Hailey's Hog

by Andrew Draper

  “Hi, Mother.”

  “Hello, darling.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “The bank screwed up my account again,” Joanne Barrow said, her voice an angry condemnation. “They say I’m overdrawn. That’s just not possible.”

  Hailey steeled herself for another round of the same old argument with her mother. As a signer on the account, Hailey grimaced, envisioning the call she would have to make to the bank to clean up her mother’s finances…again.

  “Mother, you have to cut back on your expenses,” Hailey gently admonished. “You can’t keep spending like you did when Daddy was alive.”

  “I’m just a little short this month, that’s all. Can’t you help me? Just until the bank fixes its mistake?” she said. “You have all that money sitting there doing nothing.”

  “Mother, I’ve told you before that’s a trust account. I can’t just write you a check,” she said. “I get what amounts to an ‘allowance’ from that account and I need that money to pay my own bills.”

  “You could move back in here,” the elder Barrow piped up hopefully. “I’ve got this big house and you wouldn’t have to waste your money on that small apartment.”

  “Mother, don’t start,” Hailey warned. “We’ve already gone through this. I’m not moving back home.”

  The young woman could already feel the claustrophobic pull of the apron strings as they wrapped themselves around her neck, threatening to choke the life out of her.

  Undaunted by the refusal, her mother continued. “I worry about you living in town. You should be here with me, where I know you’re safe. You would have plenty of privacy, and you wouldn’t be alone.”

  Hailey blanched at the mere thought of moving back home. She loved her mother, but knew moving back in was a disaster in the making. I’d rather set my hair on fire! She thought, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “We could split the expenses if that makes you feel better,” Joanne said.

  There it is. She winced at her mother’s ill-conceived attempt at manipulating her into returning home.

  “Mother, I love you, but I’m only going to say this once more. Uncle Greg left me that money so I could go to school,” she said. “I’m not going to juggle school and work anymore. With the classes I missed last semester, I can’t. I quit my job because I knew I couldn’t handle it.”

  She paused to breathe, listening her mother’s stilted silence on the other end of the line.

  “Besides, Daddy’s investments should be enough to support you,” she said. “What are you doing with your money?”

  Hailey knew the answer to her rhetorical question, yet waited for the barrage of excuses with a warped expectancy she didn’t really understand, a morbid curiosity she couldn’t really fathom.

  “You know I refinanced the house last year,” her mother huffed, peevishly. “Those crooks gave me that adjustable rate loan thingy and it keeps going up. My payments have doubled in the last few months. Now they said I can’t get out of it.”

  Hailey grimaced inwardly. Of course it’s someone else’s fault. It’s always someone else’s fault! Are you ever going to take responsibility for what you do? Oh, wait; I forgot who I was talking to.

  She took a deep breath, trying to control her flaring anger before answering.

  “I told you not to do it. There was nothing wrong with the Honda,” she said. “You didn’t listen to me. You had to have the new Cadillac.”

  She could almost feel her mother digging in her heels.

  “At my age, I deserve a nice car,” her mother said defensively. “Besides, I need it for my business, image you know. The Accord had almost one-hundred thousand miles on it.”

  A novice real estate agent since her husband’s death, Joanne had fallen on the same hard times as many Americans and most realtors. Her sales were in the crapper and her daughter knew it.

  “The Accord seems to be working just fine for me,” Hailey snipped. “You didn’t need to spend fifty thousand on a new car.”

  Completely ignoring her daughter’s admonishment, Joanne continued. “All I need is a few hundred to get by until my next closing,” the older woman said nonchalantly. “I’ll pay you back then.”

  Infuriated by her mother’s attitude, she compared her own financial responsibility against her mother’s uncontrolled spending and again the anger burned within her.

  “A few hundred!” Hailey fumed. “I just gave you five hundred two weeks ago! I can’t afford to give you any more right now. I just don’t have it.”

