Doc took JD’s hand and looked curiously at the boy’s jittery eyes. In them, he saw a determined soul. Resolve telegraphed through his strong grip. An aura of something special surrounded the boy. “How do you do, JD, I’m Edward Williams; people around here just call me Doc,” he smiled, “and if your willing to work, I believe we can find something for you to do.”
*****
JD Jones, bike washer, he thought with pride. I’m gonna be the best damn bike washer they’ve ever seen.
He washed every motorcycle with the precision of a surgeon; the hours flew by. Doc stopped by his work area every day, and seemed genuinely interested in what JD had to say. Doc, who looked young for a thirty-year-old father of two, at six feet tall, stood shoulder to shoulder with his young protégé.
*****
Edward first noticed Katherine when they were both high school freshmen. They sat across from each other in English class. She was a popular cheerleader, and the star of the volleyball team. Her father was a well-to-do business professor; Doc’s was a second-generation janitor. Doc was all but invisible to Katherine.
At the end of their junior year, she was elected senior class president. Thanks to Doc and the campaign, he waged in her favor.
It was an unseasonably warm, Tuesday evening in late October of their senior year when they bumped into each other after cheerleading practice.
“Hi, Katherine, how ya’ doin’?” Doc tried to sound cavalier. He had long since memorized her telephone number and never had the nerve to call her.
“Hi,” she answered shyly. “Thanks for your help with my campaign last year. If I can ever return the favor...”
“When you put it like that, there is one thing.” He paused; it was too late to turn back. “The dance—one dance, Friday?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You don’t owe me anything, but if you really want to do something, save me one dance on Friday night.” He explained.
Perhaps it was the music, the finality of senior year, or the fact that he refused to give up; for whatever reason, they fell in love.
*****
From behind the morning paper, Katherine’s father peered over half-lens reading glasses. “Is his father not the janitor,” he pressed.
“Father, you know he is. How many times have I heard you say, what a nice family they are? Just the other day, you were saying what a fine and diligent man old Mr. Williams was before he retired, and how his son had done an excellent job filling his shoes. I think you even mentioned that the world would be a better place if more people had the work ethic of the Williams’s men.”
He answered without lifting his eyes. “You, my child, will not become the wife of a third-generation janitor.”
*****
After three nights of listening to her husband prattle on about the new kid, Katherine Kat Williams was intrigued and wanted to meet JD Jones. “Okay, okay,” she said. “I’ll stop in tomorrow. I want to see for myself what’s so special about this guy. He must be somethin’. We’ve had summer help before, and you never said a word.”
“I’m telling you, Katherine, there is something special about this boy. He’s only eighteen, but he doesn’t treat this job like summer work. He goes after washin’ those bikes like he was killin’ snakes. He’s meticulous about everything he does; I’ve never even used this word before, but I think he’s charismatic. Tomorrow then, tomorrow you’ll see for yourself.”
Shit, she thought, Doc was right. After fifteen minutes of conversation with JD, Kat was convinced he was special.
“Where do you live, JD?” Kat got right to the point.
“In the youth hostel,” he answered shyly, his eyes locked on the floor.
“Is it comfortable; do you have your own room?”
“It’s okay, but no, ma’am, all the boys bunk in the same room.”
“Well, we’ll have to see about that.” Kat said sternly like a mother to a child. She pivoted and went straight to the office.
It was late Sunday afternoon when Kat, Doc, and JD finished cleaning out the storeroom in the back of the motorcycle service area. Most of the clutter was junk and went straight to the dumpster. The bathroom, next to the storeroom, was fitted with an old fiberglass shower enclosure. It was also full of junk, but it worked and the water was hot. The area rug had been a gift from Kat’s mother. It fit perfectly, and covered the concrete floor from wall to wall.
Doc brought a rusty, steel-frame single-bed from the basement at home, and Kat made it with well-worn sheets and a blanket. Down on her knees, she smoothed out the last wrinkle of the red, white, and blue bedspread. Doc had used it as a college freshman living in the dorm. She looked up at her husband and the young man. Three days ago, he was a stranger, she thought, now he is our ward. She admired their equally strong faces. In another life, they could have been brothers.
