Tom Smith @
1,111 words
2575 East Captain Dreyfus
Tom Smith 1995
Phoenix, Arizona 85032
Telephone (602)
971-2654
HARLEY
A Short
Story by
Tom
Smith
HARLEY/T. Smith 1
Harley
He was the biggest,
ugliest, meanest looking sonofabitch I had ever seen. And he was mad.
Mad at me. A big, ugly, mean long-hair biker dude mad at me, and I’m
just a mousy little teacher. Teach creative writing at the local
college to little old ladies who want to write romance novels and
pimple-faced kids who want to write the great American novel.
How’d I know he
was mad at me? He growled. Sounded like a pit bull with a toothache.
I looked at his woman, Motorcycle Mommas, I think they’re called.
It wasn’t a lustful look. I had just never seen a woman like that,
close up, that is. She wore a black leather vest and trousers. She
had nothing on under the vest that I could see but tattoo’s.
HARLEY/T. Smith 2
One said, “Eat
me!”. Another, “Harley-Davidson. I was born to be rode.”
I saw their bike
parked at the curb when I came into the bar. It was as big and mean
looking as the owner. I used to ride a bike when I was in college. It
was a Honda 90. Nothing like the big Harley hog parked in front of
Bailey’s Bar and Lounge.
I had stopped at
Bailey’s on my way home from my Thursday evening teaching session.
I had heard that on Thursday nights they had poetry readings by local
poets. Though I earned my living teaching and selling an occasional
piece of fiction -- two novels, and several short stories to
magazines -- my passion was poetry. I had written poetry since my
high school days, but nothing that was ever published, except in
those little chap books where they publish your poetry without a fee,
but they sell the books for ten or fifteen dollars and they know
you’re gonna buy five or six to give to your friends.
I had brought
several of my poems with me, tucked away in my jacket pocket. Maybe,
just maybe, if things worked out, like several others read theirs and
they weren’t much better than what I had to offer, I’d get up and
read.
HARLEY/T. Smith 3
Now, I wasn’t
sure. The biker dude had scared the hell outa me. I wasn’t sure if
the wetness on my right trousers leg was draft beer I had spilled
from the mug I was consuming, or perspiration, or what. Hopefully,
they would leave before the readings began.
The two sat at the
bar at a right angle to where I was sitting. The dude shot menacing
glances at me if I allowed my eyes to focus in their direction. I
wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but I had the feeling he was
saying, “This bitch is mine. Don’t even think about it, or you’ll
be dead.”
Hell, I didn’t
want his woman. She scared me almost as much as he did. She was
heavy, close to two hundred pounds or so, straight black hair that
hadn’t been seen a brush or comb in weeks, yellow teeth and what
appeared to be a diamond ear stud embedded in her left nostril.
The bar wasn’t
particularly crowded, maybe twenty or twenty-five patrons. Most
looked like college kids. A few coffee-house types -- mid or late
thirties, but still going to school without any educational goal in
mind.
The bar lights
dimmed and a spot light lit the small stage in the corner. A slim
beanpole blonde in a long
HARLEY/T. Smith 4
shapeless dress took
the stage. She had a guitar slung over her shoulder. She pulled a
stool in front of the microphone and sat down. “Testing.” Shriek.
“Test. Test.” Shriek.
The bartender
turned some knobs behind the bar.
“Testing.” No
shriek. She strummed the strings and slapped the wood of the guitar
several times. “My name is Melony and my poem is entitled, Blue.”
She rambled words
that made absolutely no sense. At the end of each sentence she
strummed and slapped the guitar again. Twenty or so sentences and
twenty or so strums and slaps and she stood up to receive a polite
applause.
Jesus Christ! My
poems would sound like Robert Browning compared to hers. Maybe I
would get up after all.
An emaciated man
with a heavy black beard dressed in tattered jeans and a sweatshirt
with cut-out arms climbed to the stage next. “My name is Soloman
Judas John and my poem is entitled, Circumcision of the Mind.”
He stared a full minute at the ceiling, then began. “Aughhh!
Aughhh! Fuckin’ earth! Fuckin’ universe! Aughhh! Aughhh!”
I nearly fell from
my bar stool. Poetry? He rambled on for four or five minutes with
nothing more profound than Aughh! Fuckin’ this and fuckin’ that.
HARLEY/T. Smith 5
He received a
rousing applause from the gathering.
Several minutes
passed without another reader taking the stage. I girded my loins. I
would take the stage and read Wild Flower. It was the favorite
of my poems.
As I started to
rise, the Motorcycle Momma stood and approached the stage. Dude shot
me another ferocious frown. God! Now what? I said to myself. Momma
would probably get up on the stage and defecate. That would be the
end of poetry reading for the night.
She sat on the
stool and pulled the microphone to her lips. In the sweet voice of an
angel she said,” My name is Evangaline and my poem is entitled, My
Life.”
In wondrous rhyme
and rhythm she related the story of her life. How remarkable. How
sublime. This slob of womanhood, this fat, gross motorcycle
straddling strumpet laid siege to my heart and soul. Her appearance
changed before me. She was the Madonna. Helen of Troy. Guinevere.
Her voice was music,
accompanied by heavenly harps and golden muted trumpets. It was not
just poetry, but a true religious experience.
“And this dear
folk, is My Life.”
HARLEY/T. Smith 6
The entire room
erupted into loud applause, whistles, stamps of feet.
She lowered her
head. “Thank you.” She eased from the stool and walked to the
bar where her escort waited. A broad smile crossed his lips. It was
directed at me. Together, they left the bar, hand in hand.
A moment later, the
deep-throated roar of the big Harley shook the window glass. A few
revs and they were away. The pitch changed as the second and third
gears were grabbed.
No one else in the
bar made a move toward the stage. There was a strange hush over the
group. I ordered another beer.
God! I want a
Harley!
- The
End -
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