Bobby found the 1974 Harley-Davidson Fatboy in the detached garage beside Luna’s abandoned house (Abandoned? Too soon to tell when or if she’ll come back. She’ll come back.). Covered with a dusty once-blue tar, hidden away by her grandfather no doubt, the old baseball minor leaguer, and eventually forgotten. The battery needed replacing. The fuel tank had been miraculously treated prior to storage, which was a blessing all itself. Some air was needed for the tires, both showing only minor cracks, a sign of its age. With some tweaking, the black and chrome Fatboy was in perfect working condition.
The shovelhead engine sounded very much like some monstrous thing from one of Lovecraft’s stories. Sounds Out of Space, perhaps. Instead of Colour? Bobby hadn’t ridden in years. Not since before the Army, and even then, on panhead dirt bikes and his dad’s Goldwing. Nothing like this beast. And judging by the layers of dust and debris that had fallen from the flaking garage ceiling, the Fatboy hadn’t been ridden in years either. They were both out of practice. And would have to re-learn, together.
The wind whipped at his shaggy beard. Blurring and burning his eyes. The sweet aroma of fuel and salt from the nearby Gulf flooded his nose. Bobby cruised over the cusp of the bridge connecting the mainland to the island. Overlooking the bridge, the sun was beginning to set, burning away into a brilliant array of pink and bluish purple flames. Traffic was thankfully mild. Only a few cars on the road, a crimson Jetta with two young female occupants, a white and black chrome Audi with a balding forty-something smoking a cigar, and a green Toyota Sienna packed full of jubilant college aged twenty-somethings, obviously winding up for a night of drinking on the strip. Regardless of these minor distractions, the feeling of riding the bike was more than he’d expected. It was freedom, in its most pure form. Dangerous. Accelerating. Beyond transcendence. Whispers of a long forgotten past, of boyhood remembered. The joy of rolling down an embankment on his Huffy. No brakes. No helmet. No padding. Only sheer youthful tenacity. No care. No worry. Let the Grim Reaper give chase, if He can.
Bobby revved the engine and shifted gears. Between the chrome and pavement, the yellow lines blurred into glowing flames of some celestial rock. He had the sensation, an unmistakable taste of fear beaten down by wide eye wonder, as if riding the cosmos. War and memory had little importance in the realm of here and now.
Entering the warehouse district on Broadway, Bobby shifted down. The Harley exhaled compliantly in a deep growl as he turned into the parking lot of Bryant LLC. He’d found the job two weeks ago by chance. Unable to face the despondent glares of passersby strangers. No more panhandling. Not after everything that’d happened in Jotham. No. Not after the deaths of his last remaining friends…his only ones, and Luna…gone.
The warehouse was a large square tan building with four low angled docks. Modest compared to the other warehouses nearby, the “big leaguers,” as Vinny called them. There were tractors with trailers in each of the docks now. Unusual for this late hour. Bryant was a family owned warehouse, working with a few distributors in the surrounding area, shipping stock to grocery stores and gas stations. Vince “Vinny” Bryant, as his father before him, ran a twelve-odd hour shift, closing around nine at night and opening again around seven or eight, depending on the next morning and how hungover the man was. Bobby wasn’t technically on staff. He was brought on for the late shift. The non-existent shift. The shift that magically, like gnomes, organized and reloaded the trucks for the morning deliveries. All under the table, of course. Without a driver’s license, without a permanent physical address, there weren’t many options. Sure, he could have listed Luna’s place, but did he really want to? Was the house his to list as a residence? In her letter, of what little she said, Luna certainly implied he should stay there. But his home it was not. It was hers, and she would be back. Hopefully.
Bobby pulled the Fatboy into a front row space and killed the engine. A few office lights were on. There were no other windows.
Why Vinny offered the job, Bobby never really knew. Mercy, maybe. Or more like, pity. Whatever. He’d been in a bad way. His friends were…and Luna…whatever. Vinny had offered a helping hand. And it certainly wasn’t exactly charity. The job demanded long hard hours. Late hours. Grunt labor, as Bobby imagined it, for meager pay, certainly less than the regular unionized day crew. But, in the grand scheme of things, it was better than the crumpled dollar and too often soiled bills he’d get from begging on the street. And he worked alone. That was the best part of the job. No one to bother him. No pointless conversation. No bullshit.
