Heavy Hogs MC

by Elias Taylor

  Despite the weight of a new world resting snug upon her shoulders, Mel felt like her life was just beginning. All their doubts and all their negativity drove her to great lengths. All her goals and all her dreams coalesced into an ambitious creature that had risen up from the depths of her heart and soul—a creature that would charge into the fray and rise up against all odds. A beautiful creature of relentless drive that would be given life and freedom with the first sketches of a dress.

  Chapter Two: No Time For That

  Tripp Charles, with the lean body of Atlas and the eyes of Adonis, walked across the roof with a pile of shingles slung over his shoulder, his bicep popping out like a legendary hero carrying his maiden over the threshold. His lean, muscular features, coupled with his square jaw and dark eyes offered their own striking quality, giving him a rugged beauty that made him a star among his small circle of friends. He had been on-site for almost 12 hours. He glared out at the sky and willed the sun to set faster.

  His father, Raymond Charles, insisted that they work as long as they had daylight in the summer in order to ensure that ‘Charles Roofing’ could compete with the bigger companies.

  Tripp set the shingles down near his dad.

  “I need to head out,” Ray said. “Your mother is picking me up so we can grab a tent for this weekend.”

  The only thing more important to Ray than his roofing company was his family. It was nice and all, but it meant that Ray was determined that Tripp inherit the business.

  “You finish this section up, and then I’ll see you at dinner?” Ray asked.

  “Yeah,” Tripp said. He watched his father descend the ladder and head out. Tripp wiped the sweat from his brow, took a sip of water and started right to work on laying the shingles. He had nothing but respect for his father. For the past few years, he wanted nothing more than to make his dad happy. That is why he had been working at the roofing company full-time since graduating high school five-years ago. The only problem was that Tripp didn’t want to work at the roofing company forever. The company was his father’s dream, not his. For the most part, he was content and even though the last few years had been draining, the work paid well enough and Tripp didn’t mind the manual labor. The hard part was knowing his passion lay elsewhere.

  The only pocket of happiness in Tripp’s life was the Road Warriors. He had been a member of the biker club for years, and he had gained a reputation for having a knack for repairing and improving motorbikes. When Tripp was working on a bike, he was truly happy. The hours he spent with his bikes flew by. Tripp knew that designing a line of bikes was one thing he could be happy doing for the rest of his life. Few things made him happier.

  His thoughts wandered back to the bike he was currently working on. It was an older model Harley-Davidson. A good looking bike from the seventies that ran like the traditional gas-guzzler of its day, but Tripp was making some adjustments to the engine and gears to make it run smoother and with a few touches of his from his own personal vault, it would climb out of obscurity and into the modern times with a style and flair all of its own. That thought made his heart dance a little.

  Tripp’s mind was so preoccupied that he didn’t realize how close to the edge of the roof he was. He took a step back and instead of meeting rooftop, his foot dangled in thin air. Tripp’s stomach lurched as he felt himself tipping backward. A surge of adrenaline enabled him to spring forward and as he went down he managed to grab the edge of the roof. Tripp pulled himself up and swung his left leg over onto the firm surface of the shingles. He managed to spin around and sat there, legs dangling over the edge as he looked down at the ground below.

  “Damn!” he said. “That was too close!” For a moment he contemplated what could have happened had he not been so agile, It was almost as though fate was calling out to him. He’d been given another chance and numerous thoughts went through his head simultaneously—random words that came together in one coherent thought. ‘When the dance is over, it’s time to move on. While the night is young and your heart still beats with life.’

  Alone, with thoughts of the open road and a powerful steel steed roaring between his legs, with rubber and road singing songs of glory and adventure it came out in a gasp, as though he didn’t want to disappoint the moment, “Jesus, I hate roofing! Someday, it’s actually going to kill me.”