  Her mother’s financial habits boggled her mind. Irritation buzzing in her ears, Hailey thought of her mother’s new BlackBerry and several other frivolous purchases. Continuing in an uncharacteristically sharp tone, she chastised the older woman.

  “You have to learn to live within your means Mother,” she said. “That means not over-spending and then relying on me to give you money every time you need it.”

  She heard herself and thought in irritation, Who’s the parent here?

  “Hailey, please, I have to have some cash for expenses. I don’t want to lose this contract coming up.”

  “What expenses?”

  “Oh, you know, advertising, the Real Estate Association membership is due, stuff like that.”

  “Oh, you mean the cost of doing business,” Hailey said sharply. “Isn’t that what your commissions are for?”

  She paused to take a breath and rein in her increasing annoyance. “Mother, Daddy took care of you financially before he died,” she said. “You have to realize that there are limits to your income. It’s time for you to grow up and start taking responsibility for yourself. Daddy’s not here to do it any more.”

  “All you do is criticize!” Joanne wailed. “Just like your father!”

  The stinging rebuke hit her like a ball-peen hammer. Hailey remembered well the way her father would criticize her mother, pointing out her many, although mostly minor, faults. His words, while intended to be constructive, could be harsh, almost caustic at times. As “Daddy’s Little Princess”, Hailey never had to bear the brunt of his anger…or his censure.

  She felt the first cracks appear in her resolve not to bail her mother out again. She mentally calculated the obscene interest rate she would pay on the credit card advance her mother was rapidly guilt-tripping her into taking.

  Her mother continued on her self-pitying epic. “You’re gone. He’s gone. What else do I have?” her mother said in exaggerated resignation. “My work is the only thing I have left. What am I going to do?”

  Her emotions did harried summersaults between anger at her mother’s obvious manipulations and guilt over adding to Joanne’s sense of abandonment. Who’s the adult here? She asked herself, already knowing the sad truth.

  Hailey felt her resolve cave in like an abandoned mine. “Don’t panic. Of course I’ll help you. I’ll be by tomorrow and bring you some cash to get you through. I’ll figure out something,” she continued firmly, “But this is the last time.”

  “Of course it is. I promise,” Joanne said, her morose demeanor gone, mood doing a complete one-eighty.

  Knowing her mother was lying, Hailey snapped the phone shut, feeling the seeds of a migraine quickly germinating behind her eyes.

  Trying to shake off the aftereffects of the conversation, she pulled on her boots. Then it was time to go. She fired up the Hog and pulled away from her apartment as her elderly neighbor, hands covering her ears, frowned disagreeably from her front porch.

  Once again “in the wind”, she felt the power flowing from the Hog into her body in electric waves, recharging her emotional batteries like that famous pink rabbit in the T.V. commercials.

  Taking SR 69 east to Prescott Valley, she threaded her way in and out of the heavy traffic, ever-vigilant of the photo-radar cameras and live police guarding the highway. She watched the scenery go by in a blur, making good time covering the 40 miles to the interstate as her mood began to gradually improve.

  The a
sphalt ribbon unwound before her as she stared into a nuclear-powered sunset poised inches above the horizon. The soft white clouds drifted across a cobalt blue sky, their edges now painted in shades of mauve and gold. As the miles rolled up on the odometer, the intensely glowing red ball finally dipped into the desert’s desiccated wasteland. She marveled at the sublime beauty of the subtle, fleeting event.

  Reaching Interstate 17, she steered the Hog into the crowded Chevron station, stopping in the quickly fading daylight. She looked at the throng of people milling around as she topped off the gas tank and nursed a bottle of water from her saddle bags, knowing the run would soon come right by. After waiting only a few minutes, the bikes began to roll noisily past the rest stop in intermittent pairs and the occasional triad, telling her the bulk of the participants were fast approaching.

  Ditching the empty bottle in the trash can, she mounted up, steeling herself for the possible meeting that lay ahead. She pulled into the increasing traffic with a twist of the wrist and a flick of the shifter, crossing the busy lanes and making her way to the interstate.

