“Simpson”

The  roughly dressed young man walked down the gravel bar of the old creek bed,  long flintlock squirrel rifle resting in the crook of his left arm, adjusting the possibles bag and powder horn on his right side with his right hand. Searching the rock in front of him intently. The shade of the early summer day from the thick trees and such forming a large open arch over where he was. Wouldn’t it be so cool to find an old arrowhead or such as that lying about? Then he saw the old, dark gray spear point in the corse  gravel, dropped by a nomadic hunter around 1100 A.D. He squatted to pick it up, the handle of the large knife nudging his left side. Touching it. Then hearing the trickle of the water running through the rocks of what was left of the little creek. A small fawn watching him, hidden with his mother in the thick cover just to the  north of him.

The Ancient Ones had made contact….

The spring breezes gently whispering through the gaunt, gray trees partly surrounding and standing sentinel over the little house on the prairie. Bright green foliage  slowly taking the place of the dull earth-tones of winter. The bright pinkish purple of a lilac bush, the brilliant yellow of the dandelions, the lush greens of the ground foliage competing with the gray browns underneath. The small house sat in the midst of all this with a few small outbuildings and the corn crib  in the rear.  Neat and tidy, fresh white paint contrasting nicely with the two light blue flower boxes mounted to the front of the porch that ran the length of the small home.

The  reluctant old warrior slowly walked around the small homestead, feeling the soft cool spring breezes. Realising the spirits that haunted the Plains in these cold winds were trying to tell him something, maybe the past  needs to stay there. That the two Lovers locked together in such fiery passion, soaked in pungent sweat and sweet nectar of  lovemaking were gone forever, having passed away that late night. Though they would meet and embrace many times after.

The hunters, the nomads of the unseen world of the past understood this wanderer of the open road. After all, they were his brothers and briefly allowed his spirit to separate and enter the locked deserted home.  The old-fashioned kitchen with the decorative trim around the ceiling, the clean tile floor. The dining/living room with the rich blue carpet, comfortable furniture and rich dark wood trim.  The double doors leading to the bedroom….And the Memories came flooding back.

The guardians of the mountains and plains, the ancient ones, knew he would need someone to look after him on this journey west. They knew that whenever the old man mounted the two-wheeled iron horse at the very least serious adventure of some sort was in the wind, usually trouble. So they assigned the wily old Cherokee scout to look after him. The horse mounted old scout knew it was to be  a busy night, so he contacted a couple of  friends in his world.

He downshifted and cranked the throttle hard, flying past the slower moving RV. Digging the loud bellow of the pipes as he kicked the big bike into overdrive. Also flying by the speed trap at damn near 90 miles per hour. He saw the patrolmans Dodge Charger turn and start to cross the rough median of the divided highway in his left mirror. Figuring he was already fucked, he just opened the throttle  even more.

The trooper was a little too quick on the accelerator  pedal, breaking the back tires of the Dodge loose on the hard dirt and gravel  of the inside shoulder of the highway. Getting a loud squall and a bit of fish tail  as the tire of the sedan found purchase on the pavement. Hearing the howl of the big hemi having floored the gas pedal, the patrol car righting itself and moving rapidly forward.  After a quick radio call to the four patrolmen miles ahead, he reached for the switch on the console to turn on the emergency lights and siren. The large white owl appearing inches from the windshield, wingtips barely touching it. The trooper instinctively threw his right forearm in front of his face, taking his foot off of the gas pedal and the engine tried to stall, not noticing the momentary power failure. He quickly swerved off on the right shoulder,  stopping, sweating; a bit shaken. As a pilot, having experienced what happens when a large bird  crashed through the windshield of his small Piper Cub.  Engine idling, headlamps peering into a very black night, the trooper noticed a large buck with a very nice set of antlers standing about twenty-five yards ahead standing still and watching him. This is getting too fucking bizarre, he thought. Surveying the lighted instrument panel and equipment console of the idling car, noticing the radar set, and video camera,  was completely dead.  Still a bit shaken, the trooper radioed his friends ahead, waiting at the exit where they thought the bike would be headed. It was a mistake, the trooper  told them. He was having equipment problems and thought that the speeding bike had turned off on a side road anyway.

The four police cars were waiting on  the west side of ’81, parked side by side on  a dirt road just to the south of ’24. Windows down, bullshitting about what was going on to the west ( They already had several good busts….) and their buddy to the south. Knowing he was ok, but wondering what was going on with him as they heard the big Harley rumbling  off the Highway 81, downshifting  to the stop sign at the end of the exit ramp. One of the cops had an Ultra at home, enjoying the deep healthy cackle as the bike slowed to stop at the end of the exit ramp. This one was his, he told his buds as he heard the echo of the big bike as it turned under the overpass, putting the idling patrol car in gear. Then putting the gear selector back in park, setting the brake.  Hell, none of them knew for sure if this was even the right fuckin’ guy and there would be plenty more as the night wore on.

As he approached the exit, he saw the cops on the west side of the divided highway and figured he was hosed. One of them starting to move then stopping, backing up. He turned west under the overpass cracking the throttle a bit, digging the loud echo of the bikes pipes. Passing by the cops, not understanding why he wasn’t stopped. He had that fucker hammered since he left Salina and had blown that speed trap. Saw the trooper start after him.

