“Starvation Strategy”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-19)

The Setting: Washington, D. C.

The Players: Nancy Pelosi, Speaker of the House of Representatives; Chief of Staff Terri McCullough; Donald J. Trump, President of the United States; Kellyanne Conway, counselor and adviser. Various reporters.

The Conflict: An ongoing political battle with charges traded between the two powerful figures about competency, fitness, and family intervention.

Act I (Speaker’s Office)

Terri Mac: “Madame Speaker, good morning to you. With the holiday weekend behind us, I would like to talk about a new strategy for dealing with Mr. Trump and his Twitter obsession.”

N. Pelosi: “Well, there’s a brilliant idea! I have tried everything. Condescending tone, witty barbs, my famous sideways clap, and the spray-tanned troll continues to spout off with his silly nicknames. He reminds me of my grandchildren sputtering through a sugar high!”

Terri Mac: “Indeed.”

N. Pelosi: “I need more than ideas. I need results! How do we shut down the crusty, orange, Cheeto-in-Chief?”

Terri Mac: (Laughing) “It is very simple, really. The solution came to me while watching a Star Trek rerun last night.”

N. Pelosi: (Visibly exasperated) “A WHAT??”

Terri Mac: “A Star Trek Rerun.”

N. Pelosi: “Trump’s hair does remind me of a tribble...”

Terri Mac: (Grinning) “No, no, my epiphany came while watching “Day of the Dove” which was an episode from 1968. Sort of like something Rod Serling might have written for ‘The Twilight Zone.’ It made me realize how we could defeat Mister ‘Rump in 2020.”

N. Pelosi: “Did you just have wine and cheese for breakfast?”

Terri Mac: (Pleading) “No, no, hear me out, Madame Speaker. Herr Cheeto is like a zombie. Bumbling and stumbling through Washington because he can’t be stopped by ordinary means. He is oafish and clumsy, but with the stamina of a vampire elephant...”

N. Pelosi: (Wide-eyed) “A WHAT??”

Terri Mac: (Flustered but fierce) “Never mind, Nancy. My point is that the Star Trek episode depicted an alien being that fed off of anger. Literally able to draw strength from human conflict. The only way for Earthers and Klingons to defeat the demon was to drop their weapons and cooperate. Comity and cordiality weakened the beast and made it flee.”

N. Pelosi: “What are you saying, Terri?”

Terri Mac: “Very simply, that as you battle with this loon, he only grows stronger. Every insult, every snap-back, every eye-roll, gives him power. Look at his Twitter feed! Up at 3:00 in the morning, sending out red meat in tweets to his base. Nixon, Reagan, Bush, they were all mortal men. But ‘The Donald’ is a freak. Undead. No heart, no soul...”

N. Pelosi: “Certainly no brain!”

Terri Mac: “We need to starve him. Stop giving him attention. Stop making him feel important. Let’s get to work on needs of the American people and sidestep Mr. Tiny Hands. Let him wither and rot like a plant with no water or sunlight. Try a 'Starvation Strategy' on him instead of feeding the monster.”

N. Pelosi: (Nearly speechless) “Well now… could it really work? Really?”

Terri Mac: “Trust me, Madame Speaker. Trust Mr. Spock.”

Act II (The Oval Office)

Kellyanne Con: “Good morning, Mr. President. I brought coffee.”

D. Trump: “I want some Coke.”

Kellyanne Con: “Of course. Sorry...”

D. Trump: “Did you see this headline in the ‘Failing New York Times?’ It is unbelievable!”

Kellyanne Con: (Reading out loud) “House Speaker Says War Is Over.”

D. Trump: “Over? I won? Just like that?”

Kellyanne Con: “The story quotes Mrs. Pelosi as saying that she believes it is time to cooperate. To take care of America.”

D. Trump: “That sounds like I won.”

Kellyanne Con: “The press is cheering her new approach. She is meeting today with members of the Senate. Working on a new round of bi-partisan bills.”

D. Trump: “What? Nancy is losing it, I have said that, it is sad, very sad.”

Kellyanne Con: “The New York Times says she even praised you as an innovator. As someone with a unique approach to governing.”

D. Trump: (Sweating) “DID WHAT??”

Kellyanne Con: “Should I read you the full paragraph?”

D. Trump: “Nancy is losing it, I knew it, I said it. Losing it badly, losing badly.”

Kellyanne Con: “Mitch McConnell says he believes the Senate will vote to support this new round of bills.”

D. Trump: “This is a scam, trust me, a scam like no other. Crazy Nancy still knows how to play the game. Her ego is still huuuuuuge.”

Kellyanne Con: “I just received a text from Mitch. He wants you to host a signing ceremony when the bills are passed. With all the participants present...”

D. Trump: (Weakening) “NO, NO, NO!”

Kellyanne Con: “Mr. President, please...”

D. Trump: (Slumped in his chair) “NOOOOOOOOOO!”

Act III (House of Representatives Press Conference)

N. Pelosi: (Beaming proudly) “I will be glad to take questions about our wonderful success today on Capitol Hill...”

Nancy Cordes, CBS: “How do you feel about cooperating with the administration instead of fighting?”