  His heart and his head just weren’t on the job. Day by day, Tripp lost motivation. He began waking up later than usual on days when he worked for his father. He would take longer breaks. He would find any excuse to leave early. And this little mishap—the one that almost took him out of it altogether—was the one thing to drive home his growing dislike for the job. The one thing that brought his own wants and needs to the surface, and it came out in a tone of truth and consequence, “I can’t do this for the rest of my life. I just don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t mean to disappoint you, dad, but...this is your dream, not mine.”

  Alone with only his thoughts he spoke out as if his dad was there to hear them, truly convinced a better life was just waiting for him beyond the early mornings and hot afternoons, beyond the ‘thud-thud-thud’ of the power-hammers and the sharp ‘whoosh’ of the hoses and the blaring drone of the pressure tank. He set the power-hammer aside, unhooked the pressure hose, took off his tool belt and sat there dreaming of the day he could set out on the road and never look back. Sitting there amidst the heat of another sweltering afternoon he could imagine the wind in his hair as he flew by the arroyos and the eagles high above searching for their next meal. He could imagine the cacti, the ancient canyons and the little creeks as he roared by without a care in the world, off to live life on his own terms.

  Tripp stacked the remaining shingles away from the edge and then hurried off the roof. He felt calmer as soon as his feet were on the ground. Cleaning up, he gathered the old shingles and tossed them into the large steel waste-bin, put the power-hammer away, wound up the hoses and lifted the pressure tank up onto the bed of the truck. Glad to be done, he hopped in his truck and headed for his apartment. Once home he undressed and hopped into a cool shower to wash the day’s sweat and grime off his body.

  With the cool water running down his body, all he really wanted to do after a long day of roofing was spend several blissful hours working on his bike, but he had promised his parents that he would swing by for dinner at their place. The bike would have to wait for now. As much as he wanted to get his hands on those pistons, he knew that his parents were working toward their own big event, their Pearl Wedding Anniversary. They were planning a party and insisted that Tripp and his little sister Christina help out.

  Tripp figured the anniversary party was supposed to make his parents happy, not stress them out. If he ever made it to 30 years with somebody, he would probably just want dinner at a nice restaurant. No fuss, no guests. Nothing big and fancy. Just simple cuisine and a walk by the shoreline, or a ride out to the country.

  Tripp snorted to himself as he soaped his hair. At the rate he was going with the ladies, it was highly unlikely he was ever going to hit a 30th anniversary. Tripp had no problem meeting girls and getting laid, he just never stayed interested in anyone for very long. Few girls sparked his embers into true, delightful flames of passion and romance. There was always something missing. Though they were gorgeous with splendid figures they were not truly and wholly desirable. Perhaps, in the beginning, they were, but then those superficial qualities would soon fade, revealing some lackluster quality that did not mesh with that ever-burgeoning fire that drove his natural curiosities. Having a great body and wonderful charm was simply not enough but he could never figure out what was missing.

  Tripp pulled on a pair of black jeans with holes in the knees and then began digging through the piles of clothes scattered across the floor for a t-shirt. He found a decent enough black t-shirt, one overrun with skulls, roses, blades and crosses. He sprayed his underarms, smelled them, nodded in approval and looked about. He shook his head and took a deep breath. “
I’ll clean it tomorrow.” His apartment was a mess, there was no denying it. He had been too busy lately to give it any attention. He was not usually this messy, but between the long hours on roofs, hanging with the Road Warriors and working on his own bike designs, his apartment resembled a third-world country with pizza boxes—some with half-finished pizza—styrofoam ‘to go’ containers, strewn clothes and piled dishes scattered about the kitchen counters, all begging for some attention.

  His phone screamed with a personalized death metal grunge tune that could only be one person: his best friend Mitch Brennon. Tripp smiled to himself. Mitch kept him busy too.

  He answered with the usual, “Hey, brother. What’s up?”

  “Bar tonight?” Mitch asked.

  Tripp grinned. Mitch always got straight to the point. “Not tonight, bro,” Tripp said. “I’ve got dinner with my parents.”

  “Dude, come on,” Mitch said. “I need a wingman.”

