Page 25 of Spike

“Usually?”

I nodded.

“What do you callyourselves other times?”

I smiled.“Bikers.”

“I take back whatI said about good manners. You seem to have a pathological need to teasewomen.”

“That’s not true,”I protested. “My need to tease only applies to you.”

She blushed. “I’mnot used to being teased. My family… well, we don’t tease unless it’spassive-aggressive digs at one another.”

I frowned. “I’msorry, Trixie. Does the teasing bother you?”

She shook herhead. “No, I kind of like it. With you, it doesn’t feel barbed.”

“It’s not,” Ipromised. “And however bohemian my growing up may have been, my mother alwaysinsisted on good manners. She considered good etiquette a practice of love.”

“Practice oflove?”

“It was my mom’sphilosophy that people’s lives are like wheels, turning, spinning, cycling,over and over. And that if we could make love the hub of our wheels, then everyspoke coming from it would keep us rolling as smoothly as possible on ourpaths. She called those spokes ‘practices of love.’ Selfless acts of goodnessthat bring light and love into the world.”

“I remember yousaying that she’d passed away,” Trixie said, sadly.

I nodded. “Shedied while I was locked up.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Ireplied.

“It sounds likeshe was an amazing person. Was she a therapist or something?”

I burst outlaughing so hard I started getting looks from the other diners.

She raised aneyebrow. “What’s so funny?”

“My mothersawa lot of therapists over her lifetime, but never became one.”

Trixie’s hand wentto her mouth. “Oh, jeez. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” Ireassured her. “Really. She’d be laughing with us. She had the darkest sense ofhumor possible.”

“Can I ask how shepassed, or is that too personal?” she asked.

I opened up mykutte. “You can ask me whatever you want. I told you, I’m an open book.”

“That surprisesme.”

“Why?”

“Aren’t guyswho’ve been inprison,”she whispered, “supposed to be more guarded andpokerfaced?”

“That’s how someguys do their time, sure. But for most, talking is the only way to pass thetime. After a while, you and your cellie get bored of the same oldconversations. Bullshit stories about girls, cars, and whatever half-assedplans we were hatching for after our releases. So, after a while talk starts toturn a little more real. More personal. Pretty soon it just seems like phonytwo-faced bullshitnotto be real.”

“I’d love to hearabout your mother. Not just how she passed.”

I nodded. “My mom wasthe most amazing person you could ever hope to meet. She was funny, beautiful,and up for just about any kind of adventure that came her way. A seeker inevery sense of the word. Her interests ranged from Astronomy to Astrology. Shewas also very troubled. She suffered severely from bi-polar disorder from ayoung age, which took years to properly diagnose and begin to treat. That mixedwith a truckload of childhood trauma, and years of alcohol and drug abuselanded her in and out of mental institutions, rehabs, and drunk tanks throughmost of her life.”

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