Heading west on ’24, he started to chill. The adrenaline rush wearing off, the cool  air of the late night summer plains having a bite to it. He started to notice  sporadic bike traffic headed towards him, passing….He saw the deserted crotch-rocket in the ditch, colors were familiar. Slowed, almost stopping but didn’t think the bike was the one he had thought. Their first meeting didn’t need to be about shit like this, some frisky young pup piling up his hot rod bike.

Goddamn the night was black. Occasional head lights, but inky black. Shadows of the trees and scrub, bright stars, the chill in the air.. Outside of Glasco, not much in the way of habitats. Just a glow to the west and south. wondering if that is where he was headed.  Hell, he didn’t even know where he was going. This was fuckin’ crazy, but that’s how he rolled. Any screw-loose adventure he pulled out of his ass….Any excuse to get on the road.

He saw the small town to the south, the bright lights, the bikes heading his way out-of-town, thought he heard a band over the rumble of the exhaust. Movement on his right, turning on his spotlights. The fine-looking buck grazing at the side of the road, raising his  head to look at him. They knew each other.

He downshifted, turning on the brightly lit no-name street. Pulling into the scrubby dirt field just north of the bar, dodging the bikes, tents, cars, campers, bits of trash and flattened beer cans. Finding an open spot, nosing the big bike in, facing the ongoing party.

He killed the ignition on his sled, pulling down the kickstand with a well-worn  boot heel and resting the heavy bike on the packed gravel/dirt. disoriented and chilled from  the ride, trying to adjust.  Ears ringing a bit from the wind noise and exhaust, he could hear the popping and cracking of the heated metal  contracting in the cool night air. Unsnapping the keepers on the vest, unzipping the heavy leather jacket and reaching for a smoke in his cut. Sitting back down on the seat of his scoot, firing up a Lucky with an old dented Zippo and taking a hit. Surveying the scene around him; the band, the people, the bikes. The old derelict buildings and train station of a very small town that wasn’t anymore. He stood up off of the bike and  started to cross the  cracked, rough street. Saw her standing there on the other side watching him.

The band had taken a break a few minutes earlier, only the occasional loping rumble of a Harley idling by or the buzz of the crotch rockets. The murmur of the partiers, sometimes shouts and laughter. The lights not as bright as he first thought, just the blackness of the surrounding countryside making them seem so. She called his name as he started across the rough, cracked black top. Recognizing instantly the homey Kansas drawl. He took in her appearance; the short curly blondish hair, the stylish square frameless glasses, white sleeveless blouse, cut off shorts, leather sandals. Stocky dancers body, nice legs. She took his hand as to shake, held it as she walked him toward the rock wall on the back of the small lot  facing the tavern and wooden stage across the narrow street. Dull rough scrabble ground bright with the smashed beer cans, mixed with the trampled scrub of the prairie. Sitting on the stone wall, small talk. Her wondering about his distant behavior, him still chilled from the ride and shivering a bit. She reached up , hand behind his head. Gently but firmly pulling him closer….”I know a cure for the cold ’bout a mile down that road….” The band cranking up, starting to rock with some old school sixties music.

The old Cherokee rode the spirited war pony through the thick scrub brush on the outskirts of the small hamlet, letting the creature find his own way, shying away from the lights and noise. Knew that the animal needed water from a small river about a mile or so to the south. Even the creatures from the other world needed refreshment.

He felt if he were floating, weightless in the very warm rolling water of the hot tub. Soaking up the heat, feeling better. Submerging, lifting his head out of the chlorinated water, leaning back on the padded side of the tub. She rose up from the hot, steamy bath. Running her fingers through her wet hair, stretching, large breasts and upper body glistening even in the semi darkness surrounding the outdoor tub. She straddled him and he thrusts upward, feeling her warmth envelop him. Leaning forward, over him, her forearms on the edge of the tub. Her hot breath mingling with his. He pushes his hips up, hard….The both felt weightless, separate but as one. Firm legs gripping him.

In the glow to the north, the party rocked on.

The old scout slowly walked the war pony through the patchy brush of the tree line back toward the party in the north, nodding an acknowledgement to the large white owl he saw high up in that tree to his right. The technology, two-wheeled machinery, and the music (some of it, anyway….) fascinated him. The two-wheeled iron horses in particular, their bright colors ant the characters riding them. Their Creator was fascinated by men such as these, the modern nomads of the concrete and asphalt trails. The ancient native and those of his world had tried to communicate with this wanderer on two wheels for many, many years. Housed of worship, scripture and men of the cloth all seemed to fail. A more direct approach was being tried.  It, too, seemed to be failing but attempts were still being made. Souls were at stake .

They lay in a tangle of wet sheets, spent and exhausted. He propped himself on his elbows and a bit on his knees, keeping his weight off of her . His face pressed into the sweat soaked hair on the top of her head, her legs wrapped around his. Inhaling her aroma, feeling a slight tremble, just a faint little shudder.

She stood behind him rubbing his neck and shoulders as he was drinking the steaming hot coffee sitting at the small table in the little kitchen. He was relaxed, too relaxed after the intense lovemaking and too-hot shower.  Pressing up against him, trying to convince him to stay what was left of  the night, or morning. She wanted him for her, sure…But was genuinely concerned for his safety,  she knew he was exhausted. From the long days work, the long ride, and what she had done with him. She had to smile.