N. Pelosi: “We feel thrilled to do work for the American people. Thank you.”

Carl Hulse, The New York Times: “Madame Speaker, how does your new strategy fit with those in your party who want to impeach Donald Trump instead of helping him?”

N. Pelosi: (Clapping for herself) “We are helping the American people.”

Manu Raju, CNN: “Only weeks ago, we heard ‘Impeach the motherf*****!’ from Congresswoman Rashida Tlaib. How do you convince her that this new spirit of cooperation is real?”

N. Pelosi: “Our love of America is real.”

Kristina Peterson, The Wall Street Journal: “Madame Speaker, we have not seen Donald Trump in public since your announcement with Senate Majority Leader McConnell. His Twitter feed has gone silent. Press Secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders has been busy baking pies instead of answering questions. What do you think about his disappearance?”

N. Pelosi: “I think we all love America. And I feel good about that.”

Act IV (White House Bedroom)

D. Trump: (Writhing in his sleep) “Melania, Melania, help me. Help meeeeeee...”

The room is silent. President Trump is alone.

D. Trump: (Sitting up) “Damn it, I forgot she went on a trip to Europe. What a horrible nightmare, just horrible. Most completely horrible. Just tragic.”

The President grabs his cellphone.

D. Trump: “Giving up to the Democrats would be a nightmare. But I will keep fighting! Fighting for a border wall, fighting the fake news!”

Mr. Trump enjoys a glass of Coke while scrolling through headlines. Most decry the stalemate of opposing forces in Washington. Unwilling to give any political advantage to the other side. Locked in a death-match of futility. Finally, he reopens his Twitter app.

D Trump: “Crazy Nancy Pelosi is the sister of Crazy Bernie, trust me. Democrats are all crazy. But I am winning big for America! Fighting forever!”

Comments about ‘Words on the loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Polarized”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-19)

Loyal dissent.

The concept is one that has served America well over two centuries. A philosophy that citizens from different political tribes should hold a similar devotion to the nation itself. One that binds us all together, even as we disagree.

When living in the Pittsburgh area, during the 1970’s, I remember this concept being described as “unity through diversity.” A tagline that has retained its value.

In this space, I have frequently written about growing up in what could be gently described as a two-party household. One governed by practical needs and tempered with faith in a creator. Yet this plan was interpreted differently by each half of my bloodline. The paternal side boasted thought patterns of Dwight D. Eisenhower. The maternal side held fast in the style of Franklin Roosevelt. Both sides worshiped in the same group, a non-denominational fellowship. But their take on the scriptures was sometimes dissimilar. Still, that divide never drove us away from one another.

We were always one family. Even while maintaining distinct philosophical identities.

Dad liked to joke about his marriage with neighbors and parishioners at church. “We agree on everything but religion and politics,” he often observed. The remark usually made people laugh out loud. Yet it was factually correct.

In personal terms, I have tried to maintain that sense of balance throughout life. While navigating-in-print through a world fraught with cultural fragmentation, and social upheaval. But while other writers have penned essays about our march toward incivility with blame assessed to various factors, my own epiphany was more personal in nature.

It came recently, over a cell phone.

Perusing Facebook, a week ago, I saw that a friend from my days as a supermarket manager had posted about issues with her iPhone. She sought tips for how to use her device more carefully, having reached its storage limit with music, and videos of her children. I expected advice to follow, and links to websites. But instead, her quiet plea unleashed something less useful and more acrimonious – a blast of negative vibes about her initial choice to use an Apple product.

One contact immediately brayed like a donkey in heat. “Get a Samsung phone, you stupid bitch! Everybody likes Android better!” Another sprayed classic insults like a skunk. “Crapple sucks! What are you, a hipster? Does your husband wear skinny jeans?” Her brother finally provided a summation of the pervasive theme. “Nobody wants iShit. Unless you stop shaving your legs. You need more room? My Android phone uses a micro SD card for extra storage. No paying for more space with iClown.”

One or two people on her list actually replied with helpful suggestions. But their messages were submerged in a torrent of cyber-sludge. I began to scroll downward, to find escape from the spew of garbage brine.

A real discussion of price as a determining factor in phone sales might have been useful. Similar to the battle between PC computing and the iMac. Or perhaps, they could have explored the contrast between Apple’s organic ecosystem versus the open experimentation of Android platforms. A sober analysis of these opposite designs. But instead, my friend’s followers simply threw bricks at each other. A day or two later, the proverbial Edison bulb illuminated over my head.

This was it, in naked form. The raw truth of 21st-Century America.

Our founders, disagreeable and flawed as they were, yielded a land built on cooperation. One that endured through the balance of intellectual weights in motion around each other. Dancing with purpose. Keeping gravity in effect. But now, our mood has slipped into a chasm of post-apocalyptic beasts, lobbing stones in anger. Shouting, squawking, scratching. With rage and a mortal lust for dominance. But with no way to find illumination in the darkness. No new Thomas Edison to brighten their path.

Social media platforms have only hastened this pervasive slide, by exposing it to the daylight.

