ROLLING THUNDER

I’m working late if a person can call it work because I love what I do. Not everyone has that luxury, they have to do whatever it takes to keep the wolf from the door. It’s thundering and raining outside but I’ve got the music cranked so loud all I can hear is Steppenwolf’s 'Born to be Wild' blasting through my sign shop. I don’t letter many signs. I’m known more for pinstriping and airbrushing graphics on vehicles, motorcycles being my favorite. I don’t know what it is but when I’m laying a thin stripe of enamel paint on a motorcycle gas tank, that long narrow brush almost feels like my finger tracing the contours of a woman’s big breast, gets me downright excited. And that’s what I’m doing right now, finishing up pinstriping a flame job on a Harley Davidson gas tank. Besides the blaring music, I’m also enjoying a bottle of cold beer. Not sure how many I’ve had since I started working on the gas tank today but judging by the empties lying around, I’d say this is probably about a fifteen or sixteen beer job. I’ve been told I have a drinking problem but as odd as it seems, as drunk as I get, my hand is still as steady as a rock and what’s really amazing and I have no idea why, I don’t get hangovers. Feel a little fuzzy the next day, that’s all, until I pop the cap on a bottle of brew and knock it back.

I live in my shop even though I’m not supposed to. It’s not zoned residential but as long as no one complains, I’ll continue living here. I built a small loft above my workspace that contains a cot, a small dresser and an old wooden trunk with a lock on it. Not sure why I bother locking it because a hammer could easily knock it off, but its contents are a touch worrisome. Inside, besides a couple of photograph albums and other personal stuff, are several souvenirs that my old man kept from the Viet Nam war. There’s a .45 pistol and a live grenade tucked under his uniform. Why he kept that grenade, I never knew. There is a very tiny office that has just enough room for my desk, swivel chair and a small metal filing cabinet and I mustn’t forget the fridge—keeps my beer icy cold. On the 12’x16’ wall just outside the office door is a large sign that I painted. It depicts a bald eagle beginning to take flight while holding a red banner in its talons, which reads Dude’s Signs. Dude isn’t my name but it’s the handle I was given when I was younger and almost joined the local motorcycle club, the 'Fiery Demons'. I’ve been driving motorcycles since my old man bought me a small dirt bike on my twelfth birthday and the last I saw of him was the next afternoon, when he drove off, the dust from his two big wheels fading away in the distance like a genie in a bottle.

It’s a hot and muggy day and the evening rain is welcome, even though gusts of wind sometimes blows it through the open garage door, drenching the paint-splattered, concrete floor. Besides the gas tank, I’ve got a black van waiting for me to airbrush a mural on both sides and highlight it with stripes. As I swish my brush around in a tin of paint thinner cleaning out the paint, I glimpse a reflection of myself on the side of the van. I’m not wearing a shirt and if I do say so myself, I’m kind of a rugged looking guy, like a Louis L’Amour wild west character. I’m just shy of six feet, broad in the shoulder, narrow in the hip and have a grizzled chin that looks as hard as a chunk of granite. My eyes are blue and are tucked in under a swarthy brow containing few worry lines, next to a nose that’s taken it’s share of punches. My long black hair that’s streaked with silver threads is tied in a ponytail to keep it out of my eyes. And, the thick droopy black mustache and equally black bushy eyebrows give me sort of a cowboy, Sam Elliot appearance. While I’m admiring my physique, I notice a shadow coming up behind me, which soon materializes into the shape of a woman, a very curvaceous and desirous woman. I’ve been expecting her, and her arms feel good when she wraps them around my body and places her head on my back, her breath tantalizingly seductive.

I don’t need to see her face, big vivid blue eyes, long straight tawny hair, full lips and pert nose to know its Haley. We’re playing a very dangerous game since she belongs to Brent, the president of the Fiery Demons. If he ever found out we were seeing one another on the sly, we’d be dead meat.