He watched her at the sink, washing out the cup and a few dishes. Enjoying the view, with light blue denim shirt with  cut off sleeves and nothing else. The legs a tad heavy, but very well-shaped. The curly short blondish hair and crooked smile, an image that would stay in his mind for a very, very long time. All good things must come to an end?

He had never noticed the slight bumps at the bottom of each of her shoulder blades….

He rode the big heavy bike back up the rough cracked asphalt alongside the tiny town in the wee hours of the morning. Goddamn, they were still going at it, fuckin’ bikers knew how to party. Even the music, but at a bit slower tempo. Turning east on ’24, lights catching the big buck in the open field but he missed the large white owl  flying overhead.

The old Cherokee rode the pony toward a thick heavy mist  in  the low tree line just ahead, deep in thought. A portal to another world. This old warrior and most reluctant of prophets had to be reached, but how? Maybe some puzzles were never meant to be solved.

The old warrior shook the cobwebs out of his head, running the fingers of one hand through the short salt and pepper hair. He took one last look around the place, so distant, yet so familiar.  He started walking back towards town on the rough old road. The well-worn leathers heavy and a bit warm on this beautiful spring late afternoon. He stopped for a moment, started to turn, feeling a pressure. Almost like a hand on his shoulder. He started down the road once again. Maybe some things were best left behind. Maybe….

“Denver”

He sat on his scoot in the parking lot of Wal-Mart, cutting the seams out of the top of a sock cap with a well-worn, ever-present multitool. He had left his neck gaiter at home and the temperature was dropping, wind starting to make its presence known. It fit well when he had finished, snug and didn’t itch. He was glad he had put on the long underwear and wool shirt in the public  restroom of the large store. Sweating then, but not now as the wind picked up out of the north-west blowing bits of debris across the lot in this far west Kansas town of Goodland.

He turned on the ignition switch and pressed the start button, engine cranking, coughing to life. Settling into its deep familiar rumble, idling down as the big inch V-twin warmed. He shifted the bike into gear, awkwardly maneuvering  the heavy beast through the crowded parking lot, city streets and throttling onto the interstate. Ignoring the dull ache in his upper back. The late afternoon sun was setting, bathing the countryside in the muted pastels of the west and southwest. Bits of bright green mixed with the varied tones of the golden brown fields, the blue of the sky even having its own tone for this part of the country. The wind was getting quite a bite to it, but the stiff heavy leathers and wool seemed to be doing their job. He set the cruise, kicked down the highway pegs and tried to settle in to a long cold ride as the sun continued to set. Heading east into the cold desolate plains he could still feel her warmth, thoughts settling on the past couple of days.

Goodbyes shouldn’t be that hard, but always were.  Bike idling on the kickstand, wanting the open road. He didn’t want her firm embrace and the soft kisses to end, the fires still burning from earlier passions. Heat felt by both even through the heavy leathers. They both had other lives to lead, worlds to tend to. Life is so hard, sometimes.

The bitter, biting cold. Always the fucking cold….Or brutal searing heat. He had waited too late to leave and would soon be paying for it. Should have stayed another day. Always second guessing himself. He took the Hays exit , winding his way through traffic, pulling in to the local Mickey Dees parking lot after gassing up. Damn, the heat of the engine felt good, soaking thought the heavy leathers and clothing. Any other time would be cursing it, he laughed to himself. Once inside enjoying the steaming hot coffee and chatting with a couple locals. Trying to absorb all the warmth he could before starting out once again on that journey home on the cold desolate plains and the blackest of nights. All good things must come to an end.

He couldn’t stand the cold anymore. The windchill at seventy miles per hour was killing him, maybe quite litterally. Headache, numb, thoughts fuzzy and erratic. He feared hypothermia, took the exit and pulled in to the Flying J truckstop in Salina about midnight and fueled up. Squeezing into a restroom stall and putting on his last layer of the heavy wool long underware set from his Army days. Struggling to get everything back on in the confines of the stall, breaking in to a heavy sweat. The chaps were a fucking bitch. Barely able to walk to the truckers store for more hot coffee, hoping he didn’t have to piss again  for a while and another five minute ordeal with layers of clothing, complete with cold-numbed fingers. It was all the hell he could do to get back on the bike, off the kickstand, and back on the highway east but at least was warm for a short time. Only had to stand two more hours.

He was so stiff from the bone-chilling cold and heavy clothing he had trouble manuvering the heavy iron horse around the small car and truck in the long narrow driveway. He set the heavy bike on it’s kickstand, letting it idle. Stripping off the heavy leather jacket and cut, laying them on the small back porch. Laying his gloved hands on the back cylinder head of the bike, trying to thaw them enough to unlock and open the garage.

Too tired to undress and falling asleep in the recliner in the small cluttered den. He had to be up in a couple of hours and yet another adventure would begin….

The surgery sucked. Removing the tumor had been tougher than the doc thought. The local had worn off at the end, he could feel the scalpel when it cut deep. He thought about saying something but had decided to gut it out. The sting of the stitching needle smarted, but it was the thread pulling though and being tied that hurt. The pain really set in when walking to the car after. Yowza….

