Road Trip

This is such bullshit. They have no reason at all to fire me. Who the hell do they think they are? I’ve worked at this office for over 15 years. I started my job here before that snot nosed twit of a manager started high school.
“I’m sorry Mr. Collins, but we are downsizing your department, and according to our records your performance is far below the rest of your co-workers. We will be offering you a generous severance package, as well as a good reference, if you choose to resign without two weeks notice. That means you will have to clear out your desk today.” I want to wrap my hands around his little neck and squeeze until those shifty eyes pop out of his head. I try to stare him down but with my diminutive 5’4” 165 lb. body I have no luck trying to intimidate him. “Also you may submit a request to be reimbursed for your unused vacation days.” My anger seethes out my eyes, hoping to ignite the prick.
I hate this bland place, it is such a standard set up that I’m surprised the building isn’t white with “Office” in big black letters on the outside like all those generic food goods from the 70’s. Each rat has its cubicle where they can pound away at their keyboard and receive their paycheck at the end of the week. I keep expecting giant men in white robes to crack open the ceiling of this place and peer down at their little experiment. Everyone dresses the same, white shirt, black pants or skirt, black tie, black shoes, and an expression that conveys nothing but emptiness. For a few weeks they tried to lighten things up by having a Hawaiian shirt day, but only a few participated and they looked like they were wearing wool sweaters that itched. I’m not even sure what it is we do here, or I should say “they”.
Standing there in front of my ex-boss I look in the folder. Generous severance package my ass. In two weeks of work I make $1876.23. They are giving me $5,000 as severance pay, minus the federal, state, county, district and city taxes, which leaves me with a check for $3,453.66. A month’s friggin’ pay is all I am worth. There is a draft of a generic reference letter that they would be happy to send to my next potential employer for a small fee of $5.38. The even charge me for postage. I sneer at his cocky smile. Then there is a coupon book in the folder. Yeah, that’s right a coupon book like the ones that you get in the mail. Two-4-one Dawn, $.50 any three cans of Campbell soup, and so on. I ripped that coupon book up right in front of him.
As I walk back to my cubicle to clear out my desk, two security officers join me as “escorts”. They have their hands resting on their little cans of mace just in case I try to steal one of the company’s precious pad of Post-Its or a stapler. When I arrive at my now former work space there was a box sitting on my desk ready to receive my meager belongings. They won’t even give me a chance to say goodbye to the two or three people that I had a cordial relationship with. I guess they saw the ripping of the coupon book as an “aggressive action”. Fuck them.
These two shaved gorillas are following me down to my car to make sure that I turn in my ID and parking permit. I flipped them off as I drive out the parking lot. I get stuck in traffic that is building up because of construction. It’s the middle of July and it is hot as hell. There’s nothing like summer in Los Angeles, stuck in traffic 10 miles from home, to perk up an already shitty day.
Before long my little commuter compact car, made in some third world ex-communist country, over heats. All I could think is “you have got to be FUCKING KIDDING ME!”. I slam my fists into the steering wheel. I break the skin on my left hand and blood starts to spray small droplets on the windshield with each hit. I stop, take a deep breath, and take the keys out of the ignition. I sit there for a few moments to regain my composure then I get my briefcase, get out of the car, and start walking. After a few feet I think of something and turn around. I pop the trunk, take out a screwdriver, and go around to all four tires to poke holes in them. I didn’t need this piece of shit anymore and I figured that I would make other people’s lives hell just like mine. There is nothing like an unmovable car blocking the only lane of traffic to piss people off. I walk up the on ramp to the sounds of cursing and car horns. I have a big shit-eating smile on my face. I couldn’t help but think of myself as Michael Douglas in Falling Down.
It takes me a while to get a taxi and make it home. There are a few messages on my answering machine from some co-workers sympathizing with my plight, but I can’t listen to a word they have to say because I know they didn’t get fired in the so called “downsizing”. I look around my small apartment and wonder what it is I’m going to do. I was never big on spending money so I don’t have any real bills but rent and utilities. I can live off my savings for a couple of months with out any problems. I figure that I could start looking for a job after a while and be just fine.