Unexpectedly, my friend’s cellular conflict was followed by a meme about pickup trucks. One equally surreal, troubling, and ridiculous. “Cylinders in a row, good to go. Cylinders in a vee, sit to pee.” The upshot being that those who had products from Fiat/Chrysler, with Cummins-diesel motors and tow-mirrors stretching from their doors, were somehow more manly by comparison than owners of vehicles made by GM or Ford Motor Company. Something oddly anachronistic in a moment of history buoyed by science.

I could not help musing that if my 1960’s childhood were moved forward to today, the resulting shift in conditions might completely explode my youth. Mother and father could have factonalized over their differences. Shouting curses, rather than sharing love. Damning each other for opinions not lawfully in sync. Like how to properly cook a steak, what condiment to use on a hot dog, or whether gender identity is reflected by a person’s choice of footwear.

I felt grateful that, in my yonder generation, this did not happen,

As with so many born of the Great Depression, my parents remained married and blissful. Wholly joined in the idea of being true to our family and each other. Even while maintaining their polite disagreements over other things. This bond of love lasted until Dad graduated to eternity, last year.

Their example has carried me forward, across decades of life and through challenges of all sorts. The idea of loyalty to family, to country, and indeed, to the world.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: Icehouse Books, P. O. Box 365, Chardon, OH 44024

“Mother’s Day Reflections”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-19)

Buttered toast for Mom.

With Mother’s Day drawing near on the calendar, I was moved recently to pause and ponder the situation of my own mater, a resident at the Mansfield Place nursing home in Philippi, West Virginia. Her status as a widow and Medicaid client has become familiar enough that the initial shock delivered to our family now seems muted by necessity. We have grown accustomed to what would have been, mere months ago, more worrisome and woeful.

But a lingering moment continues to doggedly haunt my everyday routine. That of spreading some flavorful condiment on a slice of bread. This simple act dependably sends my thoughts into a bittersweet spiral of introspection. A moment where I remember how we arrived at the conditions of today.

In 2009, I was between jobs, without a car, needing surgery on my right knee, and married for the second time. My father, who was a survivor of colon cancer, once again faced the rise of this dreaded affliction. He needed to be hospitalized over days or weeks while battling for his health. Because of my life-in-limbo, I was able to exit Ohio, stay with Mom, and help supervise Dad’s medical care. I drove his Honda minivan back and forth between Barbour County and Ruby Memorial Hospital in Morgantown. A trek of one hour each way.

Mother had already been living from her recliner for a few years, after a knee replacement left her unable to sleep comfortably in a conventional bed. This new habit kept her from traveling much or socializing as she had done before. In a sense, it altered her personality and twisted her concept of time. She often missed church services for the week, something that would never have happened in yonder days. But when questioned about this change, she typically observed that with the arrival of spring, her attendance might resume. She reckoned that only a few weeks had passed since her previous visit to the pews at their local Union Church of Christ.

This period lasted for years, not weeks. But the family found many creative ways to excuse the disconnection from the calendar

During my stay in 2009, I often helped create meals with Mom, as her ability to concentrate on recipes had diminished. A sad loss for everyone as she had a magic touch in the kitchen that came from her heritage as a child of the McCray brood. She often sang to us while preparing food, which was another habit of that group. My own culinary ideas were much less sophisticated, sometimes simply involving a run for Fox’s Pizza Den or Hardee’s sandwiches. But on a particular morning in the summer, I made toast to accompany her Jimmy Dean Breakfast Bowl.

As I brought the dish to her chair, she visually snubbed the crusty bread. After lifting one slice in her fingers, she began to complain. “This isn’t buttered, not all the way, you know. Not from edge to edge. I mean, you could have done better, Rodney. Do you see?”

Her complaint spun my head around. I had never heard Mom speak with such irritation. She had always been the sort to praise God for each blessing, regardless of the warts and blemishes with which it was delivered. A sunny sort of Christian, living in gratitude no matter the grandness of purpose or smallness of a gift.

Feeling a chill, I realized that she actually sounded like a person oddly unfamiliar and strange. I scolded myself for this perception. But the moment would remain long after that day had passed.

My father‘s surgery successfully addressed his immediate needs. He was released to Broaddus Hospital, in Philippi. Then he returned home. I was able to regroup with my own family in Buckeye Country, where I found a used pickup truck and a new job managing the Giant Eagle supermarket in Geneva, near Lake Erie.

Mom continued to hope for her return to services at the church on Union Road.

By 2018, she had been in the easy chair for many years. None of us were quite sure when this relocation had begun, but the trend lasted for at least a decade. Without protest, Dad had adapted to caring for her needs. My sister managed to make outside excursions possible, with a wheelchair, during extended visits. Phone contact with parishioners at church and relatives kept her in touch. Only the closing of their window blinds in the living room sent her mood out of control. It was literally her portal to the outside world. She would often describe things happening in the yard during our conversations-by-wire.

Dad protected her as an act of love.

Yet eventually, no one could reasonably deny the existence of an issue with Mom’s behavior. She became moody, slept erratically, and claimed to see others in the household. At first, I wondered about intruders preying on their frailty and isolation. But after she described seeing her parents on the couch, both of whom were deceased, I realized her perception of reality had been warped by something more powerful than sitting alone in her chair.