“Hey, Bobbs!” From the main entrance near the office windows a few of what looked like the swing crew were strolling toward the parking lot. Faces full of tired cruelty. Of “insider” jokes and child-like snickering. Each hand holding firm to a red cooler. Grime covering any exposed inch of skin. Even Walton, who had to be the blackest black man Bobby had ever met, looked three shades darker than normal.
Swinging his leg over the bike, Bobby did his best to ignore them. Eyes on the door. Hands in the pockets of the beaten leather jacket he’d found in Luna’s guestroom closet. Slow deep breaths. Nothing else.
“We left plenty of work for you to do, Bobbs. Don’t you worry.” Mackey was giggling between Walton and Nick. Luis was in the back of the pack, smiling like some idiot man-child. His double chin jiggled with each chuckle. His corpulent gut bounced underneath his soiled white tee. Why anyone would wear white at a job like this, Bobby did not know. Not like there was much white left, most of which looked faded with black streaks of tar like carbon. The crap tractors pickup on the road would give you nightmares.
“Boss man over booked, Bobbs. But don’t worry, the trailers just came in.” Walton seemed to be glaring as Bobby passed. He was everything wrong with unions nowadays, entitled. Childish. Prone to temper tantrums. Unwilling to sacrifice for the greater good. The greater good…Bobby was no stranger to such divinations.
“We’d stay and help, Bobbs, but…you know, rules are rules. Wouldn’t want to rob you a dime. We’ve already clocked in over ten hours. Any more and we’d need approval from our rep.” Walton and his boys sounded farther in the parking lot. Their snickers less obnoxious.
Bobby Weeks marched through the entrance of Bryant LLC. Eyes fixed on the corridor in front of him. Teeth clenched. Fists balled, hidden inside the pockets of his salvaged leather jacket. He’d only been working at the warehouse for a few weeks. Never bothered a soul. Didn’t talk or mingle. And maybe that was the cause of their malcontent, because he wasn’t sociable. Or perhaps it was something else. Maybe his still obvious homeless appearance. Maybe they simply just didn’t like him for dislike sake. Some people are like that. Pheromones or something like that. People sniff, picking up these particles, oblivious to the act, and hate you, while others have absolutely no problem being around you whatsoever. Nothing out of the ordinary. Completely natural. The way we were designed or evolved. Whatever your take is, there is only one undisputed fact before all of humanity, nature is a bitch.
Nature…
The sun and stars.
Hippies and Volkswagen vans.
Bluebonnets and wildflowers.
The country.
—Luna.
Will she ever come back?
Months now and not a word. Not a letter. Or phone call. Nothing.
To get to the warehouse, Bobby would need to make his way through the locker room, and to get to the locker room, he’d have to pass the office. The main office with large glass windows, connected to the hallway, fishbowls, as he called them, housed a minimal staff. Mr. Bryant’s office was in the back, with a typically closed door. There was a finance lady, for the life of him, could never remember her name, and two logistics clerks who helped Mr. Bryant ensure an ever constant flow of goods through his warehouse.
There were also the logistics clerks. One Bobby had never met, the other, he’d met more times than he cared. Inside the fishbowl, Shirley Klett was sure to be at her desk, all five foot two inches of the short
est legs imaginable with a full head of dark brown hair tied up in a bun, and a face as shiny and bright as applesauce. It never failed, when he was called in, she’d be there, somehow miraculously getting off shift. She’d wave frantically and smile with her not so perfect teeth and jiggle with her short legs out into the hallway, sure enough to catch Bobby Weeks before he could vanish into the locker room, looking as if she could tip over at any moment due to the size of her massive breasts.
Bobby sped up his pace. He was the wind. The locker room door came closer and closer within his grasp. Holding the air in his lungs, he walked all the faster. Yet still, somehow, she saw him.
Shit.
