LOVER COME BACK_An Unbelievable But True Love Story

by Scott Hildreth

  Upon finding out they were going to simply drop him off at the border, my father took it upon himself to deposit money into Chiapas’ account.

  Chiapas was elated to the point of being in tears when he received it.

  When I advised my father that it was a federal offense for him to deposit money into another inmates account, he simply stated the federal prison system was comprised of a bunch of fucktards.

  With winter now approaching, I wondered if it would be feasible that I ride my motorcycle four thousand miles to the Guatemalan border and see him. Mexico’s warmth would be a nice change of pace.

  Still staring blankly at the television, I broke the silence. “I think I’m pissed that winter’s coming.”

  After a few moments, he peered over the top of his Kindle. “Instead of bitching that you can’t ride your bike, you ought to thank God for the car you’ve got.”

  “I feel free when I’m on the bike. When I’m in the car, I feel like I’m confined.”

  He lowered his Kindle. “You’ve been out for what? Three years?”

  I nodded. “Give or take.”

  “You’re a free man whether you’re on that motorcycle or in the comfort of your car.”

  “I don’t feel free.”

  “Prison was a drop of rain on the windshield of life, Son. Don’t let it become any more than that. Separate yourself from that part of your life and move on. If you dwell on it, they’ve beaten you.”

  “I’m trying,” I said. “It isn’t easy.”

  He spit out a laugh. “You’ve never been prone to taking the easy way out of anything. Stop whining and lift your chin a little.”

  “I’m not whining.”

  He went back to reading. “It’s cold outside and I can’t ride my scooter,” he said in an exaggerated whine.

  “It’s not a scooter,” I snapped back. “It’s a chopper.”

  “Fuck you. It’s a scooter.”

  “It’s a goddamned chopper.”

  “It’s a piece of purple shit.”

  “It’s black with purple flames.”

  “It looks like a girl ought to be riding it. Surprised those degenerates you ride with allow it in the clubhouse.” He lowered his Kindle. “They don’t make you park it outside, do they?”

  “Go to hell, Pop.”

  “As long as I’ve got to look at you wear that long face you’re wearing, I’m already there,” he said.

  My father had an odd way of getting his point across. Hearing him say those words caused me to realize the hell I was putting him through.

  He’d aged considerably during my incarceration, and even more so since my release. Although he claimed his time at home was much easier than the time I spent behind the walls, I doubted that was entirely true.

  I had no intention of causing him any more pain, stress, or agony.

  Living as a hermit was slowly killing me. I needed to get my life in order. Settling down with a woman and living a conventional life was the answer. I knew I could survive being in another relationship.

  I doubted, however, that I could endure another breakup.

  Chapter Fourteen

  With a look of disgust etched on my face, I peered through the window and into the parking lot across the street. Although winter was nearly over, a blanket of snow covered the asphalt for as far as I could see. A late winter storm had dumped six inches of the foul substance on the city while I slept.

  Growing angrier with each passing minute, I sipped my coffee and glared at the blinding snow. When the cup was empty, I picked up my phone and dialed Teddy’s number.

  “As soon as they scrape the streets, I’m out of here,” I said.

  “They’re out of money.”

  “Who’s out of money?”

  “The city. Said on the news that they’re out of salt, and that they’ve spent their allotment for road maintenance. We’ve got to wait for it to melt.”

  My car had two inches of ground clearance and was incapable of driving through as little as an inch of snow. Until the roads were clear, I was stuck.

  “As soon as it melts, then.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “Somewhere warm.”

  “About out of money, ain’t ya?”

  “I’m close,” I said. “But I’ve got enough to drive to the coast. I’ll sleep in the car.”

  “How long you going to be gone?”

  I was at wits end. I needed a change in my life. Grasping at straws, I felt warm weather might snap me out of my current state of mind.

  “As long as it takes,” I responded.

  “Want company?”

  “No, Brother. I need to go this one alone.”

  “Keep me posted on what’s going on?”

  “Always.”

  “Alright, then.”

  Four days later, the snow had melted entirely. After counting what money remained, I realized that I was six hundred dollars away from being destitute. Nonetheless, I packed my bag, got on the elevator, and went down to the parking garage.

  In the past three and a half years, I’d acquired several motorcycles. Although I only rode the chopper with regularity, I kept the others as trophies of my successes, riding them when an urge to do so developed. In the last year I listed them as collateral on a loan, using the money to pay bills and survive.

  A loan which was due in thirty days.

  Without sleeping, I drove to Atlanta. I intended to go south on highway seventy-five, then on to southern Florida. The trip, so far, cost me one hundred and fifty dollars in gas, and a few dollars for gas station burritos.

  By my calculations, I could easily make it to the coast of Southwest Florida. I wondered if the warm weather would encourage me to get a job, and if I might stay until summer arrived.

  In midtown Atlanta, and tired beyond compare, I pulled into a gas station to get a cup of coffee. It was Saturday night, and the parking lot was packed. I parked in a lot that separated the gas station from an adjoining bar and sauntered down the sidewalk.