I plop down in my lounge chair and turn on the news. There is a picture of my little shit box blocking traffic and a construction truck trying to pull it out of the way. That spiteful smile graces my face once more. I am chuckling to myself, watching the fun on TV when my phone rings. I check the caller ID and see it’s my only real friend, Ken.
“What’s up dude? Is that your car on TV?”
“Yeah, that piece of crap broke down so I left it there after poking holes all four tires.”
“Damn, sounds like you’re having a bad day.”
“I got fired today too.”
“Man you are having a really bad day.”
“Congrats Ken, you just won the understatement of the year award.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised you got fired. Even thought you worked as much as most of the people there, we both know why you got canned.”
“And what might that be, Voltar the Magnificent?”
“Do you think it may have something to do with that shitty attitude you have or your lack of respect for the boss? Oooh, or how about your lack of social skills with any of the clients? Maybe it’s your politically incorrect jokes and sexual harassment of the female employees? Which one do you think it was?”
“Fuck you, Ken.”
“See what I mean? You can’t even take constructive criticism. You’ve been on a back slide ever since Jen left you. All I’m trying to say bud, is that instead of getting pissed off at the people who fired you, why not look at what you might have done to put yourself in that position?”
I take in a deep breath and sigh. I know he is right, but who wants to admit to themselves they are an asshole? “Ok Ken, I’ll give the pissed at the world trip a rest for a while. Did you have anything else to say, or did you just want to crap in my cereal?”
“To be honest the real reason I called was to empathize with your job situation. One of my clients was talking to one of your former co-workers as you were ripping up something out of a folder. They both know I know you and wanted to give me the heads up. So then I wanted to run an idea past you and see what you thought. I know you have some free time on your hands right now so I…”
“Ken…if you want to have a normal conversation with me you need to drop the fucking sarcasm. I’m in no mood for it right now.”
“Sorry Steve, you’re right. I’m not being a very considerate friend.”
“Thanks.”
“Ok so as I was saying, with your calendar opening up, why not take some time for yourself?”
“Like take a vacation? I was thinking about that.”
“Exactly like taking a vacation. I know you have plenty of money in your savings account, plus they must have given you some kind of severance check, right?”
I chuckle to myself ‘Some kind’ is right. “Yes, and?”
“Well I know how much you enjoy riding your motorcycle. It’s kind of weird how it’s like a woman to you. Anyway, why not take a road trip somewhere you’ve never been before and just relax? Have you even had a chance to take your new ride on a longer trip yet?”
Ken is right, I’ve been in love with two wheeled vehicles most of my life. I learned how to ride a bike when I was four years old on a bike that had those big arcing handlebars, a gold flecked yellow banana seat, and was way too big for me. My first motorcycle was a Honda Trail 50. That thing was a small tank that gave me three broken arms before my mom sold it. I had all sorts of dirt bikes, 12 speeds, and mountain bikes in my life. When I was in my early 20’s I bought a Honda CBR 600 F2. It was black with purple and yellow accents. I would take that on long road trips with only my helmet, tank bag, and a change of clothes. There is nothing like the feel of bombing down the road at 120mph with nothing between you and the elements. It’s a rush that I can never get enough of. Bikes of any sort have always been a symbol of freedom to me.
Recently I bought a more practical, but powerful cruising bike. It’s a black Honda VTX1300C with chrome everywhere. It rides so smooth that you’d swear you were on glass instead of asphalt. With the addition of some saddle bags, I could easily use it for a long trip.
I ignore the woman comment about my bike. “You know Ken, that doesn’t sound like a half bad idea. You should take off a few weeks and join me.”
“That was the second part of my plan, Molly is getting sick of me being in her hair all the time so I was thinking it would be a divine marital tool for me as well.”
“Alrighty then. Umm…one thing though.”