  With a wave of acknowledgement from the rider in her mirror, she blended in with the surging pack as it passed Cordes Junction. Squeezing in to the middle of the one-hundred or so bikes rolling down the sizzling stretch of blacktop, her expectation mounted as she considered her enemy and prepared to face him.

  Perspiration evaporating off her body in the early evening heat, she powered her way along the route, leaning in and out around the mountain curves. She followed the distant, unseen leader, holding her place with a concerted effort as the tight formation took advantage of the highway’s steep down-grade.

  Feeling the drawing stares coming from within the other four-wheeled vehicles on the road, she contemplated what they saw. For a mile or two she pondered which version of herself she wanted to be today and decided on the self-assured, fearless woman who rode the roaring iron horse between her legs.

  A small boy waved to her as she pulled up next to his parent’s minivan, their eyes meeting as he looked out the window from his car seat.

  She smiled inwardly, then gave him a quick grin, passing them with a sharp bark from the Hog’s chrome exhaust pipes.

  As the group approached their destination, her thoughts ran to what would happen when she arrived. Her heart hiccupped at the thought of actually seeing him in the flesh, an icy fear making her shiver, despite the triple-digit temperature.

  Chapter Twelve

  Axel Rackley slid back the gate leading to the shop and unlocked the door.

  He grimaced and smoothed his mustache as his head throbbed in pain, his hang-over overshadowing the amount of work he had to do in the next five days. He looked around the dark space and turned on the overhead lights, seeing several projects that required his immediate attention. I have to weld up the frame on that KTM dirt bike and finish those four custom swing-arm orders. And, I still have to get ready for the run on the fourth. He scrubbed his face in his hands. I better quit stalling and get some of this shit done.

  He flipped the big gray helmet down over his face and the welder sparked to life in his hand. He worked uninterrupted for the next two hours, until the phone rang. He put the smoking piece of steel aside and answered it.

  “Yeah, I still have that black Sportster you were looking at,” he said. “Do you want it or not?”

  The line buzzed in his ears for several seconds before the man answered. “I want it, but I think you’re asking a lot for it, considering what it’s going to cost to get it back on the road,” the caller said. “I’ll give you three-thousand in cash for it, as is.”

  Rackley rolled his eyes in disgust. They always want something for nothing. “Sorry. I could part it out for more than that,” Rackley said. “All it needs is the forks replaced and a few small parts. Total repairs are less than a grand. I’ll knock off a few bucks, but I’m not giving it away.”

  “Let me think about it,” the man on the line said. “I still think five grand is too much.”

  “It might be a ‘98, but it’s got less than ten-thousand miles on it. It can be repaired pretty easy. The guy’s wife just doesn’t want him riding anymore,” Rackley said. “Somebody’s going to get a hell of a deal. If you don’t want it, I’ll find someone who does.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  “Alright, you have until the end of the day. I’ll hold it for that long, but that’s it.”

  He snapped the phone shut and again the sparks flew from the welder. He knitted his brow in diligent concentration before finally finding that zone where he could almost see the bead before the blue and white arc melted it in into existence. He worked non-stop for the next several hours, pulling the order tickets off the wall and attaching them to the finished products one after the other.

  Checking his watch, he noted it was now after five o’clock. He closed and locked up the shop, then mounted his bike for the ride to Prescott.

  The trip from Chino Valley went by in an uneventful blur, and he suddenly found himself turning south on Miller Valley road. He throttled up the big-bore English engine and rolled toward the gym located on the next block. He parked the bike in the lot across the street and chained it to the base of a streetlight before going inside.

  Twenty minutes into his workout, the shop was forgotten as sweat flew off his forehead while he circled his sparring partner. He threw a potent kick to the man’s mid-section, hearing the breath explode from his lungs when his foot landed on target. He bounced on the balls of his feet, the heavy rubber of the practice mats cushioning his steps as he again moved toward his adversary.