Dad was a patient fellow. So his ability to endure with purpose never fizzled. Her took care of his bride until the final hour at home, when his own mobility had been vanquished by age, congestive-heart-failure and arthritis. When my sister visited, early last year, she took charge. With the gentle strength learned from our sire. Dad could no longer care for mother, or himself, or anyone.

“I need 24-hour attention,” he confessed, at last. The admission did not come easily. Even as he left the house, never to return, defiance flowed in his veins. He hoped to get better and sidestep permanent residency in a skilled venue. But that did not happen.

After he passed, in April of 2018, we became legal guardians for our mother. This was when a formal diagnosis was given by Dr. Sanpablo: Senile Dementia. Regardless, Mom seemed to thrive in the community of senior folk, where some were neighbors and friends. The family decided that it was best to keep her in a familiar environment. And this strategy worked well, despite bouts of rowdy behavior, wandering, and confusion associated with her degenerative condition.

Sadly, our mother was not able to reconnect completely with the current world. When I playfully reminded her of being the oldest son in our tribe, named Rodney, she replied that her body had carried a baby with that name. As if it were only some act of coincidence. Her mind did not conceive that the child in her womb and the graying man by her bed were the same person at different points of chronology.

Still, I did not argue, but laughed instead. She knew we were friendly people.

In the week leading up to Mother’s Day, my sister posted a photograph on Facebook from our parents’ 21st wedding anniversary, in 1981. I melted at the sight of Mom, prettily dressed and smiling, with big hair and gorgeous eyes. Her charm and kindness projected powerfully from the image. I wished to see that woman again. To hear her advice, to be soothed by her grace. To share some of her country vittles, like sausage gravy with biscuits.

We are still blessed to have her with us, as this regular day arrives, to celebrate motherhood around the world. And though she may not recognize each of us by name or appearance, in our hearts, the glow of her love remains bright. So we celebrate for ourselves, and for her as well.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama Gwendolyn.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: Icehouse Books, P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Bedrider”

Editor's Note: My original series of motorcycle stories ended in the 1990's. This is a throwback moment. Glad to revisit the groove. (If you haven't read any of my older work, prepare yourself for an adventure-in-prose.)

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-19)

Smoke stench.

Pug’s Tavern was a ghastly sight from outside its walls. A tin-roofed, brick-and-broken-mortar temple of decay, leftover from an era lost to the winds of time. But within, the air reeked a sour, stale, sickly stench of charred tobacco. Mixed with notes of sweat, beer, leather apparel, grime and stray droplets of pre-cum.

Narvel O’ Keefe sat at the bar, stubbing out a Camel non-filter cigarette in a disused jar lid. His lack of patience was obvious.

“Barmaid! Where are my fuckin’ wings? Wings and another beer, dammit!”

Bethany Belle looked like she was about to lose her temper. Her gray locks were sprayed skyward with a fetching bit of 80’s flair. But her eyeliner had started to smear. “Keef, settle down. The kitchen will have those out in a jiffy. I just put in the order.”

Narvel farted loudly. His intestinal wind rapped the stool with a musical cadence. What wafted up afterward was a celebration of both manhood and animalistic pride.

“You just put ‘em on to cook? Horseshit! I been drinkin’ for a good hour!” he protested.

Bethany rubbed her eyes. “Yes, asshole. You have been drinking that long. But you only asked for wings two minutes ago.”

The aging, overweight biker slammed his fist on the bar. His skull ring left a gouge in the wood. “Two minutes, hell! Two minutes my ass! Two minutes...”

*****

The harsh light of medical equipment filled Narvel’s eyes. He shook his head like a dog shedding rainwater. The hospital room felt cold. A universal C-PAP mask felt too tight for comfort. He could hear beeping monitors dutifully registering every heartbeat. Tubes and wires covered his body. A catheter bag full of urine hung off the bed.

“What the fuck?” he yelped.

“Mr. O’ Keefe, how long have you been awake?” the young nurse asked. She looked a bit like his ex-wife, a blonde wisp of a girl. Curvy, where it mattered. Oozing a vibe of restrained sexuality. Dressed in traditional white.

“Uhhhh… about two minutes,” he responded, groggily. “Two minutes.”

“My name is Ginny. I am here to check your vital signs. Were you dreaming?” she wondered out loud.

He coughed up phlegm and a whisper of blood. “Yeah, yes, yeah… I was across town at Pug’s. A bar where I hang out. They have the best wings, you know.”

His nurse smiled. “Really? Those are very unhealthy...”

“I need some friggin’ wings though,” he cursed.

“We want to put you right again,” she explained. “To get you stable. Solid food will come later. How about some Jell-o?”

“FUCK THAT!” he exploded.

Suddenly, he was alone again. The nurse had finished her chart and left without ending their conversation. Narvel looked up at the ceiling. A trail of lint adorned the ventilation grid. He counted the slats once, twice, and again. The room felt cooler and more empty than before his outburst.

He desperately wanted a beer. In his head, song verses began to resound:

“Gonna drink me a couple twelve-packs today, you know I’ll durn shure kill the case… gonna drink those little, twelve-ounce bottles, till I get shit faced… then I’ll go to the store and buy me some more, bring ‘em on home to here… I’m gonna take me a swim in a sudsy river of Blue Ribbon beer!”