  Upon returning to my car, I noticed someone had placed a bright yellow boot on my left front tire.

  The devices were used to prevent a car from being driven.

  Furious, I glanced around the parking lot for any sign of who may have attached it. In my search, I noticed a sign that I’d not seen before.

  NO PARKING. VEHICLES WILL BE TOWED AT OWNER’S EXPENSE

  I tossed my cup of coffee down onto the ground.

  “Mother fucker!”

  “That your BMW?” a voice from behind me asked.

  I spun around. A man dressed in a pair of navy pants, boots, and a matching jacket looked back at me. He was clutching a metal clipboard.

  “It is,” I said. “Are you the one that put that fucking thing on my wheel?”

  “I sure was.”

  “Take it off.”

  “That’ll cost you three hundred bucks.”

  “Fuck you,” I seethed. “Take it off, or I’ll whip your ass.”

  He pulled a radio from his belt and raised it to his mouth. “If you take another step, I’ll have the cops here in five minutes. You’ll go to jail, and your car will be impounded.”

  I had roughly four hundred and forty dollars to my name. If I gave him three hundred, I’d have enough money for gas to get home.

  “Son-of-a-fucking-bitch,” I muttered. I reached into my pocket. “Give a discount for cash?”

  He shook his head, and then nodded toward my car. “Put the cash under the windshield wiper, and then go over and stand by that telephone pole.”

  I glared. “Seriously?”

  “After that outburst? Yeah, I’m serious.”

  I did as he asked.

  He removed the boot and gave a nod. “Have a nice night.”

  I got into the car and counted my money. After a quick calculation, I realized I barely had enough money to get home. I certainly didn’t have enough to return to Kansas and to eat.

  It was over.

 
For the first time in my life, I’d been defeated.

  Admitting it was exactly what I needed. I opened my sunroof and peered out into the night’s starry sky.

  I know I don’t talk to you as often as I should. Nonetheless, my way of thinking got me here. I need your help, and I’m not afraid to admit it.

  I need one thing, and one thing only.

  Guide me.

  Please.

  It’s all I ask.

  Then, I lowered my head and drove home.

  Chapter Fifteen

  With an eviction notice in one hand and my phone in the other, I listened to what my loan officer had to say.

  “If you can pay the interest, we can push the principal out another six months.”

  “I can’t pay the interest.”

  “Can you pay a portion of it?”

  I had less than five dollars. I laughed to myself. “No, I can’t.”

  “If you can’t we’re going to have to come pick everything up. We could call it a voluntary repossession though. That’ll help you out, once you get back on your feet.”

  She’d been my banker since I was in my mid-twenties and was well aware of what I’d been through. There were limitations to what she could do for me, though. The thought of losing all my vehicles, less the chopper, tasted bitter. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all.

  I swallowed a lump of pride and cleared my throat. “If you could give me a little loan on my chopper. I could use that to—”

  “We can’t loan money on the chopper,” she said. “It’s already on this note.”

  I straightened my posture and widened my eyes. “What?”

  “We put it on this note. We had to. It was the only way we could get to the principal you wanted to borrow.”

  My heart sank. I’d had the motorcycle for over a decade. When I was arrested, the motorcycle, my cars, my SUV, and everything else of value was confiscated under a civil action lawsuit.

  Per federal law, when a crime is committed, a lawsuit can be placed against any merchandise the defendant owns, claiming that it was the product of ill-gotten gains. The burden then falls on the owner to prove the merchandise was purchased with legitimate funds. The process isn’t as easy as one might think.

  That particular lawsuit was entitled The United States of America v. (1) Big Dog Chopper.

  The ATF filed it to simply prove a point. Although they later dropped the lawsuits against all my other merchandise, they maintained suit against the chopper.

  I won the lawsuit, proving the motorcycle was purchased legally. Despite that victory, the ATF agent kept possession of it, and used it as a bargaining chip – hoping to coerce me to plead guilty. When I didn’t, he simply lost the motorcycle.

  The judge ordered that it be returned. A search of the ATF’s warehouse determined it was somehow misplaced. A subsequent search of their records indicated it had mistakenly ended up in Kansas City on the ATF’s auction block.

  As difficult as it was to believe, I managed to find out about it on the day of the auction. Speaking to the manager of the auction house while I drove, Teddy and I sped to Kansas City with the judge’s orders in hand.

  Upon providing a copy of the judge’s signed order, the motorcycle was returned to me.

  I’d proudly ridden it over the years, all the while considering it a trophy, of sorts. Proof of my only victory over the agency that ruined my life.

  “Come get it,” I said. “Come get everything.”

  “Scott. I know what the chopper means to you. Maybe we can—”

  “Nope. Come get everything. I got myself into this situation. The only way to prevent me from doing this again is to learn a valuable lesson. Come get ‘em.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Scott. I’m so sorry. Maybe I could just loan you some of my money. You could pay me back—”

  “Appreciate the offer, but I can’t. I need this, really. Come get ‘em.”