“Kat, why are you smiling?” Doc asked. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”
“Nothin’ really, I just think the room is nice,” she answered, reticent to say what she really thought. “I think JD will be very comfortable here, that’s all.”
FIVE
I can’t believe I’ve been here three years, JD thought as he brushed his teeth in front of the dingy mirror in the small, familiar bathroom. It seems like yesterday that I started work and moved in. He wiggled into tight jeans, and pulled on black boots. Maybe I need new jeans. He checked the pant leg, which was just a little too high on the side of his boot. He had grown his final inch, and matched it with an extra inch of hair.
It was Saturday and he had asked for the day off; Doc agreed without question. JD had long since graduated from bike washer. He started with simple tune-ups and worked his way up to mechanic. He studied the factory and aftermarket service and parts manuals until he knew them all by heart. If I’m going to be a mechanic, he thought, I’m going to be the best.
He combed his hair, and took one last look in the mirror. The face seemed wiser than what he remembered. Behind the veneer, still lived the boy, the preacher’s son. Am I really twenty-one? My life didn’t even begin until I came here. The face in the mirror smiled. I guess I grew up right here.
*****
He opened the back door to the showroom, and walked right into the middle of a cheer. The membership of the Sons of Darkness formed a semi-circle, and began to chant. “For he’s a jolly good fellow…” Someone put a beer in his hand. JD was swept into their midst.
The bike shop was officially open. However, no one worked. The drone of bikes arriving and leaving was constant. Beer coolers occupied every corner of the showroom. In the center of the room was a sound system, and a makeshift dance floor.
“Doc, this is a real party.” The somewhat-drunk JD hugged his friend. “Thanks, this is really great, you’re amazing.”
In mid-afternoon, Doc stopped the music. JD was in the middle of a slow dance with someone else’s girlfriend. “Mr. Jones,” Doc began with an official and prophetic tone, “We are here today to celebrate a very important event, the anniversary of your birth. Not just any anniversary, this is the day whereupon the laws of the state of Missouri acknowledge your transition to adulthood. You, sir, have achieved an age whereon you may now legally, and without forethought, buy your own fucking booze!”
The crowd roared.
“Therefore, as the appointed representative of this distinguished group of derelicts, which we call the Sons of Darkness, it is with great pleasure that I bestow upon you the honor of full member.” Doc reached out with open arms, palms up, “Gentlemen, the cut.”
The crowd rippled from the back as they passed it forward. An officer of the club stepped from the ranks, and handed Doc a folded black-leather jacket. He shook it out by the shoulders, and held it up for all to see. The club colors emblazoned the back. Between the rockers, the Grim Reaper waited. Embroidered on the lower rocker was a single word, Deacon.
“Mr. Jones, by the power vested in me, I hereby confirm upon you full membersh
ip in the Sons. I’m sure somewhere in the Bible there’s a passage that would make my point. However, only you would know where it is, and that is my point. Because of your prolific use of scripture with which you always make your point, you have divined your own road name. From this day forward, you shall be known as Deacon. Please accept this cut as a token of our friendship and esteem. Wear our colors proudly.”
Deacon touched the black leather, smooth and durable; he fought back tears. My armor, he thought. With Doc’s help, he slipped into his new jacket. For the first time in his life, James Deacon Jones was an important part of something. I’m finally a Son, he proudly told himself.
The tufted red-leather seat of the custom chopper, resting on its kickstand in front of a plate glass window at the edge of the dance floor, gave Deacon a clear view of the room. The cold Budweiser washed easily past his tongue. He joyfully breathed in the oily-clean smell of the motorcycle shop, the laughter of his friends, and most of all, the brotherhood.
The Sons were not one-percenters; they were not outlaw bikers. Deacon noticed a lawyer across the room. A friend, he thought. It doesn’t matter what you do during the week, he patted his knee with the palm of his free hand. If you’re a Son, on Saturday we’re all the same. Today, he smiled modestly, today, I’m not only a member, I’m Deacon.