A knock broke into his daydream. There was a doctor in the doorway.

“Mr. O’ Keefe?” he said in greeting. “How are you feeling today?”

Narvel was confused. “Today…?”

“My name is Doctor Khantinaga,” the sawbones spoke cheerfully. He was tall and had the tanned complexion of a foreign sun worshiper. “You have been in a coma for three weeks. We noticed this event seemed to be drawing to a close today. A very happy development, sir. Do you agree?”

The biker tilted his head while pondering. “Three weeks?”

“Nearly so,” the physician confirmed. “A span of 20 days. Do you remember coming to this hospital?”

Narvel slouched against his pillows. “No.”

“I am told you were on the job at Pzencka Welding, in Painesville,” he reported. “Apparently the heat became too much for your body to endure.”

“Fugg, I been workin’ there for years,” the biker complained. “Heat never bothered me before.”

“Of course,” Doctor Khantinaga said while nodding. “But your chart indicates that there have been some health issues ignored, is this true?”

“Nahh,” Narvel rebutted with a groan. “I’ve been great, just creaky you know? Slowing down a little bit. Still the best man at my shop.”

The doctor nodded again. “I understand. Your work ethic reminds me of my father.”

The biker laughed.

“What you experienced was quite dramatic,” Doctor Khantinaga explained. “Full cardiac arrest at the scene. You were taken by helicopter to the Cleveland Clinic. Since then you have been in a coma. As I said before, for 20 days...”

The biker chilled until his yellowed teeth literally chattered.

“SHIT!”

“This morning, you seemed to be semi-conscious,” the doctor continued. “Restless. You appeared to be dreaming. This was a positive sign.”

Narvel wiped drool from his face. “Shoulda let me finish my wings!”

Doctor Khantinaga grinned. “Now that you have returned to a waking state, we have hope, Mr. O’ Keefe. You have hope. This is a good day.”

“Can I get a beer from your cafeteria?” the biker asked. “Damn, I’m parched!”

The doctor chuckled audibly. “When you are well enough to leave this hospital, then it will be time to celebrate. For now, take comfort in being alive, my friend.”

Narvel had begun to fade. Gray fog filled his eyes as they grew heavy. Once again, it was time to sleep…

*****

The kitchen bell rang out with an irritating clatter of greasy metal. “Order up!”

Bethany smoothed her dirty apron. “Finally!”

Narvel stubbed out another cigarette. “That’s what I fuckin’ say! FINALLY! I been sittin’ here for days listenin’ to my gut wibble and warble. I’m hungry, dammit! HUN-GREE!”

The barmaid slammed his plate on the deck. “Here you go, Keef! Quit bitching and start eating!”

The biker emptied his mug. “More beer, Missy! More beer!” He farted again, with a wetness that permeated his blue jeans and stained the seat. His release sent the atmosphere of perspiration, spent tobacco, and spilled brew into overdrive.

“Fugg, this tastes good,” he said with celebration. “Crispy, spicy, tasty damn wings. Praise the chicken gods. A wing and a prayer, a prayer for more beer...”

Bethany Belle slammed a fresh mug on the bar. “Drink, motherfucker!”

Narvel stifled a guffaw. “Missy, I don’t care for your tone!”

“Settle down Keef,” she whined.

“But I do care for these wings,” he continued. “And I care for those perky tits in your blouse!”

“Dickhead!” she laughed.

Narvel chewed on the wings with gusto. He felt more than hungry. There was desperation in the moment. A need to exercise his personal freedom. Today was his wedding anniversary, two decades removed. The precursor to a hellish trip through sacrifice, emotional combat, career chaos, divorce, drinking and damnation.

The peppery wings renewed his spirit.

“Hey Beth, were you ever married?” he growled between bird limbs.

The barmaid cackled like a psychedelic witch. “Married? Fuck that...”

“I agree,” he replied.

“How about you?” she said, beginning a match of verbal ping pong.

Narvel smeared Buffalo sauce from his mustache. “Yeah, once. Hard to believe, right?”

Bethany’s eyes widened in amazement. “You?”

The biker nodded with red sauce dribbling from his beard. “Yep.”

“But… why?” she sputtered. “You don’t seem sentimental!”

Narvel reached for her cropped T-shirt. He tugged quickly, making her melons dance in a drunken jiggle of deliciousness.

“Because of a pair like those!” he cheered.

The barmaid covered herself with a waving of hands that could not find real success in their purpose. Her boobs lay exposed and ripe in the stale air.

“Fucker!” she hissed.

“Because of tits like those!” the biker roared. “Dammit! All I could think about was gettin’ my wick wet. Gettin’ to ride those balloons. Young and dumb I was, like they say.”

Bethany Belle finally pulled her cropped top back into place.

“I hear that story a lot,” she observed. “Usually after four or five drinks… from old pricks like you, of course.”

Narvel gnawed the last wing until it was nothing more than a naked bit of avian skeleton. A full belly had changed his perspective. Now, he felt content. But the barmaid missed this change of mood.

“Crusty old asshole,” she laughed defiantly. “You sound like a hundred guys that have been here. I bet you’re limp like a dead salmon, now. Pitiful fucker!”