“Yes I know I need a new ride. I was kinda hoping you could see your way clear to lending me $500.00 so I could put a down payment on a new set of wheels.”
“I knew there had to be a catch in there somewhere. I’m guessing you’ll need some money to finance the trip as well?”
“No, Molly has decided to give me some money to take a vacation, but she doesn’t know about the bike part of the trip. I wasn’t going to tell her until we got back and there were too many miles on it to return it.”
“Great. Nothing like putting your buddy in the middle of your marital problems. How is this NOT going to come back and bite me in the ass Ken?” He just chuckles.
We decide that a trip up Highway 1 and the Pacific Coast Highway. A long meandering trip up the coast to Portland sounds like a good idea. We finalize our plans and hang up. The next day Ken picks up a sparkling new Yamaha V-Star with the $500 I loan him. The day after that we are off.
********************
This is going to be a very therapeutic trip for Steve. He needs to get some perspective on his life after his wife left him a few months ago. He was devastated when Jen ran off with that ballroom dance instructor. He almost had a total brake down when she left him and I’m afraid that losing his job will send him over the edge. I need to get his mind off of his problems and give him a chance to forget. We’ve been friends for I don’t know how long. Its been since college when he was getting pushed around because of some drunken misunderstanding in a bar and I stepped in. The guy that was giving me shit was an idiot I used to play football with and we were bitter rivals for the starting line backer position. I would have been glad to have any excuse to beat the krap out of him. I guess ever since that night 12 years ago we’ve been friends. It doesn’t feel like 12 years.
I could use a break from my wife and my girlfriend too. Thankfully Steve agreed to lend me the money for the down payment on my new ride. I’ll deal with Molly when I get back because I know she is going to be livid that I added another bill to our pile. She is about to leave me anyway, maybe this will be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back and I’ll be free of her oppressive bitching. I wish Jen would have took Molly along when she ditched Steve.
We get an early start on a beautiful Thursday morning. It won’t start getting hot for a few more hours, and with any luck we’ll be clear of the city and most of the traffic before it gets too hot. We have to travel on 101 until we hit Pismo Beach where Highway 1 starts. From there on the road follows the coast closely and provides amazing views of the ocean from beach level on up into the mountains of wine country near the Bay Area.
When we hit some open road with little traffic; I can almost see the stone weights of Steve’s problems breaking into dust and littering the road behind us. His little shoulders seem to be lifting. He started out with a look of pain and regret, but with each mile the wind seems to airbrush a smile on his mug. After a stretch of curves in the road, I swear I catch giddy laughter in the breeze behind him.
We stop when we need a break, eat when we are hungry and when we are tired we find a place to camp. I’m thoroughly enjoying the drone of the engine between my legs, the wind whipping around me, and the lack of the bitch constantly nagging in my ear. I am in heaven.
We’ve been on the road for a few days now and we are stopping in a little town outside the Redwood National Park called Crescent City. It’s been a long trip and rather than camp out like we usually do, Steve and I decide to spring for two rooms at a local flea bag hotel for a soft mattress and a hot shower. For supper we eat at a convenient old timey diner across the street. We walk in and take a booth next to a big window up front.
I feel like I’m in a 50’s James Dean movie. This place looks like it was kept in a cryogenic chamber and was thawed out the day before we arrived. It was complete with cherry red Naugahyde booths and stool covers, chrome everywhere, and the table tops were creamy white linoleum with gold and silver flecks. The L shaped counter even had one of those old push button cash registers that had the amounts that popped up in a little window on its top. The waitresses had the 50’s poufy “poodle” dresses with aprons and those cardboard hair thingies. Our waitress, a small, thin, blonde woman named Ashley was even smacking on gum as she took our order with her hip cocked to one side. This diner would make a fortune in the retro movement that is sweeping Los Angeles.
While we are sitting there quietly eating our greasy food with an extra side of lard, two hard core bikers stumble backwards into the place. I look to see what is going on and see that they had been pushed by some other bikers outside. There looks to be about a hundred guys out there and it looks like it’s going to get ugly.
