“Ridin’ that motherfucker like he stole it,” Steve laughed.
“Well, at least he isn’t riding it like a pussy,” I chuckled.
Steve turned to me and smiled, “What’s your name again?”
“Karter.”
“I like those tats, Karter. Like your old man too, he’s a good dude.”
“He’s the best,” I said.
“Let’s go inside. Like any of the new bikes?” he asked as he pulled the door open.
I shrugged, “I don’t know. I like that new Softail Slim, but I’m a starving artist. I can’t afford a new bike. I just sold forty grand worth of art, but I have to manage my money. Hell, I might not sell anything else for six months.”
“Don’t cost anything to look, does it?” he asked.
“Nope,” I responded as I walked through the door.
A new flat black Softail Slim sat in the middle of the showroom. As we approached it, Steve looked toward the bike and nodded, “Get on. It sits real low. Probably wouldn’t even have to lower it.”
I hopped on the bike and grabbed the bars. My feet sat flat on the floor and my knees were actually bent. Shocked, as I had to lower my Softail three inches to get it where I could safely ride it, I grinned at the stance of the bike. It fit me perfectly.
“How much?” I asked.
“$17,500 the way it sits. We’d give a little break off that,” he said.
I kicked up the kickstand and felt the bike’s weight against my legs. It was similar to mine, but almost twenty-five years newer and with a more comfortable seat. The thought of having a new bike was something that always appealed to me. I had no hang-ups with my bike, and felt no real reason to keep it other than I had almost no money invested in it. That, and the fact I couldn’t afford to replace it. As I heard the unmistakable rumble of the Street Glide outside the front door, I tilted my head toward the entrance. Jak removed his helmet as he walked through the door.
“What’d you think of her, Jak?” Steve asked.
“Loved it,” Jak smiled.
He looked truly happy. It was almost as if he finally found the escape he had needed all along. I realized there was a tremendous amount of burden carried by military war veterans, but Jak never talked about the war. As I wondered how he dealt with the emotion from all of the missions he’d been on, I considered the freedom he may have felt while riding the bike. Riding, for me, was an experience and an escape I could get nowhere else on this earth. As he slowly meandered through the showroom, he seemed to have a little more attitude to his walk.
In his boots, jeans, and tee shirt, he looked like a biker.
“Well?” I asked, trying not to sound too excited.
“Well what? Well, you look gorgeous on that new bike, honey,” he smiled as he bent down to my height and kissed me.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Love it,” I grinned.
“Would you ever trade in the other one?” he asked.
“Oh fuck yeah, if I could afford it. Truthfully, I hate that fucking Evo,” I complained.
“How much for both of ‘em?” Jak asked.
Oh my God. Don’t fuck with me, Jak.
“Well, $27,500 for the ‘Glide, and $17,500 for the Slim. That’s $45,000. I’d say we could probably go $40,000 for them both,” Steve responded.
“She’s got a 1991 Softail in above average shape for the age. It needs a battery cable,” Jak paused and looked toward me.
I smiled and pulled the battery cable from my rear pocket and held it in the air. If we ended up with two new bikes, there would be nowhere we couldn’t go. Hell, if Jak wanted, we could ride to the coast. The thought of getting rid of my shitty old Harley became exciting as Steve waited for Jak to finish speaking.
“How about $35,000 and the old Softail?” Jak asked.
Holy shit. Jak’s serious.
“Make it $36,500?” Steve asked.
“No,” Jak responded.
Fuck, I’ll toss in the fifteen hundred.
“I’ll go $36,000,” Jak said.
“You got a deal. Now what about her old bike?” Steve asked.
“I’ll deliver it this afternoon,” Jak responded.
“Sounds good, let’s write it up,” Steve said.
“Jak? You’re serious?” I asked.
It all happened so fast. I’d never had anyone buy me anything, let alone something as expensive as a new bike. It was difficult for me to comprehend. Completely overwhelmed with emotion and excitement for Jak and me to be able to ride together, I waited for him to respond.