The biker raised from his stool. A gleam of new determination filled his bloodshot eyes. “WHAT DID YOU SAY??”

Bethany pursed her lips like a trolling fish. “I bet you’re limp! Limp like a spoiled sausage!”

Narvel felt a warming in his loins. Like he was in high school again.

“Come here, Beth!” he commanded. “Bring those perky tits and that teasing mouth over here right now!”

She was speechless.

The biker swiveled his pelvis. “Limp? Kneel down here, babe. Right here, right now!”

Bethany spat on the floor. “This place is grimy as shit. Greasy, grimy, and dirty. Like you, Keef. I got more class than that. Have another beer and play with yourself, okay?”

Narvel stood up, angrily.

“Look here, woman...” he thundered.

The barmaid flipped her hair like an 80’s Heavy Metal star. Then, she leaned forward until her cleavage met the dim glow of artificial twilight. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You really want some attention? Really? Come behind the bar, to Puglisci’s office. Right now...”

His loins were on fire. “What? What dafugg?”

“Mr. Pug is on vacation,” she said, with a breathy kiss. “Are you game? Or just a big talker...”

The biker’s jeans were full of stone. “SHIT!”

In only a moment, they were in the owner’s office. Bethany pushed him backward, into Puglisci’s barrel rocker. Scars and stains in the wood spoke of other visits to this room. She yanked unmercifully on the zipper in Narvel’s jeans, nearly sending him into a convulsion of ecstasy. He kicked out of reflex. Boots scraping the floor. Then he wheezed like a drunk rudely meeting the sidewalk.

“Not yet,” she giggled, opening his fly. “What the hell, old man, are you still a schoolboy? Not yet...”

The biker felt his eyes project with sore abandon, from their sockets. His entire body was rigid. Pulse gone to redline, chest heaving, gray beard dripping grime.

“FUCK!” he shouted. “YOU’RE A DAMN WILD ALLEY CAAAAAAT...”

*****

Narvel woke up as the heart monitor beeped out a warning. His C-PAP mask had worked itself out of place. Noisy and irritated, he gagged for air.

Nurse Ginny had returned, looking refreshed. She chided him for rolling in the bed. “Were you dreaming again, Mr. O’ Keefe? Having a nightmare?”

He shook his head. “Not a nightmare...”

She scrolled through lines of data on a monitor. “You need to stay calm, Mr. O’ Keefe. These spells have the doctor worried. You went through quite a day before our ambulance brought you here… over three weeks ago.”

Narvel watched the elegant pout of her lips change with each inflection. Her scrubs were pink and purple today, barely loose enough to fit the generous curves of her bosom. Desperately, he wanted to get out of bed. His male member swelled with misguided desire.

Then, he realized the catheter was still in place.

“Fugg,” he cursed.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse responded, while inclining her head to hear. “What was that?”

He sighed with resignation. “Fuggggg...”

“Doctor Khantinaga wants to run more tests,” she explained. “You are a miracle man, Mr. O’ Keefe. The ambulance crew said that you were on the floor at your welding shop. Turning blue.”

The biker grunted. All he could remember was reworking the frame for a vintage, Harley-Davidson Knucklehead. A glorious creation of metal and fire, stretched out to 100 cubic inches.

“Fuggggg...” he swore.

“Save your energy,” the nurse implored. “Thank God you are here… if you believe in God.”

Narvel ran his eyes over her golden mane, her breasts and down her torso, to her lithe limbs, waiting below. Silently, his mouth began to water.

“I believe...” he whispered. Another song reverberated between his ears:

“Stegmaier Beer, Stegmaier Beer, come here my clean, cool friend. I tasted you the day before and I’ll taste you again. Stegmaier Beer, Stegmaier Beer, barmaid, there stands the glass. Fill ‘er up right to the brim and bring some salty snacks.”

*****

Narvel stiffened when a new figure entered the bar. A young fellow with fresh tattoos, barbered hair and gleaming rings. His leathers matched perfectly, as if they had just come off the rack at an official motorcycle dealership. There were no scars on his flesh, no pits or pockmarks. No road grime in his trimmed beard.

“Beer here,” he called out to the barmaid.

Bethany Belle looked the newcomer over with suspicion.

“I been riding around all day,” the kid claimed boldly. “Worked up a powerful thirst!” He took a stool next to Narvel. “Anybody know where a saddle tramp can get some weed?”

The old biker gritted his teeth. This youngster sounded like a literary caricature from a bad chopper magazine.

The barmaid snorted. “Weed? I got Budweiser here, that’s all.”

The stranger lifted an eyebrow. “Bud Light will do.” He had begun to sweat, despite the cold. “I came here from Toledo, my brother lives in Painesville. Don’t really know anybody.” He ogled Bethany’s generous bustline, hopefully. “Name is Park Hogan. People call me Hogues...”

Narvel was unimpressed.

Bethany kept her cool. “We got food here too, if you’re hungry,” she said. “The menu is up there.” She gestured to a stained rectangle of posterboard, thumbtacked to the wall.

Hogan nodded with appreciation. “I’m on empty. Could use a cheeseburger. And some reefer...” He laughed to himself when no one else responded.