  “I’ll get the paperwork processed. Again, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to write a book,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to write a book.”

  “Seriously?”

  For the twenty years that I’d worked in the construction industry, I belonged to a society of mechanical engineers. For sixteen of those twenty years, I sat on the board of directors. During that time, I wrote a monthly article for their magazine.

  My articles won several awards. I’d never tried to write a book, but I’d always joked about it. With my back to the wall, and my wallet empty, it was time for me to put up or shut up.

  I’d never been one to shut up.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m serious.”

  “What’s it going to be about?”

  When I was twenty-one, I left my girlfriend at the time to go to basic training in the Marine Corps. Upon returning to Wichita, I went to visit her.

  Her father answered the door. His face was expressionless. “She left something for you,” he said. “Wait here.”

  In a moment, he returned. After handing me an envelope, he started to push the door closed.

  “Is she here?” I asked.

  His face contorted. “You have no idea, do you?”

  I could tell by the look on his face that something was wrong. “About what?”

  “She committed suicide.”

  With those words, he shut the door. The envelope contained a poem. I carried it in my wallet for years. To recover from the loss, I placed the poem – and my wallet – in storage. From that day on, I never carried a wallet.

  With the phone cradled against my cheek, I reached into my left pocket and rubbed the money clip I’d carried since retiring the poem.

  “It’s going to be about suicide,” I said. “Hopefully it’ll make a difference in someone’s life who’s considering it.”

  “That’s amazing,” she said.

  “We’ll find out in time,” I responded.

  A few days later, the bank picked up my BMW, and all of my motorcycles, the chopper included.

  It was exactly what I needed to fuel me to crawl out of the rut I’d allowed myself to sink into. When the last truck left, a motorcycle strapped to its wooden bed, I placed my laptop on my desk, opened it, and I began to tell my story.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Over the next several months, I slept very little. Working twenty hours a day on the manuscript of what would later be my first novel, I drank coffee, ate ramen noodles, and typed with two fingers and two thumbs.

  The story was fiction but contained many truthful elements from my life. Told from the points of view of five different people, four of which were high school students, the tale unraveled along a winding road of mystery, misery, and mischief.

  The four students were all tied together by friendship. Each of them had their own set of problems, most of which were common among high school students. One of the students, a girl, chose to befriend an online blogger and confide her problems in him.

  Seeking advice she felt couldn’t obtain from her overly strict parents, she spoke to the blogger through email, text, and, eventually, by phone. The blogger, whose name was simply The Fat Kid, spent all his time in the coffee shop, pecking away on his laptop.

  After losing his girlfriend to suicide, he spent every waking hour attempting to help anyone he could through his blog. Unbeknownst to those he helped, he was running from the realization that his girlfriend’s suicide wasn’t his fault.

  I typed the last paragraph, read it, and grinned. It was the perfect ending. Somehow, I’d managed to write a seventy-thousand-word manuscript.

  In celebration, I called Teddy.

  “It’s done.”

  “What’s done?”

  “The book. I just finished it.”

  “Good,” he said. “Now, sell it. I’m tired of paying your rent.”
/>
  “I need to get it edited and everything. Then, I’ll see what I can do. Up for a cup of celebratory coffee?”

  “Be there in a minute.”

  Thirty minutes later, we pulled into the coffee shop that I used to frequent regularly. At that time, I hadn’t been there in well over a year. As we entered the parking lot, I laughed at the fact that nothing had changed.

  The same regulars were still seated in their normal places. Through the glass, I could see the college professor I had dubbed the Nigerian Nightmare. He pecked away on his computer, undoubtedly working on a school project.

  Seated along the south exterior wall, the six Bulgarian’s glared at passing traffic. Over the years, we jokingly called them the Bulgarian Mafia. None of them worked, they always had money, and they wore matching Adidas track suits from yesteryear.

  I opened the door to the truck and stepped into the parking lot. “Some things never change.”

  “Looks just like it did last time we were here,” Teddy agreed.

  After getting a cup of coffee from a barista with porcelain-like skin, we took a position alongside the Bulgarian Mafia.

  Svetli, the leader of the group, looked me over. His hair was closely cropped, and he wore a neatly-trimmed goatee. Beneath the opened jacket of his track suit, he wore a stark white wife beater.

  “Scaht. Vehr the fahk you’ve been? Yuri says you write book. Vaht the fahk?”

  I nodded. “I just finished it.”

  “Vaht the fahk. Vaht it be about?”

  “Nothing, really,” I responded. “About a guy who hangs out in the coffee shop.”

  “No shits?” He shrugged. “Bring me copy, no?”

  “After I get it edited, I will.”

  “Who for edits?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I need to find someone.”

  “Call the fahking Jew,” he said. “He is for edits, no?”

  My eyes narrowed. “The Jew?”

  “The fahking Jew,” he shouted. “The Jew with the little car. The fahking Jew.”

  It was difficult – if not impossible – to determine the state of mind of any of the Bulgarians. They always seemed angry. They often shouted, rarely smiled, and stern was the only facial expression they wore.