“Bobby!” Shirley Klett waved as she always did, in a way that reminded Bobby something of a sugar high seizure. She flew from her desk, coming to the doorway leading out into the hall. Her tiny legs a blur.
“Hi, Shirley. How are things?” Bobby gazed longingly at the locker room door, which now seemed forever and a day away.
“Oh. Busy night, I’m afraid, Bobby.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“From who? Mackey?”
Bobby shrugged indifferently.
“Don’t you pay them no mind. They’re just jealous.”
“Of what?”
“Of what?” Shirley chuckled lightly. Her face turned a shade plum. She measured Bobby slowly, making him feel a little more than uncomfortable. Breathing through his nostrils he caught a hint of perfume. Not expensive, more like Gucci or something by Gabbana. Tangy with a hint of flower scented gasoline. Nothing like the jasmine stuff his old girlfriends used to wear. Girlfriends…how long ago was that? Centuries? There was another scent too, deep below the perfume and awkward glances. Something that reminded him of calzones they sell at shopping malls. She must have eaten one for dinner, he was sure of it. There was no way of really knowing, no evidence, only the scent lingering in the air. How long, he wondered. An hour ago? Two?
Bobby almost giggled.
You know, in the comics, those tragic heroes typically get some kind of awesome ability. Mine? I can smell a calzone hours later. Watch out, would-be villains!
“Bobby?” Shirley swayed on her heels, cranking her neck as if he were some modern expressionist idea of a bad joke.
“Well…” Bobby nodded toward the locker room. “I better get started. Busy night and all.”
Shirley sidestepped back inside the little office.
“Sure, hun. Don’t work too hard now, okay? I’d hate for you to…” she wetted her lips, “hurt yourself or anything.”
Bobby smiled, or what he thought was the best smile he could give. Shirley was nice enough, but not really his type. My type? Are we thinking about her again? Luna?
Starting off, Bobby glanced at the boss’s office near the back. The door was closed, but he could see a light on inside. Working late? Bryant? Wasn’t there a game on or something? Hook’em Horns or whatever college he went too?
Burning the midnight oil wasn’t really Bryant’s style.
Strange.
Frowning, Bobby turned and moved on toward the locker room. The tiles smelling of fresh bleach, or perhaps again the smell was coming from when Jose the janitor mopped sometime earlier in the morning. The first few days following a turn and prior were, other than the turn itself, some of the worst. Strong odors. Loud noises, like the grinding of teeth people aren’t even aware they’re doing. Sharp vision. And the guilt, the overwhelming sense of…what? How could he describe the feeling? Even to himself. Unnatural was a word he sometimes used. Foul, perhaps another. Dangerous…certainly.
Stuffing his borrowed worn out leather jacket into a locker, Bobby made his way out into the warehouse. The lights had been left on. Giant florescent bulbs hanging from long poles and cupped to give maximum exposure. The rafters housed an ungodly number of spider webs. Once, when he first started working here, he watched a bird, a red cardinal, get stuck up there. The next day, it was covered in that terrible deadly silk. Beyond, the warehouse was for the most part just an oversized open floor. Lines were marked in yellow, blue, and red to help designate which off-loads were stacked for the next day’s load. Tonight, however, nothing had been placed within the line in any kind of rational order. Everything had been unloaded haphazardly across the great expanse of cement. Hundreds of bins and pallets sat without having been sorted. And the trailers for the next day’s load were already here. Waiting.
“Those sons-of bitches.” Bobby gritted his teeth, clenching his fists. He wasn’t only going to have to load the trailers, but he’d have to sort each and every bin and pallet, and because old man Bryant was too terrified of the liability issues, Bobby was not allowed to operate the forklift. He’d have to do it all by hook and hand.
Those sons of bitches.
Chapter 5
Neville and Boris Petry
Neville
The tall bedroom mirror glimmered rays of early morning sunlight in a kaleidoscope of oranges and pinks. Neville Petry stood fixated on her reflection, measuring the large lump pushing out from her midsection. Her gaze was something akin to a five year old girl eyeing some new American Girl doll at the mall and the look one could imagine of some poor marooned islander in a fast food drive-thru. Hunger and desire in unmeasurable quantities. Dreamily, she stroked the girth filling out the belly of her University of Mississippi t-shirt. Combing her long curly sandy brown hair from her face, she turned to give closer inspection from a differing angle, pouting slightly, fascinated by how large she would get.