He picked the heavy iron horse up off the kick stand, feeling the stitches pull. Loaded as it was and gassed up the bike probably weighed close to a half a ton. Goddamn, it hurt, shouldn’t even be riding. At this point he really didn’t give a flying fuck. Hadn’t even checked the weather, not very smart for this part of the country this time of year. Anything could happen with the climate and often did. It would be even more unpredictable the closer he got to the Rockies. The low staccato idle of the warmed up engine nudged him out of his thoughts and into action. The metallic clack-clack of the transmission dropping into first gear….Slipping the clutch and idling the big Harley onto the cracked rough city streets toward the highway west.

The bright blue sky, wisps of few clouds. The rolling terrain of the Flint Hills. The grays of the rock outcroppings  mixed with the browns and small patches of bright green. An occasional violet or yellow wildflower. A hawk, wings outstretched, riding the invisible currents of the sky. Specks of civilization now and again. Fort Riley, “The Big Red One”. Abilene, Hays, Ellis….Ignoring them mostly, except when searching for 91 octane gasoline. The giant windmills; he hated them but understood the need.

He didn’t fully understand why he was on this journey, not really. To run away from home and the complicated relationship there, even if only for a short time. Missing the adrenaline rush, even the fear and loneliness of the Middle East. He hated the war yet missed it. Home was a stranger, he was only at peace when on his scooter. More often than not a misguided adventure impulsively pulled out of his ass at a moments notice.

The bike continued to climb in altitude, the riders ears popping as they rolled west. Always the motorhead, enjoying the marvel of modern electronics adjusting the fuel to the thinning air. The cruise opening and closing the throttle responding to the long pulls of the hills. Deep rumble of the exhaust as soothing as the music on the CD player.

The shit hit the fan on the side streets of Limon, he wasn’t gonna make it to the truck stop. Fucking Colorado, he thought. Goddammit….The temperature had started dropping around Colby, sky’s clouding up. By the time he had crossed the border he didn’t like what he was seeing but pushed on. Trying to make the truck stop and sanctuary. Wasn’t gonna happen. The thick, heavy, low-hanging gray clouds just outside of Limon only meant one thing; the wall of large golf ball sized splattering drops moving towards him up this side street of the small town in northeastern Colorado. Fuck me runnin’….

Looked like a drowned rat standing in the entryway of the truck stop, but the Walking Dead needed a good smile during this late afternoon deluge. Pontoons? Maybe build a fucking ark. Walked the hallway that ran the perimeter of the establishment, found the restroom, dried (or wrung out) the best he could. Off came the drenched ball cap. On with the oilskin duster, surplus cold weather helmet liner, and goggles he had brought in with him. Looked like a retard but was warm. Quick cup of hot steaming joe from the truckers store and back outside into what had turned into a gentle rain. At least the water wasn’t running over the lower edge of the mag wheels and tires of the bike. Time to Kick the Tires and Light the Fires. Pontoons may not have been such a bad idea….

He lit off the big scoot, steam rising from the engine cooling fins and exhaust pipes as it warmed. Negotiating the traffic in the crowded parking lot, cracking the throttle a bit hard pulling out on the rough street and breaking the back tire loose. Gotta cool it, hydroplaning is gonna be a problem.

Once off the entrance ramp and on the highway, the goggles cleared and the duster did a surprisingly good job of keeping the rain and wind in check. He had left the stereo off, wanting to focus on the road and traffic, getting heavy as he neared his destination. Piling up his ride this far from home was not cool. Besides, the deep, subtle rumble of the  big-inch motor was music enough for old tired ears.

Bumper to bumper at 70 mile per hour was a little dicey. Brakes had done well on a couple of panic stops, tires biting well on the wet pavement. Headed northwest around Denver on ’270 then ’25. Rain had let up and he had even started to dry out. Low gray skies covered what he really wanted to see, the mountains. He turned off the exit he was looking for just north of Thornton heading east. Finding the small tavern among the seemingly endless rows of strip malls, small businesses, and apartments. Downshifting into the parking lot, up a slight incline and into a spot at the far end of the lot.  Engine idling, loud whine from the cam case. He had lunched a cam bearing and was one hell of a long way from home.

He must have been a sight to the young couple necking  by the entrance. Steam rising of the bike….Goggles, stupid looking hat and duster. Taking the shit off and packing it away. Just wet leathers, colors, and wondering if he was gonna be hoofing it back east. Walking to  the front door, seeing the sign saying “no colors”. Hell yeah, made him feel right at home. He started to take the cut off, but the young lovers told him to go on in, all was cool.

She had greased it.

Once inside, eyes adjusting from dark gray to dim, every form of I.D.  being checked by the doorman. The wrung out old saddletramp being carefully scoped out by everyone in the place, obviously his kind were not common there. The clinking glassware and quiet conversation, he looked up and saw her smile, sitting at the bar. Right in front of him. Also noticing the very ample bosom in the low-cut top, being reminded that she was “up here”.  It had pretty much been a set up,  most of the people in the bar being her friends including the necking couple out front.