Narvel drank his Yuengling while staring into space. He tuned out the young buck, on purpose. Still, he could sense there was more to the story. Something familiar reverberated in the stranger’s voice.

The barmaid busied herself putting an order in with the kitchen. Meanwhile, Hogues sipped his lightweight brew. Music blared from the jukebox. Cues and balls cracked from the pool tables. A thick pall of cheap tobacco hung in the air.

After another minute, the kid looked sideways, unexpectedly. Directly into Narvel’s eyes. “Hey, friend, you know where a bro can score some good leaf?”

The biker snorted like a bad-tempered bull. “Bro?”

Hogues smiled broadly. “Hook a brother up, friend...”

Narvel slammed his fist on the bar. “I ain’t your bro, kid. And I ain’t your friend!”

Hogan flinched, then recovered. “Right on,” he agreed. “Just makin’ conversation. Like I said, don’t know anybody around here.”

Bethany wiped the bar with a wet rag. “Your burger will be done in a minute.”

Narvel could feel his blood pressure rising. His face was on fire. That voice… it stung his ears with a hint of unwelcome familiarity. Something lingered, deep in his memory. Something rude and raw.

“Damn, I like this place,” the newcomer declared. “Good people, good brew.”

The barmaid struck a defiant pose. “Most folks here are assholes! But they spend money!” She patted her spandex leggings. “I keep a switchblade in my thong, just in case.”

Hogan laughed and laughed and then, realized no one had joined his merriment.

Bob Seger was on the jukebox now. But the old biker had gone deaf to music. He could hear only one thing. The voice of this curious stranger, bouncing from side to side in his head. Finally, the tone registered, with dread. A cop in Lucas County had pulled him over during a run to Michigan, about five years ago. A sniveling newbie from the police academy. Ambitious and reckless, loud, cocky and about five-foot-nothing. Glad to strut around with his holstered weapon.

Through a haze of whiskey and smoke, Narvel finally remembered.

“Do me a favor,” the biker grunted. “Say the words ‘You’re under arrest’ for me. Say them out loud.”

Hogan went pale. “What?”

“You’re under arrest,” Narvel repeated. “Say those words.”

The kid stood up, impulsively. “What’s your game, bro?” He reached inside his jacket for help.

In one, single motion, the old biker spun off his stool, with a vibe of Chuck Norris in his veins. He kicked the kid in his midsection, bending him in half. Then, quickly stood him up with a right fist to the jaw. Another kick sent him against the wall. Combination punches pummeled his body.

Hogues collapsed, wheezing blood and broken teeth.

“You’re a fuckin’ narc!” Narvel spouted.

The kid writhed in pizza crumbs and dirt, on the floor. “You got me wrong… you got me wrong.”

The old biker felt a raging pulse hammering in his temples. “You didn’t ride in here on a hawg, you came in with a candyass Honda Fury on gold rims. Fake and polished like a motherfuckin’ Hollywood cowboy. Reachin’ for your pistol sealed it, boy. That was your last mistake.”

“Pistol?” Hogan blubbered. “Naw, naw, I ain’t got nothin’ like that!”

Narvel stomped his fingers with an engineer boot. The newcomer rolled flat on his back, exposing a holster under his shoulder.

“You’re a bad liar!” Bethany hissed, carrying his burger. “Bad at just about everything!”

“Now he’s gonna be hungry, too!” the biker declared. “Don’t have any teeth left to eat that thing!”

The fake outlaw crawled for the front door. In mere seconds, he had strapped on his helmet and thumb-buttoned the Japanese cruiser to life. It puttered away with metallic chagrin. A metric wannabe exposed and belittled by true outlaw rage.

*****

Doctor Khantinaga flipped through charts on his clipboard. His glasses has fogged up from stress. “Mr. O’ Keefe, we still don’t quite know the whole story here. I need to run more tests.”

“More?” Narvel exclaimed, impatiently. “Doc, you need to find another line of work.”

Nurse Ginny fiddled with the heart monitor. Her hair had gone flat. But she still looked appealing. If only the biker could lose his catheter and quaff a couple brews to steady his nerves. There was a diversion to be had, despite the serious nature of this hospital stay.

“Your pulse is still irregular, Mr. O’ Keefe,” she said.

The doctor exuded a hint of worry. But conveyed it with the skill of a politician. “More tests will tell the story. We simply need more tests.”

Narvel was grouchy but out of steam. “Poke me, prod me, whatever-the-fuck you have to do, dammit. Look down my throat or up my ass. The view won’t be pretty, though, I guarantee!”

The nurse covered her mouth to stifle a gasp.

“No looking up your… rectum, sir, I promise,” Doctor Khantinaga said with assurance. “We just need to calm your ticker.” He patted his own chest to demonstrate. “You have not fully stabilized after the episode at your welding shop. I do not know why. We must study and learn.”

The biker shivered. Suddenly, he felt cold again. Spun-out and ready to slumber. A rendezvous with the delicious, young nurse would have to wait. Until the doctor was satisfied and the hospital staff relaxed his restrictions.

First, he needed not to die.

*****

Narvel drooped over the bar like a wet rag. He felt flat. Wrung out to dry. Spent. Fully exhausted. Wings, beer and cigarettes had vanished with the hour.