  “You’ll live for one night,” Tripp said.

  “No one can pick up girls like you,” Mitch cajoled. “You’re the man.”

  Tripp rolled his eyes. Mitch was trying to hype him up, but Tripp couldn’t help but feel he would rather be known for his bike designs than the ease with which he picked up girls.

  “Speaking of,” Mitch said. “You ever call that girl back from the other night?”

  “You mean, Sandy?” He shrugged, “Nah,” Tripp said.

  “Why not? She was majorly hot!” Mitch said. “A real dime.”

  “She was also majorly boring, dude. She has this thing where she chews gum really loud while trying to be overly flirty. All she talked about was herself. That shit just doesn’t work for me, man.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “We got each other’s numbers, and...you know...I figure I’ll hit it if I ever get a few drinks in, but, shit, I’m not gonna chase her.” As usual, when it came to girls, he was not going to actively pursue her. That just wasn’t his style. “Bro, I’ve been way too busy lately. I don’t have time for all that,” Tripp said.

  “The hell does that even mean?” Mitch asked. “Everyone’s got time for that.”

  “Ok, I really gotta go,” Tripp said. “But I’ll come out with you tomorrow, I promise.”

  “Alright, it’s a plan,” Mitch said. “Later.”

  “Alright, later.” Tripp hung up and finished getting dressed. He didn’t really want to go to the bar again tomorrow, but Mitch was like a dog with a bone. He only dropped it if you offered him a juicier treat. He threw on his black leather jacket and matching boots, the ones with the chain-link mesh over the toes.

  He revved up his motorcycle and tore off into the early evening, the deep orange sunlight pouring over the world like a spell from an age-old warlock exercising his power over nature itself. Weaving in and out of the mild highway traffic always gave him a sense of belonging that he never got from anything else. Twenty minutes later, Tripp pulled into his parent’s driveway.

  As soon as he entered the house, his little sister came flying down the stairs, her eyes wide and excited, “You’re totally late!” she said. “Mom is freaking out about this party.”

  He hugged her, “Hey, kiddo! Good to see you. Been a few days.”

  “Yeah. What have you been up to?”

  “Ah, you know...work, work and more work.”

  “Dad tells me you’re fitting to take over the company soon.”

  “Ah...maybe. We’ll see,” he said, half grumbling at the opportunity.

  Christina had the same dark hair and eyes as Tripp, but the similarities ended there. Tripp was often overwhelmed by his kid sister’s manic energy. She was always chattering and moving from one thing to another. She moved through guys with alarming speed as well, Tripp knew. He wasn’t too worried. Christina had a solid brain beneath her bubbly personality, and why shouldn’t she have her fun? She was young and good looking.

  “The weatherman on the news said it will be sunny on Saturday,” Christina said. “But one of the apps on my phone said it might rain.” She shrugged and crossed her fingers, “Here’s hoping for the best!”

  The one thing that would never leave him was that old familiar smell of any one of thousands of dishes mom made with both love and diligence. Tripp followed Christina to where his parents were setting the dinner table. He was already overwhelmed by this anniversary party, and it hadn’t even started.

  His father popped his head up from the table at Tripp’s arrival. “You finish that section of the roof?” He asked.

  “Yeah,” Tripp said. “Got it done. Almost fell off the darn roof in the process.” He chuckled, “If it weren’t for my cat-like agility and tiger-like reflexes...who knows, I might not be here to help you celebrate your anniversary.”

  “No shop talk,” Tilly said. “This is party business only.”

  Tripp shrugged. “Anyways, I got it done.” No shop talk...that was fine with him. He got a sinking feeling in his stomach every time he thought about the roofing work. Sometimes, just imagining the next day of work was enough to make him want to scream in frustration. The weeks stretched ahead of him in a depressing line of monotonous roofing work.

  He sat down and filled a plate of rotini, red-pepper and sausage with mom’s special alfredo sauce seasoned with fresh parsley. Do yourself a favor, man, and try not to be so glum. You got irons in the fire.