After dropping the bike off at a local apartment complex, he found himself in surroundings much more to his liking. The parking lot of the old backstreet saloon was full of stripped down and chromed bikes of all flavors. Inside, the patrons  mostly long hair, beards, leather with scantily clad ladies. Good hardcore rock and roll band, music of the streets. Watching her dance with her lady friend,  trying to warm up after the hours on the road. The well-worn easy atmosphere helping him relax. Their first kiss.

The shower was so fucking hot he couldn’t hardly stand it, burning the stitches. Filling a very feminine bathroom with steam. Damn, it felt good. He saw her shadow through the shower curtain, bringing in fresh towels and then squatting on the stool. Alcohol did that sometimes….Thoughts wandering through the days events one at a time. Settling on how to get a cam bearing replaced at a moments notice in the morning. Well, crap. Best laid plans of mice ‘n men or some such shit. As he was towelling off, noticing that she had poked through his dog tags and such as that by the sink. Wondering what she had allowed into her life and heart.

Lying on her tummy on the king sized bed, propped up on a pillow looking at him. Thin skimpy panties barely covering her ample bottom.

Waking in a tangle of sheets and most potent womanhood. The aroma of sweat, sex, and a very light floral perfume. Dull ache on his upper back, trying to shake the cobwebs of sleep, painkillers and most lustful lovemaking.

She enjoyed the short ride over to the dealership, big party and cookout going on in the parking lot.  He parked the bike by the service entrance, talked with the service writer while she wandered the lot checking out the action. He joined her, hand in hand, looking over the merchandise on sale and chatting with the other bikers while the mechanics checked out his scoot.

He had lucked out. the whine caused by the timing chains as the oil thinned from the hours of hard riding. Apparently a characteristic and not a problem.

Beautiful day with a nearly cloudless bright blue sky, majestic snow-capped mountains to the west. He thought the old mountain men were right, the Rockies really were the marrow of the earth. Traffic a bit heavy as they merged the big bike on to ’25, throttling hard and settling in front of a rig pulling doubles. Shifting into overdrive, both leaning back and relaxing, heading north toward Fort Collins and another rumored party.  Goddamn, this is pretty country. Seemingly endless ranges of bright snowcapped mountains to the left, the exits that headed that way were tempting. Traffic heavy but not unbearably so. Just one of those days that niether of them are wanting to end. Fresh cool air, no radio, just the rumble of the bikes engine and some surrounding traffic. Some things shouldn’t have to. He saw that beautiful smile in the rearview mirror, but missed the tears….

In Your Dreams

    He had always liked Montreal. Very old, very European, foreign….Didn’t always feel welcome by its inhabitants, but he wasn’t one that worried a hell of a lot about what others thought. He had been up north, in the mines, trying to keep the old fifty and hundred ton Cat mine dumps running under some not-so-pleasant conditions. Civilization felt good, and he needed come new work clothing; safety boots, coat and such as that. The cold and harsh environment had caught him by surprise. Wouldn’t hurt to have a couple extra pair of eye and sunglasses, he made a mental note to see the doc for a new ‘scrip. New knife, too, he had broken the end off of the one he had trying to use it for a prybar.

    He tried to shake off work, continued feeding the pigeons with the scraps of a late lunch. Enjoying the setting sun and the laid back and relaxed atmosphere of the old inner-city park. He tossed what was left of lunch in the trash receptacle, got up and slowly started walking to the subway station several blocks away. Enjoying the sights, sounds, and aromas of the big city. At least something besides diesel fuel, motor oil and brake dust of the maintenance shops, when he was lucky enough to be indoors.  He stopped by a newstand at the entrance of the subway to pick up a copy of the Gazette, he thought about Le Journal de Montreal but had his moments reading French. She could read both.    

    The hissing of the steel and glass door closing,  accelerating out of the station deep underground. Train rocking, the slight smell of ozone and rubber. He enjoyed the jaunts on the subway, wasn’t sure why he had bought the paper as the ride would not be a long one. The dull voice announcing each station. One had better be hanging on when they punch the throttle or brake on this sucker….

    He let himself in the front of the gray stone building, almost gothic in its outside appearance. As well as inside.  Very used, but very clean. Climbing the stairs to the second floor,  down the hall, unlocking the heavy varnished wooden door. Flipping on the light switch to the small chandelier in the center of the room and tossing the barely read paper on the couch. The small apartment had fresh paint on the plaster walls. Rich wood trim and dark walnut furniture, heavy tile floors, thick rug in the center of the living room with a sofa and two comfortable armchairs with small round coffee tables on either side. The faint aromas of perfume, wax, tobacco and lovemaking. He sat down in one of the well-worn but serviceable chairs. He took out one of the Du Mauriers out of the crystal glass on the table, lighting it with his scratched and dented Zippo. Exhaling, enjoying the bright almost gaudy colors of the upholstered furniture. He thought about her. 

    Hell, they had nothing in common, or so he had thought. Dressed in tall low heeled boots, the long belted dark skirt, light loose sweater, heavy gold chain on one wrist. Tall and slender, heavy on top, walked with a dancers grace. Athletic. Slumming that night,  coming into a working class tavern with her friends many months ago. With the silver salt and pepper hair and reading glasses propped on her nose she had looked like a professor at McGill University or an engineer for the mining outfit he worked for. How they had ever stuck up a friendship  was beyond him.