“Hey dickhead, do you need another drink?” Bethany Belle taunted as she passed his chair.

The biker did a canine head-shake once again.

“You fall asleep or something?” the barmaid squeaked.

Narvel exhaled a stench of rotting tobacco. “I’m parched. Bone dry after that workout with the narc!”

“Pitiful fuck!” she cackled. “Okay, I’ll bring you a beer. You earned it...”

“Stegmaier,” he said.

“Who-mire?” she blurted out impulsively. “Quagmire? I never heard of that one. We have Bud, Bud Light, MGD, Yuengling...”

The biker rubbed his eyes. “My friend Paul used to sing about that piss. He drank it as a teenager. I’ve never had it. But the name stuck in my head. We used to enjoy guitar jams when I was back in town.”

Bethany poured a fresh brew from the tap. “Paul?”

“He lived in Corning, New York, where they make the glass,” Narvel remembered. “Poor asshole died about a dozen years ago.”

The barmaid blew him a kiss. “That’s all you can think about? Beer and old friends? Nothing else?”

He was still groggy. “Umm...”

“DICKHEAD!” she yelped. Her heels clicked away in an angry rush of irritation.

Now, his only companion was the jukebox. A Davie Allan 45 spun with fuzz-laced energy while he drank. A mist of sputum and cum wafted from his denim trousers. His blood pressure still raged from the workout in Puglisci’s office. And the one with Hogan the undercover narc.

Narvel lifted his glass, feeling tipsy and weak. “Sorry, Mr. Pug. Hope we didn’t mess up your chair.”

*****

Doctor Khantinaga looked doubly dark against the white of his physician’s jacket. “Mr. O’ Keefe? May we speak about your condition? How are you feeling today?”

Narvel pulled the C-PAP mask from his face. “Feeling? I feel… fucked.”

The doctor bowed his head with a smile. “Should I put that on your report?”

“Do it,” the biker agreed.

“You have taxed your body with neglect,” the doctor said. “Imbibing wine, whiskey, and scorching your lungs, as a regular habit. Perhaps smoking a bit of Mother Nature’s finest? We can all survive episodes of such abuse. But not for long. Certainly not at your age.”

“Nahhh, Doc,” Narvel disagreed. “I usually drink beer.”

His physician was not amused.

“We lost medical insurance at the shop last year,” the old biker replied, stoically. “Pzencka Welding has been struggling. We’ve all been struggling. I can’t afford shit for myself. At least my kid has a good job, now. And my ex-wife.”

“Yes, yes,” Doctor Khantinaga acquiesced. “I have heard these stories many times. But you must take care of yourself… of you.”

The biker slouched in his bed. “I ain’t homeless. I ain’t a druggie. I don’t qualify for shit.”

The doctor sighed heavily. “There must be programs...”

Narvel reddened with frustration. “People like you say that shit. Maybe you believe it. Maybe you really do, I’ll give you that. But people fall through the cracks. That’s me. Just a turd on the concrete. Too stinky for help.”

Doctor Khantinaga nodded. “You were certainly on the concrete at your welding shop...”

The biker laughed out loud. “Yeah!”

The doctor took off his glasses. “So, you still have no insurance? Today?”

“None,” said Narvel, with disgust.

“Well,” he reflected. “You have one thing more important than that. You have your life.”

*****

Last call had come and gone at Pug’s Tavern.

Narvel O’ Keefe sat with his final beverages of the night. A mug of Yuengling and a shot of Jack Daniel’s. The watering hole was nearly empty. Pool tables abandoned. Jukebox gone silent. A last cigarette smoldered in the jar lid by his mug. There would be no more wings from the kitchen. And no more visits to Puglisci’s office.

Bethany Belle swabbed the counter with a wet towel. She whistled a tune by Lita Ford. The night had been rewarding. Her tips were plentiful. She pulled her hair back and tied it with a rubber band. Sweat tears rolled across her cheeks. The work shift was almost done.

She felt grateful for the end of night.

Narvel had left his stool, walked outside, and dropped by the curb. He lay sprawled on scattered bottle caps, pizza crusts and road debris. No one seemed to notice, or care. They were lost in escape and personal celebration. While he drowned in the harsh moment of mortal frailty. Yet no regrets filled his mind. He could not breathe any longer, or despair. Surrender made him feel fulfilled.

He was excited to hope of seeing Paul once again. And play guitar.

*****

Nurse Ginny came running when the heart monitor indicated that her patient had flat-lined. The machine squawked a synthetic tone of alarm that only deepened her fear. She dialed for the emergency team, and began CPR right in the hospital room. Doctor Khantinaga appeared in about one minute, cursing in the colorful tones of his native tongue. Pleading with his deities. Pounding the bed rails. Exasperated with this unexpected work of fate.

Stiff and unresponsive, Narvel had turned a deathly shade of gray. The dreams vacated his consciousness. Now, every pain in his chest had abated. His blood pressure read zero. There would be no more ambulance rides for medical care, or motorcycle trips to Pug’s Tavern. Yet only one emotion filled his fading physical form as the final breath ebbed past his lips…

Contentment.

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