroma of candy

Super-troopers duded up, fine and dandy

Their swords at the hilt

Guarding temples, righteously built

Of bricked, human waste

Dried and seeded with a salt-brine, for taste

This moment in history makes my knees knock together

Watching the march of soldiers in leather

Bootheels clicking, and kicking to the sky

That parade of pomposity brings a tear to my eye

For the republic which could not stand

Heads down, boys – strike up the band

It feels hotter than hades under the lights

A shining beacon of damnation and last rites

Though the duality of this deed

Tells me that I have been deceived

A continuity trick, from turning the page

Printed matter handed down from an earlier age

Black, white, and red flags fly

Those colors calm the populace with hues to deny

Nothing to see here

No one wants to be here

But the birthright of a ranch hand is sure

The bloodline preserved is inevitably pure

Thick as mud, and rainwater soup

Brimming with the consistency of melted ice cream in a scoop

Dribbling and dripping

While long-held principles are slipping

Away, away

Endure this clash of titans, like a garden-hose spray

In the end it comes down to luck

Letters missing from the side of a fire truck

Its hoses, knotted and tangled

Every thinker metaphorically looking for an angle

That will be repeated on the six o’clock news

A stomp of consternation, in wingtip shoes

Following the cadence of kettle drums banging

And the sound of falling triangles, clanging

A prayer said at church

With parishioners left in the lurch

Do not fear what they say

Or an eventual inheritance, on judgment day

Stuff the suggestion box

Change all the door locks

And go back to bed

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 13: Invitation

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

The kindness of Krista Pearl helped to break up days and weeks spent alone in the downhill garage of Bodean Pringle, next to his humble residence in Grafton, West Virginia. Yet for Parker Redman, each visit rattled him with a sense that the lure of respectability and a grounded existence might eventually overwhelm his wanderlust. He did not want to sacrifice the lifestyle of being in perpetual motion, something upon which he had depended for many years. Each night spent with the 40-something female straddling him on the rollaway bed brought back echoes of what he had jettisoned, when breaking free of convention and comfort. He relished the solitude of being a loner. And held fast to a philosophy of self-reliance. An old biker motto had been, ‘Sworn to fun, loyal to none.’ In his own experience, that mantra got reworked just a bit, into something broader and more general in scope. His loyalty, in plain terms, was to an unseen creator. A giver of blessings to those willing to take up the cause of celebrating their benefactor, as a holy parent. He did not traffic in the trappings of a church hierarchy, however. Instead, he offered his worship through action. By being present in the moment. Always aiming toward new horizons, and witnessing to others as a warrior for truth. Labels, tribes, cliques, and such, all failed to excite him in any way. The zest for living, for joyful exuberance over being alive and an inheritor of God’s ultimate gift, was enough. Each morning reinforced his good fortune, with a validation of that belief.

 

But for the woman who clerked at a local truck-stop, there was a more simple outlook in effect. She had been a faithful wife and mother, a steward of her household, a caregiver, and a protector for family members and friends. By necessity, she reared her son to the point where he chose a path of his own. Yet for all these accomplishments, inside, she remained empty. Her heart felt like a vacant space. She had exhausted her emotional energy to help others, while overlooking the most important asset of all.

 

Herself.

 

This disconnect had both of them traveling on differing trajectories. As Krista wanted to cling more closely, Parker pushed back as a defensive move. She longed to be in a relationship, once again. He yearned to find a better season for escaping, and miles of untraveled road, ahead.

 

Their interaction reached a conclusion of sorts, as temperatures outside persisted in staying below freezing. She used the hot plate and workbench to cook an improvised breakfast, and heated coffee in a campfire pot. It was less appealing than the sort of feast she could have summoned in her own kitchen. But sufficed as they both huddled inside the chilly garage.