  His heart brightened with thoughts of bikes, roads and wild rides into sunsets brimming with freedom and bliss. Over the past few years, he had made a lot of contacts through the Road Warriors with people who showed a mild interest in investing in a line of custom-motorcycles. It was a massive undertaking to start a new bike business, but Tripp knew he would always regret it if he never tried. The tricky part of turning mild interest into a full-on cash commitment would require both tact and persistence—qualities Tripp had in abundance. It would also require a solid plan—on paper. If he was known for being able to twist rubber arms with gentle persuasion and boatloads of optimism, with a touch of those special characteristics called imagination and creativity he was not known for his diligence when it came to planning out a full-fledged business plan which required both dedicated intelligence and a constant flow of business savvy. But he had made up his mind some time ago. He was going to go for it.

  The worst part would be telling his dad, if the time ever came, that quite simply his heart was not in it. He had no real desire to be a roofer all his life. He was good at all facets of carpentry, roofing, siding and framing—in fact every aspect of renovating and building houses. Anybody who saw him at work could see straight away that he excelled at woodworking. But...there were other fires that burned in his heart. Great raging billowing flames that reached for the stars themselves. Simply put...his dreams lay elsewhere. In bikes and the open road, rolling with The Road Warriors, singing songs of freedom while the highways and byways of this great big blue marble passed beneath his wheels, the smell of oil and gasolene lingering on his clothes.

  Before they began eating mom put on some Bach, or was it Beethoven? Tripp could never tell. He drew quietly as his mind began to run wild with visions of bikes. Big bold bikes with shiny spokes with names like ‘The Stiletto,’ ‘The Mad Hatter’ and the ‘Death Angel.’ Visions of chrome restoration and after-market parts littered his mind along with the raw power of revving engines and squealing tires. He started to eat while Mom and Christina continued to discuss the guest list, the catering and the seating. He and dad were too tired to get involved, so they simply nodded their heads and acted interested with simple grunts and fresh bouts of, ‘yeah, I can see that,’ and ‘that sounds great,’ or ‘very nice.’

  While they droned on with the particulars—the wine list, the table settings and glassware—Tripp zoned out on visions of heavy cash flow, days and nights working on his very own designs and bringing to life his own ideas and custom prints. Quietly his mind roared off into the sunset of a brighter world where all his dreams could be realized. While Mom and
Christina went on like little puppies playfully lost in their own ideas of what a Thirtieth Anniversary ought to be he voraciously wolfed down his pasta. He was happy for his parents, but he couldn’t say he was looking forward to this party. It would just be a lot of old people telling him how sweet it was that he was working for his dad’s business—how it was wonderful that he was going to be taking it over soon. Tripp would need to plan an escape route as soon as possible.

  “Tripp?”

  He blinked as his mother’s voice summoned him out of his musings. “Yeah, Mom?”

  “Do you think you could spend the night here tomorrow?” his mom asked. “Because we’re going to need your help setting everything up early in the morning.”

  “Sure,” Tripp said. “I’m going out with Mitch, but I’ll come back here after.”

  “Perfect,” Christina said. “Plus, Mel is sleeping over so she’ll be around to help too.”

  “Oh, it will be just like old times with you girls giggling all night,” Tilly said.

  Tripp looked down at his plate and thought about Mel. He hadn’t seen much of her in recent months. Christina had mentioned that her friend was going to school for fashion design in the fall and was busy preparing for that.

  Mel and Christina were almost four years younger than Tripp. He had always thought of Mel as little more than his kid sister’s friend. With her bright green eyes, long red hair and face speckled over in tiny freckles, she had always been cute, although over the years she had definitely made some questionable clothing choices in the name of fashion experimentation. Tripp smiled to himself as he remembered Mel’s cargo pants stage. She had been a ninth-grader and waltzed through the hallways with such confidence until another girl had pointed out that Mel, in the green pants and cropped black top, was a dead ringer for Kim Possible.