“Push it to the door, honey. Let’s go get your bike and bring it back here, then we can spend the rest of the day riding,” he grinned.
As I thought of loading the bike into the truck, I remembered the day Jak and I met, and how he lifted the back of the bike into the truck with ease.
And. I. Got. Wet.
As he began to walk toward Steve’s office, I whistled. Jak turned around. I kicked the kickstand down and stood from the bike. I looked down at the waist of my jeans.
“Stick your hand in here,” I laughed as I pulled the waist of my jeans away from my stomach.
“Let me get this signed and over with,” he said as he tilted his head toward the office.
“Pussy,” I whispered.
Fuck, I said that out loud.
Before I had a chance to make a run for it, Jak had me pinned to the floor, and his hand in my pants.
Yeah, I think Jak will do just fine as a biker.
KARTER. I used to sit at home and worry Jak would simply forget about me one day. Having Jak be a part of my life made such improvements to me and my manner of living, I was afraid it would certainly come to an end. I had never truly enjoyed living until I met Jak. With him in my life, I viewed the world before me through different eyes, and not my colored contact lenses.
Life with Jak was not too good to be true, because it was true. It was real. And it was mine. And I, of all people, believed I deserved what I was being served as a repeated meal by the hand of no other than God. I had never really believed in God until after I met Jak. And now, I don’t know how anyone could convince me God did not exist. Who could witness something as magical as the love Jak and I felt for one another, and believe it merely happened? Everything falling into place in the manner it had was far too complex to be anything but a plan by a being greater than man. I cleared my throat, set my coffee cup beside the newspaper, and closed my eyes.
God,
You keep Jak healthy, and I’ll keep him happy. I can promise you that. And I don’t make a promise if I don’t intend to die keeping it. And you can take that to the fucking bank.
Shit.
I probably shouldn’t have cussed, huh? My bad. Rewind. Okay, keep him healthy, and I’ll keep him happy. Pound it. Thanks for everything. Show me the way. Keep us safe out on the road. Shiny side up and all.
That’s all I got.
Karter out.
I opened my eyes and began sorting through the piles of mail which had collected for almost the entire time I had known Jak. He had immediately consumed my entire life, and although it was in a good way, it was also a bit overwhelming looking at it from an outsider’s point of view. As I flipped through the envelopes, one thing became immediately apparent.
The Sedgwick County Courthouse wanted to get ahold of me.
Desperately.
No less than six letters from the Sedgwick County Courthouse were amongst the mail I had inventoried. Frustrated, and assuming I had a warrant for my arrest, I grabbed my knife and cut the envelope open. I pulled the one page letter from the envelope and read it.
Mrs. Wilson,
Pursuant to case number SG-2436-17A, please provide proof of ongoing aftercare. If such proof isn’t provided by August 28th, 2014, actions will be taken by the court.
Be reminded breach of the agreement set forth in the above referenced case may include fines, imprisonment, or both.
Circumstances of th
e case and of the agreement are available from the Clerk of the Court by providing the case number.
Respectfully,
The Prosecutor’s Office
I tossed the letter on the counter.
Fuck.
I opened one of the other envelopes. The exact same letter with a different date was inside. I opened another. The same thing. Frustrated, I sat and stared at the newspaper I had just finished reading. I had been required by the court to attend no less than three Alcoholics Anonymous meetings as aftercare to my treatment. If not, I could be determined incompetent mentally by the court, and placed in an institution or in jail.
I shook my head, wrapped my hands around my coffee cup and thought of what my options were. I looked down at my cup and closed my eyes.
God,
Seriously?
I opened my eyes and shook my head. I glanced at the pile of mail and closed my eyes softly to close my prayer.
Karter out.
The August date had long since passed. Without a doubt in a short period of time, if not already, a warrant for my arrest would be issued. Frustrated, I picked up the phone and called the Prosecutor’s Office. After three different people and twenty minutes of begging, I had authorization to attend three meetings in three weeks.