 

“Feesh, I’m enjoyin’ these little sleepovers we’ve had. But y’all must know that I’ve got a place of my own, down the ridge. Right by the river. Now, it ain’t a princess palace, fer sure, but I do believe you’d find it more hospitable than this ol’ shack full of parts and junk. So, I wanna make ya an offer. Come on over and stay with me fer a spell. My boy is in the Marines now. They’ll be makin’ a real man outta him. Nothin’ like his gawdamn father, that’s guaranteed! My nest is empty though. It’s too quiet there. I don’t get up singin’ at sunrise, like in the olden days. I need some company, understand? I need to share my spot with somebody who tells me I’m pretty, and means it in his heart. Somebody who’ll make me laugh and smile and be glad fer another day on this earth. I think that’s a position y’all could handle...”

 

The quiet misanthrope recoiled at this description. It nearly caused him to swoon, with surrender. But he stiffened at the thought of losing the lonely status of a drifter. Perhaps his most prized possession, a free spirit, owned by no one else.

 

“Ma’am, I have to say that you’re quite a negotiator. Those terms would probably appeal to just about anybody. I’m not cut from that cloth though. Never was, never have been. I tend to blow up good situations like a stick of dynamite going off. Don’t ask why, because I’ve got no clues myself. When things get too safe, I always seem to bust out of the corral. I fight demons. I battle with ghosts. Maybe it’s a sign of some illness in my head, I don‘t know. My father formed his opinions on that subject. So did my ex-wives. And girlfriends. Business partners, and damn near everybody else!”

 

Krista huffed while plating up bacon strips and fried eggs.

 

“Feesh, yer no Clint Eastwood character, okay? Y’all are no John Wayne. Ya don’t have to puff yerself up so hard around me. I’ve seen troubles and tribulations, at home and on the job. A lot of truckers I’ve met sound just like that. They roam around, makin’ a buck, and eventually, lose what was waitin’ at home. But find out that the highway is more of a friend than anybody could ever be. That’s hard to swallow, at first. It might make ya sad, or crazy. That’s how I learned to listen, and nod my head. Sometimes, sayin’ yer piece is enough. It’s good just to know there’s another soul listenin‘ when ya talk...”

 

Parker had not noticed how cold the garage felt, until that moment. His skin prickled with a tingle of frost.

 

“Is that what you’re doing, miss? Listening to me ramble? Hanging on the sound of my voice? For entertainment, or maybe, just somebody to help pass the time?”

 

There was a silent pause as she thought before speaking. Then, her voice turned raspy and hoarse. For the first time, she sounded tired.

 

“I’m here lookin’ fer a friend, Feeshtail! I figure if ya have at least one or two of those in yer life, then ya been lucky. And I feel lucky right now. My question is, what about yer side of that coin? Do ya got that same vibe I do... or no?”  

“Chaos Chant”

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

Chaos, coast-to-coast

A state of emergency, undeclared

SWAT teams and their partners, under the stairs

Certain uncertainties, everywhere

I might have known

But a failed newspaper delivery left me alone

And someone cut the cord of my telephone

A device I should have shucked

In favor of artificial intelligence, and a bit of beginner’s luck

Tribalism corrals the breed

When a swarming population guards its seed

Carefully and critically caused to bleed

On the streets of a metropolis, where temperatures freeze

I watched the crash through my TV set

Saw the stock market tumble with fear and regret

While my representative at the big house said, “Do not forget!”

Make my choice

Hear my voice

My ride through town in the back of a Rolls Royce

Sitting on a plush and pillowy perch

Looking through stained glass, tinted with diesel and dirt

It made me cringe as if it were I who had been hurt

A nightstick to the teeth

A bend-over-backwards stance, proscribed for relief

I thought it best to evade the thief

As he stole a wristwatch from a bum who boldly kept track of time

An act indefensible, according to the headlines

I had to wonder about feeling sublime

As if my nerves had been numbed

My veins, medically plumbed

By a recommended dose of ignorance, won

At a poker game on the concrete

Half a block up the high street

Now I did not come this way for adventure or recognition

That was not my intended supposition

Yet with a single step behind the yellow tape

And trails of flavored, electronic vapes

I inherited my fate

To be remembered in retrospect, on this auspicious date

Clutching at my chest like a vintner squeezing grapes

Is the juice worth this twitch of painful remorse?