“Honey, I’m home.” Her husband’s voice carried from downstairs. There was excitement in his tone, news, perhaps good news, of whatever meeting he’d been called to at such an early hour.
“I’m in the bedroom, dear.” Again, Neville turned to look at herself in the mirror, this time with her back towards the door. Clouds shifted outside, bringing fresh beams of yellow into the bedroom. The sunlight was warm and tender, masking her otherwise pale face in heavenly golden hues.
Footsteps coming up the stairs. “You’re never going to believe the news.” Boris huffed, no doubt taking the steps two at a time, as was his custom. He reached the landing in record time and stood by the door. “What are you doing?” he asked, his grin reaching from ear to ear, quizzically.
“Just…seeing.” Neville turned again in the tall mirror, rubbing slowly along the bulge of her stomach. “How do I look?”
Boris smiled, like that of a boy caught in a daydream. “Beautiful,” he said.
“Do I?”
“You know you do.”
Boris went to his wife. From behind, he wrapped his arms around her, kissing tenderly at the base of her neck. Neville nestled her head back against his chin, giving herself one last full look in the mirror, cherishing every moment. She could feel his heartbeat. His warmth. His strength. She loved his shoulder length maple brown hair that he meticulously combed every night and every morning with twenty strokes each time. She loved the way he dressed, the same way he’d been dressing himself for years, his somewhat dapper appearance with his blue and white striped button ups and black bowties and white slacks and dark loafers. She even loved the way his bottle cap glasses made his eyes look three sizes too big. There always seemed to be an air of confidence surrounding him, infectious almost. She watched him watching her in the mirror, his gaze falling to her swollen stomach.
Neville sighed. Reaching up her university t-shirt, she pulled the pillow she’d borrowed from the bed and tossed it onto the floor. Her eyes burned.
Boris turned her and held her tight. As he did, the overpowering feeling of disappointment returned, rushing over her, flooding in a river of woe, saturating his blue and white button up. Neville sobbed, the horrible guttered breaths muffled against her husband’s thin chest.
“Hush,” he cooed. “It’ll happen. We just have to be patient.” Boris may have intended for everything he said to be of comfort, Neville knew this, but still, there was some part of what he said that carried an odor of a
ccusatory. It’ll happen? When? When? When? We’ve been trying for so long…
“I’ve been patient, Boris. I’m tired of waiting.” Neville pushed away, looking up into the concerned face of her husband.
“All I’m saying is, it’ll happen. Sooner or later, we’re going to have a baby.”
“I’m tired of waiting. I’m starting to think…”
Boris held her by the shoulders. “Don’t do that.”
“Why? It’s never going to happen, Boris.” Neville pulled away from his grip, refusing to look at herself in the mirror and her deflated stomach.
“We will.”
“When?”
Boris seemed to be considering his words. She could hear his teeth grinding, something he only did when he was focused. She’d seen him do it before, whenever he had an article he was working on to be published with the university or whenever he was grading finals. It was not a nervous habit, but rather something he did when his mind was put into overdrive.
After a few silent moments, Boris touched her shoulder and spun her back around.
“Well, I guess all we can do is keep trying.” His tone was serious, but his face was not. There was something mischievous about it, like a secret joke only he knew. What he seemed to be counting on was that his wife would know what secret joke he was alluding to. And he was right. Neville knew her husband well enough to know when he was being unscrupulous.
She nudged him in the gut with her elbow. “Don’t be a perv.”
Boris stumbled back, mocking hurt.
“Me? A perv?” he jested.
“Yes, you.” Neville couldn’t help but smile now. Somehow, as he always did, his unremarkable charm was wholly remarkable. Drying her eyes, she looked at his tear soaked shirt. “Come on, funny man. Let’s get you a new shirt and you and tell me all about why you got called away so early this morning.”
Conceiving (Subdue Book 3) Page 4