   She loved the bike. Touring the countryside, lakes and parks with him when time permitted. Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland. She was taking care of it while he was gone, maybe she rode the fucking thing herself.  She took a keen interest in his time in the military, the Middle East, and the war. The details, not the “hairy chested” stories that many guys used to chase pussy . The technical stuff; the weapons but especially the supply side, logistics and transportation.  He didn’t understand that. Mata Hari, or this being Canada, Laura Secord? Wrong end of the rank structure for that sort of thing. He thought of her as his female James Bond. Maybe a fucking Mountie he laughed to himself.

     He really didn’t know a lot about her job, just a position of some sort in the federal government. Something to do with aviation he thought. Bilingual and he suspected more. Spoke English with a slight Canadian accent and the French….Well, it sure as hell sounded good to him. Was even sounding better himself, between her and work.

    He had got up and walked in to the spotlessly clean kitchen behind him, grabbing an ice-cold Labatt out of the fridge. Not much cooking going on in here, usually ate out. He headed for the bathroom noticing the night-light dimly glowing through the crack of the slightly opened door.

    Ah, the bidet.  After trying to stick his foot in it and teasing her about trying to use it for a drinking fountain….Well, it was one of the very few times she didn’t have a wicked comeback; she was speechless. Between it and the “hi-rise” commode with the chain pull handle, he had plenty of opportunities for lavatory humor of the crudest variety.

     He nudged the door open, popped the cap off of the beer and handed it to her as she relaxed in the old-fashioned tub full of bubble bath. One pale calf on the edge of the tub, light blue eyes seemingly bright even in the dim light. Relaxed, cigarette between the  slender fingers of one hand. Mona Lisa smile….

    What’s for dinner?

    He awoke with a start. One of the pilots nudging him awake, telling him that they would be landing soon. Cool, even with all the clothing on. The rumbling throb of the ancient turbo-compounds making it difficult to hear for old ears. The vibration wanting to lull him back to sleep. Worn seating just behind the cockpit, small lavatory and kitchenette on either side. Spare parts and supplies netted, tied down behind. For the uncivilized world.

Clubhouse

    The lifestyle wasn’t always  easy, pleasant or fun. It could be downright dangerous. The extremes of the weather in the Midwest and West alone were enough to discourage any sane person from riding. The old man didn’t really understand why he had adopted it. He was not a hard, tough individual. Although capable of great violence, he went to great lengths to avoid it or trouble of any sort.  Looking back through the decades he realized he had never fit in with “normal society”, and never would.  Even in the Army, he had never really fit the mold. Shy, quiet, never a people-person, the old man had more and more enjoyed the solitude of the lonesome open road.

    The 1%-ers could be the worst. Although they generally treated him with respect, the old man was never totally comfortable with them. As with his own club sometimes, and they may even have eyes and ears there.

    He could smell the brats cooking on the grill, making him hungry even though he had eaten not a couple of hours before.  The party was on, even in this weather. Some things just didn’t change….

    It was wet, misty evening, a fine rain coming down  as he walked up the dark inner-city side street. The old man saw the row of bikes parked out front, covered with droplets of water, glistening even in the dim light of the lone street lamp up the street a ways. He had ridden in this kind of miserable cold weather, knew that to some men pride meant more than  comfort or safety. He saw the sky-high apes on one of the bikes, knew the state enforcer was there. The man had to be damn near 7 foot tall to reach the fuckin’ throttle, not to mention the jockey shift on the right side of the scooter. The old man  smiled, knowing that the choppers sounded as good as they looked pulling into the lot of the bike show earlier.

    He realized as he walked up  the cracked and buckled concrete to the heavy steel door that the bikes were parked in that spot for a particular reason, and was not only being watched by a prospect standing in the shadows. He was about to knock when the heavy door was opened.

    Entering a 1% clubhouse was a lot like entering the embassy of a foreign nation. A new and different world. A new set of rules. Their own society, in and out of this place. Even in the lax party atmosphere, one was being closely watched and sized up. Everyone was armed, overtly or otherwise. Painted concrete walls covered with 1% logos, photos of lost brothers, banners with the colors of supporting clubs. A monitor for the cameras outside, another with a porno playing. Crowded with hard men, wet leather, rough riding boots and scantily clad ladies. Food and drink were offered to the old man and gladly accepted. He sat down among others from his club, listening to them razz  prospect Rico. He relaxed watching the two bikers playing a dice game at the end of the bar, and two more playing the blues on guitars in the corner. The old man lit a coffin nail with his worn Zippo, listening to the prospect catch hell from Billy, an old 1%-er that had been around the block a few times.

    Rico should have kept his fuckin’ mouth shut. She stuck her head in between his legs on the bench and did a head stand, spread her legs wide and placed her ample bare ass in Rico’s face. Huge bare breasts hanging down to the delight of the crowd….Well, except prospect Rico. He had his hands full in, uh, other ways. The lap dance had just started and the song was gonna be a long one….

Paradise Point

    The old man downshifted, letting the engine brake the big bike down the long hill, enjoying the deep rumble of the exhaust as it echoed through the thick brush and timber on either side of the road. Weaving slightly to  miss the broken pavement, holes, and small patches of sand left by the plow trucks.

    The area reminded him of rural Michigan….    