Thank God.
No pun intended.
A call to the treatment center revealed what I already knew. There were daily morning and afternoon meetings, seven days a week, 365 days a year. Praise the Lord and pass the wicker basket. I decided to send Jak a text and tell him the truth. He understood the importance of what I had to do, and we decided to meet for a late lunch afterward. After a quick shower and a wet ponytail I was on the elevator.
I got off the elevator and looked at my new bike. It was a relief to have the old one long gone. It reminded me of my mother each time I thought about it. It was really the last thing that tied us together, and being rid of it would truly allow me to live a life free of any thoughts or attachments to her. I pulled my helmet on and fired up the bike. The rumble from the 1690 cc motor was totally different than the 1340. This bike was just like me.
Bad ass.
The ride through mid-morning traffic was without incident, and within fifteen minutes I was at the treatment center. After exchanging niceties with the counselor, I flopped down at the almost empty table, set my helmet on the floor, and looked around the room.
Three, including me.
I looked at my watch. It would be fifteen more minutes before the fun began. I rolled my eyes, looked up at the ceiling, and began counting the ceiling tiles. Generally, simple math would satisfy me when computing the size of a room. Considering my level of interest in being there, I decided I would count them individually to waste a little more time. When I reached 107, a familiar voice caught my attention.
“Nice to see you back, Karter.”
I looked down from the ceiling.
Bill the bullshitter.
“Mornin’ Bill,” I sighed.
I leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling.
Where was I?
Fuck, now I have to start over.
I saw the outline of Bill’s body as he got a cup of coffee and sat in the same seat he was sitting in the day we met for the first time. I considered the fact he was at my very first meeting, and he didn’t attend any of the other meetings during my treatment, and now he had returned for my random assed unscheduled meeting. I began to wonder if he was following me. Not in a necessarily paranoid manner, but in a what the fuck is the deal with this dude manner. I stopped counting ceiling tiles at tile number 143, and shifted my gaze to Bill.
“So, Bill. Did you ever remember the name of the nineteen year old boy you slaughtered?”
He looked up from his cup of coffee and across the table. His eyes were filled with sorrow. Real sorrow. He nodded his head slowly and his lips began quiver as he started to speak.
“As a matter of fact, I did. It’s been a tough week for me. It’s why I’m here. I didn’t rightly want to end up drunk again, so I decided it’d be better to come here and talk about it,” he said softly.
I stared at him and began to feel sorry for him. But, without a name, it was still bullshit.
“What was his name?” I asked.
With a shaking hand, he lifted the coffee cup to his mouth and spoke over the top of the cup, “Well, I can’t remember the last name, but I’m pretty sure I got the first. It was an odd one, just took some thinking to remember it.”
Still bullshit, dude.
“And?” I asked, beginning to feel annoyed.
“Anderson. His first name was Anderson.”
An immediate pain developed in my chest. My eyes welled with tears. I didn’t immediately understand what was happening, but after a moment, I came to the realization Jak’s father’s name was Anderson.
In my very first meeting, Bill said he had the wreck on June 6th, 1976.
Jak was born in 1976.
In January.
I pushed myself from the table and stood. My eyes were swollen and full of tears. I stared at Bill. Without speaking or remembering to grab my helmet, I stumbled to my bike, fired it up, and twisted the throttle as far as it would go.
And the wind against my face dried the many tears of pain from what I was afraid to be the truth.
JAK. “So I’ve never asked, but lately I’ve started to wonder. Respectfully, I’d like to ask a personal question. Permission?” I chuckled.
“You ain’t in the military anymore, boy. You ain’t got to be askin’ me permission to speak. Step away from the doorway so the man don’t see ya,” Oscar grinned as he waved his hand to the side.
I stepped into the shop and away from the door.
“Go on and speak your mind. What ya got?” Oscar said as he leaned against the golf cart and pulled a cigar from his pocket.