I heard the sound of breaking glass, somewhere on the concourse

A result of new traditions, being enforced

A pluck of the low-hanging fruit

A goose-stepping raider in the guise of a zoot suit

Whistles and wailers, cheerfully toot

On gold horns

An entreaty to a godlike goblin, forlorn

I was shivering in the onset of a great winter storm

Bad planning and such

To be outside and hobbling, with a single, steel crutch

It made me turn in circles, instead of staying in touch

Along the perimeter, like a mystical cheater

Around the polished post of a parking meter

Praying to the apostles, John, Matthew, and Peter

Which had all run out of minutes to express

At a point that I could not guess

A sad sign of neglected outrageousness

It left me standing in the middle of traffic

After the evacuation of magicians and their tricks

And all manner of mortality, scattered on the bricks

I needed a remedy, impulsively quick

But the pharmacy had closed

A constable thumbed his nose

And clicked his heels in subservient repose

That was the last of my dream

When I awoke, it was to a different scene

Every trace of the happening had been scrubbed lawfully clean

And I had only doubt as a friend

A fool, intellectually on the mend

This  cautionary tale was at an end

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 12: Dirty

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

Something about the feel of grease and grit had always appealed to Parker Redman. It provided a contrast with family members who were generally scrubbed clean, appropriately attired, and ready for a church service or related events at any time. He relished having sore muscles and a layer of grime in effect, after working on one of his Harley-Davidson projects. Due to a childhood of crew cuts, formal suits, and wingtip shoes, he was glad for shaggy hair, tattoos, and road scars. When strangers turned shy in his presence, it made him grin. The measure of safe distance kept by most individuals left him in a comfort zone where he felt inner peace. He did not like being touched or hugged, or approached at close quarters. He trusted no one. Though his manner was polite and reserved, by nature.

 

Being isolated in the downhill garage of his cousin offered breathing room when finished with family encounters. Each trip up the slope caused him stress. It was difficult to interact on a personal level. He preferred solitude to the challenge of sharing meals with others. Particularly when they had a bloodline connection that he did not want to sever or disturb. Being anonymous did not make him afraid or anxious. It evoked a quiet sense of joy. He liked to stay busy, but also, alone.

 

In recent years, the climate had been mild for those who lived around the Ohio Valley and beyond. His burden while surviving seasonal changes stayed light. Yet the current winter presented a stark picture of what he remembered from bygone days. Temperatures lingered well below freezing, with wind-chill numbers dipping toward zero. Therefore, remaining secluded in the repair shack was a must. Any time spent outside tempted fate. And persistent bouts of snow kept his vantage point perpetually buried. So, visits to Bodean, Angelette, and the grandkids were infrequent by necessity.

 

As January moved toward its conclusion, he had managed to tear down the ragged Shovelhead motor, and rebuild it for new adventures that would come. Moments of relaxation lengthened thanks to this blessed achievement. But because he had become stuck in place, boredom eventually took hold. He sorted through the small library of shop manuals, for a mental jog with past memories filling his head. Then, inventoried his dwindling cigarette stash and bourbon reserve. He would have to be judicious in his habits, to endure without making a run to some local depot for more supplies. A chore that did not appeal to him, with such an unfriendly environment waiting beyond the walls of his hideout. Yet the thought of staying sober for too many days made wanderlust seize his spirit. He had been perpetually in motion for weeks, months, and years. To sit still, without any purpose in mind, seemed to invite death and the grave.

 

He had nearly reached a desperate point of trekking into the lower regions of Grafton, on foot, for some shopping at a grocery depot. But once again, there was a rapping on the garage wall. Something he first thought must have been a cascade of falling ice.