    The dull grays and browns of the late winter forest, as well as the quiet solitude invited the old man to the peninsula on the north end of the lake.  He needed the cold air and isolation to clear his head, lay some old ghosts to rest, and be ready for the adventures of the new riding season. The deserted rally grounds awaited.

   As he passed the gate area where a large tent would stand in several months, the country opened up, large mown grassy fields flanked by woodlands. Narrow gravel  roads winding off to the surrounding camp grounds. He downshifted again and at the intersection  with  the signposts, turned north. Following the curving asphalt road about a quarter of a mile to the deserted vendor area, a large rectangle of rough, cracked pavement which in the center a large circus tent without sides would be set up.  He rode around the rectangle, parking the heavy bike in the corner by the road leading in. Shutting it down, listening to the hot metal popping and creaking, contracting in the cold crisp air. The old man climbed off of the bike, mind starting to wander. The years of memories flooding his head….

    The heat and humidity of the early September evening was almost unbearable. The loud music, the constant rumble of the motorcycles, shouting, loud raucous laughter,  pandemonium. Partying on the edge….Too filled with lust to even unlace his well-worn boots, dirty jeans and shorts down around his ankles, her panties and jeans in a crumpled pile hastily thrown in a corner.  She met his thrusts eagerly, wrapping her legs around his. He held her hands above her head. The small tent smelling of stale sweat, beer, and hot sticky sex.  Tasting hot tepid breath, no longer caring about the noise or who might be listening.

    The old man was glad he had put on the old green wool shirt at the last minute. Designed for the bitter winds of Korea, it was usually his constant companion in the fall, winter an early spring. Who gave a flying fuck about fashion on the road anyway?  He zipped the heavy leather jacket up a bit against the soft, cold breezes of late afternoon. He had left the hat on the bike, wanting to feel the cooling winds in short graying hair.

    He walked up the gently curving road, small tufts of brown grass grown up through the cracked and buckling pavement. Thinking of the years of wild partying. Good times and not. Renegades wedding reception, now that was about a wild motherfucker. The bikes, the people….The band, loud but good. Dawn singing lead, belting out her raw version of “Backdoor Man”. Couples dancing, or would one say “the vertical expression of a horizontal  idea”. The trailer set up as a bar, a biker being serviced under the bar by a young lady while he enjoyed a cold brew, the blushing bride checking out the action with a flashlight. Goddamn, it was a wild one, too much weed and too much hooch….The old mans lady never let hear the end of it. Until they went to a wilder one….

    The old man walked west on the road past  where the motorcycle ministry was set up, on past the showers where he had first set up camp. They had set up lawn chairs along the road to enjoy the constant parade of bikes, trikes, all-terrain vehicles, farm tractors with wagons, and about every other conceivable form of transport ( Hell, one dude was puttering around the sky in an ultralight….). All crammed with people in various forms of dress and undress. Tattoos….Pedestrians, the naked women in body paint….The sights and sounds, music, the engines. The stifling heat. The acrid smell of weed, cooking, sweat, the piss stained porta-johns, and all mixed with exhaust fumes.   Private acts in public, the lady with the beer bottle. The old man couldn’t fuckin’ believe that one, then they took her down to the beer tent and shaved her….

    Whatta goddamn lifestyle, the old man thought slowly walking up the now deserted and desolate road. Which he now embraced….

The Deer Hunter

    The hunter positioned a loaded magazine in the receiver of the Remington automatic, gently squeezing it in place. He pulled the bolt back, eased it forward chambering a round. Placing the weapon on safe and setting down with his back against the tree. Pulling the old green blanket up on his lap, rifle resting in his left arm, trying to stay quiet in the early dawn hours. 

    The bitter cold wind whispered and rustled through the early morning grays of the Northwest Missouri woods, driving the hunter deeper under the  well-worn blanket. He had picked this spot well, he thought. Choosing this small bluff over the spit of timber between two open fields to the south. The bluff overlooked a small creek with a tree line just beyond it with an open corn field just beyond that. He had hoped that the cover, water, and food in the stubble of the cornfield would tempt the creatures of the forest. A small pasture was a short distance to the west. He had found an ancient spear point in the creek bed that ran along side it many months ago. He had hoped that the spirits of these old hunters were with him today.

    He looked to east to see the young deer step out of the thick tangled cover, head high, sniffing the air. To the edge of the creek, head now low, drinking the cold water. Excited, but the hunter knew it was too long of a shot, head on at that. His marksmanship skills and eyesight weren’t that good, he didn’t want to risk just wounding the animal. He had open iron sights on his rifle, regretting not leaving the scope on and learning how to use it. The  deer lifted its head sniffing the air and disappearing back it the woods. Shit, he thought the fox piss he had sprinkled around his stand and in the area had masked his scent but apparently not.

     The hunters mind  wandered as the sky had lightened, watching the harvested field turn from dull gray to bright gold, as he had on so many days in the field. He thought of the well-worn Remington he had with him. Scratches on the two-piece  walnut stuck and some of the bluing gone from the steel receiver and barrel.  Well worn, but well oiled and maintained like so many tools that he owned. He had bought the weapon from a farmer buddy that owned two of them, an ‘ought six and a .243. He borrowed two hundred dollars and after intense negotiation, paid for the .243, farmer-bud keeping the telescopic sight. The hunter had to mount a scope on it that he already had as the rear sight that had been removed to fit the scope that had been on before. Old fashioned, he didn’t like or trust telescopic sights, know how to use one and couldn’t hit shit with it trying to sight it in. Off came the scope, a gunsmith in Kansas City replacing the missing rear sight. The hunter took the weapon home, installed swivels and sling he had purchased from the ‘smith, disassembled the weapon and gave it a through cleaning and oiling. Afterwards it shot like a champ….