It was almost dark when Doc stopped the party again. He quieted the room; with anticipation, everyone focused on Doc. He whistled a long, low, beckoning call. A path between the dance floor and the door to the service area magically opened. Two members emerged and threaded their cargo carefully through the throng. One guided and the other pushed a large wooden crate, which rode upon a four-wheel dolly.
“A member of an MC has to have a scoot.” Doc said as he smiled broadly and touched the oily box, which brimmed full of miscellaneous motorcycle parts. An old Harley-Davidson hard-tail frame, chipped and scarred, protruded from the center of the crate.
“This is mine,” Deacon’s voice cracked with emotion, “this is for me?” He ran his fingers through the greasy parts. “They’re beautiful.”
“Yeah, a beautiful, greasy mountain of work,” Doc added. “But I’ll help ya. Hell, we’ll all help you.”
The crowd closed around Deacon and his prize. Beneath the crush, he laid his face on the jumble of cold steel and chrome. Warm tears dripped through the pile.
Occasional grease fueled fireballs, belched from the massive outdoor grill, and illuminated the clear night sky. The mouth-watering aroma of barbeque wafted into the showroom and the mob streamed outside.
“Come on, Deac, you have to eat somethin’.” Doc coaxed Deacon outside.
Someone shoved a lawn chair against the backs of his knees, and someone else put a plate of ribs in one hand and a glass of Jack Daniels in the other. The crowd, interacting like a single multifaceted organism, whirled around him. One by one, the members came around, shook his hand, called him Deacon, and ceremoniously patted his colors.
“Deac, you don’t have a tatt, do ya?” Doc’s question came late in the evening; only the hardcore crowd remained.
“Nope, ain’t got no fuckin’ tatt!” Deacon’s drunken speech was, for a moment, clear. “Ya think I need one?”
“It only seems right, my friend, it only seems right.”
Led by Ink, a founding member of the Sons, the sluggish, serpentine motorcycle processional stretched through the back streets and alleys.
Doc rode second in line. With one hand, he supported a limp Deacon on the back of his bike. They made the last turn and topped a small hill. He killed his engine, coasted the remaining two hundred feet, and stopped in front of Ink’s tattoo parlor.
Slumped in the artist’s chair, Deacon rolled his head around in a drunken stupor and mumbled something incomprehensible.
“Deacon, Deacon, can you hear me?” Doc caught him by the shoulders and shook. “I need you to talk to me. Listen, Ink’s been at this a long time; everybody knows he’s the best skin artist around. He’s gonna give you whatever you want.” He shook him again, only more soundly. “Deac, you’re gonna have ta tell him what ya want. He’s an artist, not a mind reader.”
Through the fog that shrouded his mind, a random thought emerged. It came out of an old part of his brain, the part that was his first life, which had ended when he was eighteen years old. What will my father say? What will he do to me when he finds out?
He shook his head as if to expel the memory. “Right here, put it right here.” With the index finger of his right hand, he touched his left arm just below the scar left by his smallpox vaccination. “Let’s do somethin’ my old man would appreciate.” He said with a drunken, sinister laugh.
The mental image of the tattoo was crystal-clear as though he had planned it his entire life. Deacon heard his own voice talking to him through the fog. This must be how divine guidance that the Reverend always talked about works. Hell, maybe this is divine guidance.
Deacon began to speak lucidly and without hesitation. Perfectly formed words came in a chanting rhythm like a parishioner reciting the Lord’s Prayer. With careful precision, as though reading from a script, he described the symbol of his life. “I want a cross, a three-dimensional cross. Not of wood, make it ancient ebony with deep golden trim as though it came from the time of Moses in Egypt. It should be elegant, too ostentatious for Christ, like the possession of a man who wouldn’t own a cross or possess the humility its ownership would require.” Deacon became increasingly more agitated. “Give it depth, feeling, and value—enticing to a lover of priceless trinkets, and wrap it with a serpent, a wicked, sin-filled snake.”