I didn’t really get to know Haley until I attended a big bike rally. Sure, I go for the fun and excitement, but I also make a lot of coin at those events pinstriping many a bike and so it was on that hot summer day in July. I’d arrived early in the morning and set up camp under a big shady tree away from all the action—didn’t need a lot of dust sticking to my paint jobs from the motorcycles that would soon be roaring around all over the place. I’d never even spoke to Haley before and when she sat down next to me, watching while I striped a big Harley, I blushed; she was that drop-dead gorgeous. She told me she couldn’t believe how steady my hand was as I striped a really skinny line just above a slightly fatter one at an equal width all around the tank. She didn’t seem like the usual biker chick, hardly swore, didn’t have any tats and the way she spoke, I could tell that she had more than a Grade 12 education. Although she was about ten years younger than me, as it turned out we had quite a lot in common—both our fathers had deserted us—and we loved beer.

Over the three day event, Haley often came to watch me pinstripe the bikes, even though we didn’t talk much—hard to get in a word—when some long-haired, bearded, pot-bellied biker is yapping away, telling me about outrunning the cops or smashing someone’s brains out. However, on the last night of the rally, things changed between us. I’m not sure why or how but we soon found ourselves drifting away from the riotous crowd of bikers and sitting near a stream that was keeping a dwindling six-pack of beer cold. As we were sucking back our last beers, Haley suddenly leaned over and gave me a peck and when I looked at her in surprise, my cheek burning from the kiss, she told me she was sorry, she didn’t know what overcame her. I knew that we could be in for a whole lot of hurt but love, or whatever I was feeling at the moment, has a way of making one forget about the consequences, I couldn’t help myself and before I knew it, my lips were on hers and my hands, like they had minds of their own, were exploring every curve of her body. At first, I told myself that I was drunk, it was only about sex but then, I didn’t kid myself, it meant more than that.

I thought our sexual interlude was over but when she showed up at my shop a couple of days later, I knew the mutual feelings we had for one another were more than sexual. And we were playing with fire—hell fire! Although she was very cautious about sneaking away and we were making plans to move where we would never be found, I couldn’t help thinking it was only a matter of time until the 'Demons' would come knocking, no, not knocking but bursting through the door.

When I finished cleaning the pinstriping brush, dipped it in motor oil to keep from drying out and put it away with the other brushes, Haley exclaims, “Guess what? Brent’s gone away for a few days, so I can spend the night!”

Although we’d exhausted ourselves on my cot quite a few times since the bike rally, we had never spent an entire night together and feeling somewhat apprehensive, I say, “Great. But…are you sure he won’t come home?”

“Said he had to go away on important business.”

“What sort of business?”

“I don’t really know but suspect it has something to do with drugs.”

“I don’t know,” I say reluctantly. “What if he decides to come back tonight?”

Placing her hand on my chest and looking up at me with her big baby blues she says, “He won’t. Don’t worry. And to celebrate, let’s go out for something to eat and maybe have a drink, someplace nice. It’s been a long time since I’ve been treated like a lady and not like someone’s bitch.”

I have two motorcycles. They’re both Harleys but one is used for business and the other is a first-class show-bike called 'Rolling Thunder'. When she jumps on the back of the business-bike, her arms feel wonderful wrapped around me, and as we roar out of the driveway and down the street, I hear her squeal with delight. After a nice meal at a nice restaurant we drop in at a lounge for a couple of beers, neither places rough tough bikers would want to be seen. Although I’m feeling great, like everything is normal, a date with my best girl, an uneasiness washes over me and sends chills up and down my spine. When we step out of the lounge hand in hand and walk over to the bike, I feel a hand on my shoulder and when I turn, a fists smacks into my nose like a piledriver—I don’t have to hear it crack to know that it’s broken. Between the spray of blood and instant tears in my eyes, I feel a series of punches and then a hard kick to my balls. Bending over, a knee smashes into my head knocking me backwards and flat on my back. As I try to turn over, a boot kicks me in the jaw. Luckily, it doesn’t break as I watch one of my front teeth skittering across the pavement. Barely conscious, my whole body racked in pain, I hear Haley scream. When her head bounces off the pavement near mine, although her eyes are wide open, I know they’ll never see again.

Suddenly, I feel a foot standing on the side of my head and Brent’s chilling voice saying, “The only reason you’re still alive is believe it or not I respect you Dude, you’re one helluva talented guy. However, if you rat me out to the cops, I’m going to kill you but not before I kill your mother and your three sisters. You got that? Just nod if you understand.”

When I try to nod, he says, “Sorry. I forgot I’m standing on your head.” And then he laughs.

