Short Stories Join free writing groups Register for updates About the Author: |
Hand Grenades From Heaven
 Motorcycle Easyriders by unknown |
As I paced the tire lined aisles, impatient for my Jaguar to be road ready, I couldn't help peering through the slits between the ads on the store window. It was a rare occasion to see any bikers enter the building; never did anyone see them lolling about harassing onlookers, as they are so often portrayed in movies. It wasn't hard to imagine the setting inside that iron gated stronghold. I was sure tequila still lined the glass shelves behind the bar, bottled brews were chilled and waiting, and pool balls clacked even at this early hour. The only thing I questioned was if any leathery faces, now framed in gray, were left to smile if I walked in, and how many younger outlaws would wonder why this wrinkled lady chose to wander through their domain.
The thought raised a deep sigh. I'd come so far and yet was right across the street. If not for this nostalgic reminisce, I would have missed the man with the broom and the Bible, strutting on the sidewalk, shouting at the beige exterior of that den of inequity. Beanpole lean, his height lent him a stature denied to shorter people. The effect was ruined by toothless jaws, unkempt hair and dirty attire. I could see his mouth working, but his ranting was silent at my distance. Hidden behind giant painted letters, I was well placed to play the unknown watcher, a bemused smile betraying what I felt inside.
"Citizen" was my ignoble moniker, bestowed because of my obstinate refusal to let a joint touch my lips, as if that protected me from a contact high while I sat in the circle, carefully passing the lit weed from one hand to another. But it wasn't pious morality that kept me from partaking. It was a desperate need to retain control, to be wary of the events around me, ironically not involving the greasy, denim clad men who partied inside those walls. Clearheaded alertness was what I needed after I entered the illusional safety of home.
The Bible thumper turned his attention to the street, extorting passing drivers with broom held aloft and threats of purgatory tossed into their open windows like hand grenades from heaven. I spotted his rumpled car hidden in the tangled greenery next to the citadel. A riot of palm trees, bougainvillea, and sharp spined cactus shrouded the yard in darkness. The foliage, traditional symbols of sunshine drenched California, locked thorns in a misguided effort to protect the man who had placed a lawn chair upon the caved roof of his forlorn vehicle. Stacked all around were booklets and Bibles of various sizes and hues.
"Is he here because of them?"
"Nah. He just happens to live next door. I've worked here thirteen years. Every morning he preaches to the unholy, whoever they may be. As neighbors go, it could be worse. He does no harm and might do some good. I see him stopping teenagers to share his story of drugs and downfall from which he miraculously recovered to do the Lord's work."
"Perhaps seeing him is enough to scare them sober."
He laughed. "I would expect so. The Jag won't be ready until after lunch. There's a cafe next door."
I sighed again, different reason this time, but walked the necessary thirty feet into the comfortable interior of a Mom and Pop cafe. Once the important business of ordering was accomplished, I returned to watching the street's main entertainment. He'd seen me on the opposite sidewalk and was watching me too. Although his gaze devoured every bite, his hunger excluded the sexual. This lack was unpalatable, although I cringed at the specter of its opposite.
His shouting remained unheard behind another window, but his dark, flashing eyes lent emphasis to the silence. The last time I'd seen eyes that intent was when I politely refused a jar of reds, a love gift from the maniacal Hog, who crashed through U.S. border barriers on his beloved Harley, nearly laying it down in the process, with three jars taped to his body. I could still see the insanity behind the sea blue eyes which didn't comprehend why I spurned this cherished gift. "Thanks, but I don't do drugs."
"Of course you do. This is Hog. You don't gotta pretend with me. I seen you doing them."
Debbie laughed. "Then you seen wrong. I'll take them."
The two disappeared, his adoration of me fading as fast as her zipper came loose. Years later, Hog went to jail for murder, drug deal gone sour, but that was long after I'd vanished from his horizon. I'd belonged with them, despite my Puritan upbringing. They were honest, never posturing as something other than who they were, unlike my mother who attended church each Sunday and beat me behind closed doors. She never acknowledged the A's on the report card, the hard work in the house, the goodness in my heart. These rough men, as unacceptable as I, made room for my pain, taking me in, and the beatings stopped. Like magic. They just stopped. I never knew if it was because she feared them or because of the hard brittleness which grew behind my own eyes.
