Page 1 of Spike's Perdition
SPIKE
Twenty-one years old…
“You ‘bout done here, Hunter?”
I continue to turn the wrench I’m using to tighten the engine mount on the 1953 Indian Chief Roadmaster in front of me. My shift ended hours ago, but when I’m working on a bike, I tend to lose track of time. Lonnie Jacks, my mentor and owner of Jack’s Restoration and Repair, tries to keep my enthusiasm reigned in, but in the eight years I’ve known him, he’s rarely succeeded at that. If anything, he’s fueled it.
“Gimme ten minutes.”
“I swear, kid, you’ve gotta learn that life isn’t all about work.”
I’ve heard this same argument many times from him, but work is all I’ve got. Well, work and Lonnie.
“The bars ain’t closin’ anytime soon,” I remind him. “It ain’t gonna kill ya to wait a little longer for your beer.”
The familiar sound of a can being cracked open fills the shop. “Who said anything ‘bout waiting?”
Shaking my head, I chuckle. “How the fuck is your liver still functioning, old man?”
“Good genes, I guess,” he comments after gulping down a fair amount of Bud Light.
I wouldn’t know anything about that. My genetic makeup is as much a mystery as the identity of Jack the Ripper. All I know is that the people who gave me life didn’t care enough about me to quit whatever bullshit made them unfit to parent me.
“Hand me that rag, would ya?” I ask, nodding to the one I left sitting on the workbench.
And so it goes for the next twenty minutes. Lonnie drinks a few beers while I finish what I’m doing and clean up.
“Benny’s gonna be really happy with the finished product,” he says as we walk out of the shop and down the street toward the bar a few blocks away.
“I hope so.”
Lonnie throws his arm around my shoulders, ignoring the spikes adorning my worn-out leather jacket. “Kid, you’re the best motorcycle mechanic and restorer I know. Be proud of what you can do.”
“I had a good teacher.”
“Damn straight, you did.”
Humble as always.
Lonnie caught me stealing a bag of chips at a local gas station when I was thirteen, and rather than turn me in, he followed me to the park where I’d made my camp and gave me an ultimatum: go with him to his shop and learn his trade or he’d call the cops.
I chose the former. It helped that it came with a warm bed in his spare room as well as food and clothing. I wasn’t exactly thrilled when he made me enroll in school, but we compromised, and I finished my education online.
If it weren’t for Lonnie, I’d either be dead or behind bars. I owe him everything.
“Would ya lookie there?” he says and whistles.
I follow his line of sight, and excitement buzzes through me at the line of Harleys parked in front of the bar. Based on the paint jobs and after-market parts, each one has had custom work done, and the closer we get, the more impressed I become.
“Recognize any of ‘em?” I ask.
Lonnie shakes his head. “Not a one.”
I make my way around each bike, taking in all the details, and when I reach the last one, something metallic in the front tire catches my eye. Kneeling down, I run my hands over the rubber and narrow my eyes when I recognize the shine as a nail head.
“Lonnie, run back to the shop and grab me a pair of pliers, would ya?”
While I wait for him to return, I try to work the nail out with my fingers, but progress eludes me. Heavy footsteps fall behind me, but I don’t bother looking to see who it is, fully believing it’s Lonnie.