Brent kicked me once more in the head before he and a couple of his henchmen leave Haley and me lying on the pavement in a pool of blood and the next think I know, I wake up in the hospital.

The cops questioned me, but I told them, I never saw a thing. I was jumped from behind and knocked cold. I’m not sure they believed me but what were they going to do, rough me up in a jail cell until I told them the truth.

I was still in a daze when I arrived home and I looked like hell. And hurt, fuck I hurt! And not just because of the physical pain but also from the pain of losing Haley. I wanted to forget everything that had happened, and 'Rolling Thunder' had the cure. Twisting the cap off the gas tank, I smile even though it hurts my face. The bag of cocaine attached to the cap’s chain glowed as bright as the moon on a cloudless night. I hardly ever touched the white powder; weed and beer being my main opiates. But now, I needed to dull the pain, deaden my brain and I was confident that a combination of all three would do the trick.

For months, I barely ate, just laid around almost in a comatose state until now. In a drunken haze, I stepped on an empty beer bottle and watched my legs shoot out from under me. I know I’m in for a whole lot of pain and try using my arms and hands to break the fall, until I feel something sharp strike the side of my head and the lights go out.

When I come too, I’m lying on my back, the blood that had pooled around my head has dried and my hair is glued to the cement floor. While I’m laying there getting my bearings, I can’t be sure if I’m dreaming or hallucinating, but the big eagle on the wall is slowly morphing into another image. The white bald head is changing into Haley’s and she’s smiling at me. Mesmerized by the altering red banner, which is now in flames, she’s beginning to lift off like a phoenix rising from the ashes and then it hits me, like a blacksmith’s sledgehammer, and I mutter, “Oh Haley. It’s time to take 'Rolling Thunder' for a spin to the bowels of hell.”

And speaking of hell, I look like hell as I gently wash away the dried blood from the deep gash on my throbbing temple. After I’m cleaned up and changed my bloodied shirt, I notice the bag of cocaine lying on the floor and flush what’s left down the toilet. I’m on a mission and a clear head is needed. After I make a few adjustments to 'Rolling Thunder', I jump on my other bike and park it near the bar that the 'Fiery Demons' usually hang out. Although it’s not far from my shop, by the time I return, it’s dark and the sky is full of stars.

There’s a line of motorcycles parked outside the bar when I pull up astride 'Rolling Thunder'. Brent and most of his motely crew are inside and he can tell by the unique sound of the approaching motorcycle that it’s the bike he’s always coveted. Their eyes are glued to the door when I enter or should I say stagger in and almost fall down. I haven’t been to this bar or any other bar since I had the shit kicked out of me. I can feel their eyes trained on my back as I climb up on a stool in front of the bar, reach into my jeans pocket and pull out some cash, the key to my bike falling to the floor. After I down a couple of quick beers, I stand up and stumble towards the men’s washroom. Before the door has even closed behind me, I hear 'Rolling Thunder’s engine roar and then rumble off down the road, quickly followed by the other motorcycles.

I’m smiling when I walk out of the biker’s bar and climb aboard my business-bike, punch it into gear and ride towards the 'Fiery Demons’ clubhouse. About a block away, I’m still smiling when I turn the engine off and wait.

Brent and the rest of the motorcycle pack are yacking and drinking it up when one of them asks, “Aren’t you worried the Dude will go to the cops?”

Brent smirks and then answers, “Don’t worry about the Dude. He won’t say nuttin’.” And while patting 'Rolling Thunder’s custom-made, black leather seat and then climbing aboard continues, “This bike is worth a small fortune. We’ll make a lot of bread once we change a few things.”

Then, raising a glass of whiskey high he toasts, “This calls for a celebration. Here’s to 'Rolling Thunder' but wait…” and while twisting the cap off the gas tank he adds, “This is something probably none of you guys know about. The Dude keeps his best drugs inside this tank.”

When he twists off the gas cap, instead of expecting to see the Dude’s stash attached to the chain, he sees a metal ring and his eyes open wide as he says, “Oh shit!”

The explosion could be heard for miles when the grenade detonated and as the flames soar skyward amidst the smoke and ashes I can’t help grinning when I quietly say, “I wish I could have seen your face asshole but I have a feeling Haley did.”