Ink sketched frantically with colored pencils on a large pad.
Deacon abruptly stopped and looked into the faces of his friends. In their inebriated eyes, he recognized confusion and fear. No one moved. They seemed to be waiting.
Deacon heard his father’s voice. He closed his eyes and saw the Reverend Jones pound the pulpit and shout at the congregation. He heard the message as clearly as if the man was in the room. Deacon began to repeat, verbatim, what he heard: “Remember, Brothers, the Song of Moses in the old testament, Deuteronomy, Chapter thirty-two, verses thirty-two and thirty-three:
For their vine comes from the vine
of Sodom,
and from the fields of Gomor’rah;
their grapes are grapes of poison,
their clusters are bitter;
their wine is the poison of serpents,
and the cruel venom of asps.”
Deacon returned his attention to the sketch on paper, and resumed his description as though he had never stopped. “A viper with the fury of hell reflected in its burning eyes. Wrap its boneless skin and cold flesh around the entire width of the cross.”
Occasionally, Ink held up the incomplete image for Deacon to see. Continually, he erased and redrew the shapes to match the verbal tapestry.
“Its head must tower above the symbol, drawn back and ready to strike; menacing fangs will drip with the evil venom of Satan.” Deacon paused; thinking, remembering, knowing, and then he continued. “Paint the dagger of a rich man or pagan king, an anlace. I want the knife to impale the cross through the snake. It will bleed a rich crimson blood from the wound, not the snake, the cross, the lifeblood of goodness and truth. When you’ve finished, the cross will weep with the blood of the faithful.”
The muffled buzz from the tool barely penetrated Deacon’s drunken stupor. He jerked at the first prick of the needle.
Ink quickly lifted the tool from his skin. “Easy, Deacon, you’re gonna cause me to make a mess of this. You have to sit still, relax.” He ordered.
Deacon was aware of the strong, antiseptic smell mixed with ink and sweat, which hung in the thick air. Bikers crowded the chair to watch the work unfold. The pain of the needle was excruciating at first. As he became accustomed to the alcohol numbed stinging, his mind drifted away.
“Oh, shit!” Ink’s panicked voice penetrated Deacon’s thin veil of unconscious
ness.
“What, what’s a matter?” Deacon blinked. Ink’s face was close to his arm; Deacon could feel his friend’s hot, rapid breath.
“Shit, man, you’re bleedin’. It’s the booze. It’s a fuckin’ blood thinner.”
“What’s that mean to me?”
“It means the ink might not stay, and it makes the work harder for me.”
“It’ll stick, just finish.” Deacon ordered; he looked up at the schoolhouse style clock on the wall. It was 3:50 a.m. Wow, he thought, then closed his eyes and drifted away.
Daybreak devoured the remnants of darkness; the tool buzzed for the last time, and the artist leaned back to admire his handiwork.
“Your best ever.” Doc said with amazement. He held a mirror so Deacon could see the full image imprisoned in his arm. Deacon grinned. From God’s lips to my arm, he thought.
Late Sunday afternoon, consciousness found Deacon; he looked around the unfamiliar bedroom. Where am I?
A naked, apple-face woman lay sleeping by his side. She opened one eye and yawned. “Afternoon, sleepy-head, I thought you’d never sleep it off.”
“How’d we get here?” He asked nervously. “Did we…”
“The guys dropped us; this is my place, and you bet we did, more than once.” She pecked his cheek. “I volunteered for this gig, and man, am I glad I did. Happy Birthday to me,” she laughed.
Deacon closed his eyes against the light; his head throbbed, even his eyelids ached.
*****
When the protective bandage of gauze and ointment came off his arm, no one laughed. The frightening image was exactly what Deacon had described. No one was able to look long at the carefully stained skin. The most anyone, including Deacon, could manage was a sideways glance.
Occasionally, as the weeks passed, people who had heard about the tattoo would ask to see. At times, in a bar with a little urging and a few beers, Deacon would roll up his sleeve for effect.
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