“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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