 

Krista Pearl appeared at one of the square windows, seemingly outfitted for a skiing jaunt. She carried a canvas sack of goods that trailed frozen crystals, behind. The bounty within must have been considerable, because she dragged it on the ground like a deer carcass.

 

“Hey Feesh, I figured y’all must be gettin’ thirsty and hungry in there. Open that damn door, it’s Christmas again, boy! I got ya some shit from the Dollar General, and one of our liquor stores!”

 

The reclusive biker had to rub his eyes when beholding this unexpected gift. Her oversized bag was full of pork rinds, pickles, canned meats, crackers, Camel smokes, and Evan Williams Bottled-in-Bond. He figured that the merchandise must have cost a hundred dollars, or more. It dazzled him with value, but also, a sense of embarrassment

 

“What the hell, lady? I don’t rate that kind of charity. My own cousin wouldn’t hook me up with so many treats! You must have lost your damn marbles...”

 

The truck-stop clerk settled on his rollaway bed. She peeled off her thermal garments, and opened a package of beef jerky. Her fuzzy boots were wet. She sat them by the propane heater.

 

“I know how men roll, y’all think of two things. Yer stomach and umm, gettin’ gratified on occasion. The second need is harder to satisfy, a lot more complicated. But the first I can handle. Don’t refuse my kindness, y’all ain’t a fool! Take it and be glad!”

 

Parker had been teetering on the brink of withdrawal pangs. His saddlebags boasted only a single pack of cigarettes, and a quarter-jug of whiskey. So, the gesture definitely got his attention. But it caused some concern over what she would expect in trade.

 

“I’m obliged to you, ma’am. Still though, your presents had to cost a bundle. Plus, there’s a crazy-ass storm brewing outside. I haven’t gone up the hill in several days. You shouldn’t be out in this weather. It’s not worth the risk. I’m not worth the risk!”

 

Krista pulled her shimmering curls back with a purple scrunchie. Then opened the high-proof Kentucky concoction.

 

“I’ve got empty-nest syndrome, Feesh. There’s nobody at home since my kid joined the Marines. And I think the ex is in jail again, somewhere. Not that I give a frig about him! I had to go into town anyway. But they closed the diner section of my workplace, and sent me back to the time clock. Traffic has been damn slow. Y’all can guess the roads are crappy. My Jeep can handle it though. And so can I, doggone it! But what I can’t handle is feelin’ sorry fer myself. That sucks, big-time! I needed a friend right now, understand? No matter what, I ain’t ashamed to say it out loud! What d’ya think, can ya handle doin’ me a favor in return? I’d call that a fair exchange!”

 

The willful loner felt oddly grateful for this delivery of dry goods, and conversation. But did not want to be indebted as a result of her kindness.

 

“I’ll be honest, friend. I don’t know what to say...”

 

The veteran server cocked her head to one side, and leaned forward with an emotional response.

 

“SAY THANK YOU, MISTER! THAT’S ALL I NEED TO HEAR!”

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 11: Question

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

 

After having breakfast with Bodean and his family, Parker Redman moved to their living room and a threadbare sofa heaped with mismatched pillows. He swooned a bit from food fatigue. It had been the biggest meal in his limited diet for many years. He felt lazy and content. Around the ramshackle dwelling, grandchildren played video games or chased each other playfully. Angelette cleaned and organized her kitchen with the careful precision of a family protector. His cousin sat in a worn recliner, stained with remnants of brew and snacks, and sagging at the sides. Flanked with sewn-on pouches that held old magazine issues and remote controls for various devices. Through the front windows, a scene of continued snowfall made everyone glad to be safe and warm, inside. Yet as their heads cleared, the biker guest turned to his relative with a more serious tone in effect. He was still curious about how the unusual Bible discovered downhill at his cousin’s garage was acquired.