“Well, I was wondering. Is your wife still alive? Are you still married?” I asked.
“Well, thems two separate questions. She’s gone, Jak. She died four years past. She died by the hand of a man who had one too many drinks on the eve of the new year. Makes that day a doozie for me. But the other question?” he paused and lit the cigar.
“Yessir. I’s still married to her. Always will be. That’s when you know it’s true. When you stay married long after they’s gone,” he nodded as he pulled the cigar from his lips.
“I’m sorry,” I sighed.
I had asked for other reasons, but knowing a little more about Oscar pleased me. He was a fine man, and brought a little more joy into what had become a wonderful life for me. Sharing time with people like him allowed me to understand the value of war. Good people fighting against the belief of evil for what they believe to be good. War was and will always remain terrible, but seeing the good in the world through the people in it provided me hope the fighting wasn’t all for not.
“The reason I asked,” I paused and walked toward the golf cart.
I opened my arms and smiled, “Thanksgiving is coming up. I was thinking if you had nowhere to go for the holiday, you could spend it with us. My mother, Karter and me.”
“Thanksgivin’ dinner. Whooooeeeee. Been a spell since I had me one a those. A real one. White folk eat turkey?” he asked.
“Yes, we eat turkey,” I laughed.
He puffed on his cigar and widened his eyes comically, “You eat yams?”
“Yes sir.”
He raised one eyebrow and stood erect, “Stuffin’?”
I nodded my head and laughed, “Yes, we eat stuffing.”
“Hmmm. Well, if there’s to be a certain pie at this gatherin’, you might count this ole black man in. I likes me some peeee-can pie. Any a you know how to make a good peee-can pie? You gots to make ‘em with the Caro syrup, or you fuck ‘em all up, ya see,” he lowered his cigar, raised his chin slightly, and looked into my eyes.
“It’s the only way my mother makes them. As much as I hate to admit it, this will be my first Thanksgiving at h
ome in twenty-one years. Karter and I would love to have ya,” I smiled.
“You mom let nigga’s in the house?” he asked dryly.
I slumped my shoulders and shook my head in disbelief, “Well, I’ll explain a little about my mother to you. If you use that word in her home, she’ll escort you to the door. Everyone in my mother’s home is equal. Everyone. If she hears that particular word fall from your lips, she’d politely ask you to leave. I feel the same way. So to answer your question, no. She doesn’t let them in her home; because to her, and to me, they don’t exist.”
“I was kiddin’ about bein’ a nigga. Well, kinda. People have strange beliefs. Some of ‘em, anyhow. I like you an’ Miss Karter fo’ sho’ You’s good people. And I thank ya for askin’. If you’s serious I’d sho’ like to attend,” he nodded.
“Well, consider it a date. My mother’s expecting you. I told her about you some time ago, and she asked the other day. I said I’d ask.”
“Miss Karter got a family?” he asked.
I shook my head, “I thought I told you. No, she doesn’t. She’s alone.”
He shook his head and stared at the floor, “Maybe that’s why I like her so much. I had me a little boy, Albert. We just called him Al. He died at fifty years. Same way as his momma. He was back east. Lived in Boston. Makes me kind a sick, so I don’t drink me any of the devil’s juice.”
“I don’t either, and you won’t find any in my mother’s home. I’m sorry about both your losses, Oscar,” I said as I patted him on the shoulder.
“They’s in a mighty fine place now, Jak. You God fearin’ people?” he asked as he looked up.
I nodded my head sharply.
“Well, that’s good. I’ll say the prayer,” he smiled.
“Sounds perfect. Well, I better get. I’ve got to meet her for lunch,” I said as I rubbed my palms together.
He extended his hand and smiled. As I took his hand in mine and shook it, I tried to remember if we’d shaken hands before. As he released my hand, he grinned.
“I’ll be seein’ ya, Jak.”
I smiled and walked to the door. As I passed the threshold, I tilted my head rearward.
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