    The young buck he had seen earlier not fifty yards in front of him. Casually walking down the tree line, nose to the ground. Fox piss worked after all….

    The hunter tossed off the blanket, and took a hasty but steady kneeling position pushing the safety off with his right index finger. The animal saw the movement, turned and trotted toward the middle of the open field. The hunter drew a quick sight picture and squeezed the trigger, a loud boom echoing through the quiet timber and fields. Stock shoving him hard, bolt ejecting a smoking empty, clacking into battery chambering a fresh round. The deer jumped high and started to run. He led the animal slightly and squeezed off another round as the animal jumped into the thick cover on the far side of the field. Shit….The rifle performed flawlessly, he hadn’t. So he thought.

    He was moving fast, across the creek and up the edge of the thick tangled cover on the far side of the cornfield. Finding a blood trail, envisioning an hours long chase of a wounded animal. The young buck lie just inside the thick cover, both bullets having found their mark. Barely clinging to life. A loud report, the weapon cycling, stripping the final round out of the magazine, chambering it.  Ending any chance of further suffering. The hunters prayer, thanking his Creator yet again allowing him to feed his family. The hunter now had work to do, and a long ways to pack out the animal.

    He felt out-of-place in the well-lit and heated grocery. Jeans stained with blood and bits of hair, a common sight in a small town store. Still, he wasn’t the average customer. His lady had helped him unload the deer at a neighbors who was handy with a knife and would properly butcher the animal. He watched her pick the cans and dry goods off of the shelves. Short, stout, very top-heavy, but nimble and quick. Ruddy complexion and a cute smile. She was an old school farm girl who was a hell of a lot better at raising a garden than he was at harvesting meat.

    He enjoyed the hunt but not the killing, he had never gotten used to it and his lady knew this, sensing his feelings.  She simply said that was part of it. Part of life. She knew his feelings about one shot kills and knew that they didn’t always happen. She had talked about seeing animals flattened by large-caliber bullets, seemingly well-placed shots, only to get up and run. Wild animals were tough, able to withstand punishment that humans couldn’t imagine.

     It had gotten dark while they were in the grocery, and much colder, but the heater worked well in the old wagon. It had been a long day in the field, and they both had a catching up to do about the days events. The drive home would allow that, and a hot supper and shower would be a fitting end to a hard but productive day….

Backwoods

    The woodsman stepped carefully among the debris in the forest floor although it was unlikely  that there would be any game out on a day such as this. The wind was biting bitter cold, the sky a heavy dark gray spitting bits of sleet and snow now and again. Dim and dusky for as early in the afternoon as it was. The bright green hedge apples stood out among shades of browns and grays of the late fall woods. He scanned the woods mainly out of habit but a squirrel or two braving the cold would welcome addition to the game bag. Or even some shed antlers for one of the many craft projects he had going on.

    The woodsman was dressed warm but not warm enough. He kept moving. Old well-worn boots, wool socks, wool long underwear he had from the Army.  Dirty worn jeans, heavy belt, flannel shirt. The blanket lined prison issue denim coat had been given to him by a friend  who had done a little time. The rough green fedora and cast-off Army wool scarf kept his head and face warm along with long hair and scraggly beard. A leather possibles bag hung on his right side with a powder horn and used a nice walking stick in his right hand. A small sharp sheath knife was on his left hip.

    He carried a  long, thin but heavy 32 caliber squirrel rifle in his left arm, its great length making passage through the some of the thick tangles of brush a challenge at times. The ramrod extending about six inches in front of the barrel, easily snagging the vines. The long rifle had been built by a friend. Stock burnt black just below the flashpan of the flintlock. Well used, but clean, well oiled and maintained. He could smell the gun oil on the barrel  and lock. The linseed oil on the rich walnut stock. These aromas mixed with the decay of the forest floor and warmed the woodsman’s heart. Helping to take his mind off of troubled and lean times.  

    He continued across a draw,  up to a fenceline that would lead out into the stubble of the plowed and harvested fields. He walked up the fence as thick timber and brush narrowed to the open fields, staying in the heavy cover as much as possible. Surveying the raw, open fields. The woodsman had seen much sign of deer and other game, but like himself they were staying in the shelter of the heavy brush and bare trees.

     It was getting much colder, the sharp wind brutal and biting. The sky was turning darker, snowing harder. The wind was picking up, the bits of ice stinging his face. He wanted to stay longer, allowing  the increasingly cold winds to further purify his soul, but was afraid that a longer stay might turn in to a very much longer stay and he wasn’t equipped for that.

     He headed back into the woods, back to where the old Ford truck was, hoped it  would start and make it up the narrow trail to the road home.  The wood stove and a hot meal awaited, along with the missus and kids, but he would soon miss the moaning bitterly cold winds. Song of the heavy timber….