 

“I’ve got to ask about something, Bo. While wrenching on my scooter, I flipped through your stash of manuals over the workbench. There’s quite a collection on that shelf. It jogged my memory with brands that haven’t been built in many years. But one book among your collection stood out on its own. I still can’t quite figure out how it belongs with the rest. The thing said ‘Bible for Bikers, NIV New Testament.’ Where did that come from? You’ve never been the churchy type...”

 

Bodean tilted his head backwards. He seemed to be lost in recollection for a moment. Then, his facial muscles tightened. He leaned forward again, and whispered so that only the two of them could hear.

 

“Angie’s dad passed that along. He figured it might make me feel better about having a walk of faith. The dude went away last spring. He suffered a bad stroke. My wife still has a broken heart.”

 

Parker raised his eyebrows.

 

“Okay, sorry to poke at you. I just had to wonder, because it seemed out of place, you know? None of us in the bloodline have followed those old ways. Believe me, I heard plenty about it from my papa...”

 

His close relative sat up straight, and nodded.

 

“Y’all gotta know, I’m still a believer in these mountains. They made our people strong. They guaranteed that only the toughest of our breed would survive. Maybe I haven’t kept up with all of the traditions, but I still respect what they meant. That gift mattered to the old guy. I couldn’t just toss it aside, especially after he went to eternity. So, it’s there in the garage, fer when my knuckles get skinned, and I’m tired and pissed off about shit. I’ll pull it out and read a verse or two. It makes me remember Grandma Pringle and Sunday School. She’d grab me by the ear, and force me to go, even if I didn’t want to be there! It had me boilin’ mad in those days, I was a rowdy kid. She didn’t hesitate to spank my ass! But now, I figure those lessons help keep me on track. I’ve tried to do my best. Even with plenty of mistakes in the damn rearview mirror. It’s part of our identity.”

 

The lonesome drifter took a deep breath and agreed.

 

“Yeah, I’d peg it about the same. My dad was righteous in his faith. Which I used to think was too extreme for my tastes. He could make me lose control very quick. I said a lot of things that caused him to droop his head, and pray silently. But he cared about me, and about all of us in the family. And about his parishioners. Nowadays, a lot of folks don’t give two cents about anything...”

 

Bodean smiled with satisfaction. He was glad for the morning meal that they had shared.

 

“I know it ain’t easy fer y’all to hang out with us. That’s not yer vibe. So I am grateful to have ya share our company. At least fer a little while. When ya go back down the hill, remember what I said about that copy of the good book. Y’all don’t have to play Mr. Clean, or put on airs. Just pull it out if the nights get heavy. It’ll give ya some comfort. I promise.”

 

By early afternoon, the weather had turned frightful. Every route through that part of West Virginia was treacherous. Grafton had become a sledding venue, with brave kids and parents outside enjoying the seasonal blast, defiantly. The short trek back to safety and solitude required only a bit of concentration, and enough endurance to slide freely, through the snow.

 

Parker came to rest with his engineer boots pressed against an outside wall of the crude structure. His rear-end had gone numb. Yet toppling over the hillside proved to be less dangerous than attempting to stay upright. Once he got inside, the propane heater helped him to thaw, and relax. He stripped off his wet outerwear, and sat on the packing crate used before.

 

The improvised bookshelf seemed to tease his consciousness. Despite a hardy attempt to ignore its contents. He thumbed through manuals and literature, until locating the Bible manuscript. Then let it fall open at a random passage. When he started to read a verse, the words had him trembling and out of breath.

 

Philippians 4: 4-9 “Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me – put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you.”

 

His eyes stung with tears, a contrast to the cool, stale air inside the garage. He could hear the voice of his own sire, reaching out from beyond. It gave him a reason to pause, and contemplate the scripture. Then, he closed his eyes.

 

It was time to sleep, and recuperate.

 

 

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 10: Breakfast

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(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.

 

“Y'all 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!”