She died years ago, never saying she was sorry, adamant to the end she'd been right about me. Right in which way? Right about a brief fling in a world dreaded by most or in the much longer upward climb to the heady heights of the corporate world? The former, of course, because she'd steadfastly ignored the latter.
 Motorcycle Harley & Couple by unknown |
I swung a U-turn, an act that would shock my present day comrades -- even though only mildly illegal -- and parked parallel to the pale brown door, the sesame passage to another world far away. Lifting one of the bills from my wallet, I made sure it was large enough to pay for the order I wrote on its face: Have a party on me, love from Citizen. I didn't add the seven-digit number that would have allowed them to call when the bash began. As I dropped the overdue gift through the narrow mail slot, God's disciple stared down at me, his face full of hell fire, a face eerily like Mike's, a Jew inappropriately tagged Himmler who wore his alias proudly. Without warning, the zealot was suddenly mute.
The clubhouse hadn't always been here nor had it always been so well guarded. Another place, another time, the barrier had been a sad and sagging picket fence which had long since lost interest in sorting the insiders from the outsiders. That yard had boasted an apple tree, where I sat one night, not leaning back lest the maternally provided slashes on my back came to life again, ruining an otherwise fine blouse with tiny drops of red. It was my first night there.
The party inside was in full swing. Lance was sitting cross-legged upon the floor, preoccupied with his grotesque renditions on a plastic flute, which were nothing more than a futile attempt to lure a plaster cobra into dancing. Recorded music pulsated; Maria gyrated on a table top, lost in its rhythm and the erotic feel of shedding garments, an act which Lance's stone snake could never accomplish. I'd been in there earlier, only to be stalked by a visiting desperado, whose style of asking a woman to dance was to step on her toes until she complied. Norm, Mike's friend, rescued me, plopping in my lap, coquettishly peering over his shoulder at the frowning face behind him. "Oh, did I interrupt? I'm sorry, but this gal is taken."
Choking on the smoke that thickened on hot nights, we retired under the apple tree to enjoy the moonlight. A T-bird slowed, circled back, and stopped, the Beach Boys blaring from its speakers. "She'll have fun, fun, fun Œtil her daddy takes the T-bird away."
The fun, fun, fun ceased abruptly as the cheerleader behind the wheel cut the motor and emerged, flanked by two just-as-blonde friends in tight skirts and Angora sweaters. I watched as they made every effort to stroll casually up the path to the door, obviously titillated at their own bravery. The Viking, so called because of his immense size and assorted acting jobs, swung the door wide, smiling broadly but deftly blocking their entrance.
 Motorcycle by unknown |
When Himmler appeared, bearded and grinning in his Nazi attire, they fled, leaping the wilting pickets like track stars, the tallest one leaving her tightly curled wiglet hanging atop apple blossoms. Himmler, aka Mike, retrieved it, then slowly wove it into my straight locks. We talked late into the night, gentle Mike and I. He shared his passion for trains, the dream of his hands on the controls, whistle moaning through the night and sunrises reflected on shiny rails which stretched forward into eternity.
We shared other passions through that long spring and summer before we drifted apart like dying leaves on an autumn breeze. He believed a gentle heart and compassionate hand would awaken the stillness of my soul. He was the one I strived to please most of all, yet he easily saw through my virginal pretenses. Other lovers, more skilled, came later. They were unable to penetrate to the depth of my sham and left feeling sated, believing I shared their passions.
For a brief moment, Mike's smiling face shimmered before me and attached itself to this waif of a preacher. I shook the idea free, preferring the image of Himmler in an engineer cap and red bandanna riding the rails someplace far away.
I loosened another bill of equal value from the leather pocket in my hand, handing it over to God Incarnate in exchange for the brightest gilt edged Bible he possessed. I didn't inscribe this note. No need with its luminescent eye and the imprinted "In God We Trust." The disturbing stare never left my face as I sidled back under the wheel. I evaded his piercing gaze, thankful that words escaped him, and shifted into gear, letting the Jag glide into traffic. Trusting in God. Buying celestial insurance for a man on a journey to nowhere.