  He felt a palpable thrill surge through him as he bobbed and dodged the other man’s blows, reveling in his chosen calling of mixed martial arts competition. He loved the raw, animal power of two men meeting in the cage to battle it out, unfettered by the rules of “polite” society. He basked in the unconcealed odium as the two gladiators faced each other in the exalted confines of the ring’s steel mesh.

  Seeing an opening in his opponent’s defenses, Rackley’s left foot snapped out in an elephant kick followed by a barrage of round-house punches in close combination. The devastating blows stunned the larger man.

  The bell sounded, ending the session and he watched the ring assistants help the other man lift himself off the mat, blood flowing freely from a broken nose.

  He showered and returned home, seeing his girlfriend Jill sitting in a folding chair on his porch. Her face told him she was pissed at him…again. Parking the bike, he searched his memory for anything he’d done that would account for her obvious anger.

  “You’re late,” the blond waif said. Looking at her watch, she frowned. “We were supposed to meet Jack and Amy at the bar an hour ago. Where have you been?”

  “I was working at the shop and then I went to the gym.” He told her the truth, but left out the part where he forgot about their date.

  “You could have called,” she said. “I’m not feeling a lot of respect here.”

  He didn’t respond to her indictment.

  “You know what, I’m going home. I’m sick of you blowing me off,” she said, rising from the chair. “Going to check out this band was your idea in the first place. The least you could’ve done was show up on time…or call me to let me know what’s going on. I deserve better than this.”

  “I don’t have to answer to you,” he shouted at her retreating back. “We’re not married or anything.”

  She shook her head as she opened the car door. “Thank God!” she swore under her breath. “Asshole!”

  “‘Bitch!” he shouted after her. “I don’t take shit from any woman!”

  He didn’t hear any reply as she got in and drove away. He watched the taillights disappear down the street. Good riddance!

  He got back on the bike and left his house, entering the club a few minutes later, he scanned the crowd for his friends. Not seeing them, he sat down at the bar and ordered a beer. He slowly drank the beer and listene
d to the music, wondering where his friends might be now.

  He motioned the bartender for another refill and sat back on his barstool, the wood groaning in defiance.

  Feeling nature call, he worked his way back through the crowd, following a lighted sign directing him toward the restrooms in the far back corner of the establishment.

  A man came out the door, staggering back toward the dance floor, a half-full cocktail glass tipping to and fro in his unsteady hand. Rackley moved out of his crooked path, but the drunken man swerved at the last second and collided with him, whiskey and cola now running down Axel’s shirt. Feeling his anger burst anew, he yelled at the inebriated slob. “Watch were you’re going, asshole!”

  The man’s unfocused eyes sought his. “Fuck off, dickhead!”

  The loaded man never saw the closed fist until it impacted on his chest, blowing the air out of his lungs with an audible whoosh! The intoxicated man folded like a paper bag, crumpling on the floor with a cry of pain.

  Seeing the man go down, two large bouncers moved from their positions by the rear exit toward Rackley and he did a “strategic withdrawal” back toward the entrance. He cleared the doors just as one of the angry men reached for him and he twisted his way free, running down the street toward his bike, parked half a block away. He looked behind him repeatedly as he moved through the quiet, dark streets, glad to see that no one was giving chase.

  Engine roaring in his ears, he took Road 3 North, turning right onto Highway 89 headed for Paulden. He leaned into the corner, the footpeg throwing off a shower of bright sparks as it scraped along the new pavement.

  He turned onto Big Chino road. Finding the street in the darkness, he arrived at Jill’s place. He killed the engine and hid in the shadows of a tree behind the house. Approaching the back door, he stared in the dirty window and this rage exploded as he watched her fall into an embrace with an unknown man. I knew the slut was cheating on me. Fuck her, I’m gone!

  Blood boiling, he turned away from the drama playing itself out in the semi-darkness beyond the glass.