Because Steve had his back to the door he twisted away from the window to see what the commotion is and doesn’t see another biker about to get thrown through the window where we are sitting. Before I can yell out through my mouthful of steak, the guy breaks through the big picture window head first. He is only able to get one arm up to protect his head as he lands in the both next to Steve. His momentum pushes Steve the rest of the way out on to the floor. I am covered in broken glass and I can feel several cuts on my arms and face. There must be a big cut over my right cheek bone because there is red in my lower vision and I feel wetness dripping down my cheek and neck.
I must have a dumbfounded look on my face because the next thing I notice is Steve yelling at me to get up as he is pulling on my arm. I was too transfixed by all the blood coming from the guy lying motionless half on the table and half on the booth and the tattoo of what looks like the WWII German Nazi emblem of the SS on his neck. As Steve pulls me out of the booth, the guy who threw the man in front of me through the window is now clearing the rest of the glass out of the window sill so he can make his way into the diner.
As Steve and I get away from our booth I’m able to take in some of what is going on around us. Outside the diner there seem to be 20 or more men clad in leather, bandanas, and blurring metal blobs on the leather. From what I can tell of the scene, before we jump behind the counter, a serious biker gang braw is going on.
We are huddled behind the counter with two waitresses, one of them Ashley, who are clinging to each other crying. There are also three or four other customers who were sitting at the counter when we came in as well as one of the bikers I saw that came through the door. I get Steve’s attention and point to the guy lying face down next to me. He has a huge patch on the back of his leather vest that says “Hell’s Angles” across the top, “Nevada” across the bottom and a scull with wings in the middle. He isn’t moving. This doesn’t look good. In his right hand he has a pipe that has blood on it and a chunk of what looks like skin and hair on the end. This doesn’t look good at all.
I look over at Steve and I can tell by the bleached look on his face, he has come to the same conclusion I have; we are in big trouble. There is a lot of yelling and swearing coming from the front of the diner. It sounds like a knock down, all or nothing death match out there. Two shots ring out. A bullet must have hit something on the counter because I hear the sound of breaking glass and liquid starts pouring down the back of the counter near Ashley. She cries out and the other waitress quickly clamps a hand over her mouth. We need to get out of here before we get caught in the middle of this fight and become a casualty.
I make my way over to the waitress who seems to be keeping her head better and try to get her attention. She’s a healthy looking redhead that looks like she spent some time growing up on a farm. According to her name tag her name is Flo. I get a quick mental flash of the old TV show Alice who had a waitress named Flo, but the sounds outside quickly bring me back to the present. There is an awful lot of yelling, swearing, and sounds of things breaking, and not just mundane items, but the sound of breaking bones. The worst sound is the meaty thumps of hard objects colliding with muscle and fat.
I ask her the fastest way to get out of the diner. Flo looks at me, well more like right through me, for a few seconds like she is trying to figure out the mass to velocity ratio of a wildebeest traveling north to Chicago at 35mph. I give her a good shake and ask her again. She finally comes to and points behind her where the counter curves around the corner. Steve hears what I am asking and gets the people nearest him to follow me as I move to the end of the wall and peek around the corner.
There are two more people crouched down with their arms over their heads. I duck walk down towards them and “psst” to them so my presence doesn’t startle them too much. I whisper for them to follow me. I get to the end of the counter and I can see the door that goes into the kitchen and presumably to the back of the building. To confirm this I ask Flo, who stuck right behind me the whole time. She nods her answer. As I’m about to make a move for the kitchen doors, Ashley starts screaming again. I look back and see one of the bikers is leaning over the counter and is grabbing her by the hair. He is trying to get her over the counter. Before I can register much more, a metallic blur at the end of Steve’s arm comes in contact with the biker’s neck.
The shock of being hit on the back of the neck that drives his wind pipe into the edge of the counter convinces the biker to let go of the girl. He makes a weird choking/gurgling sound and slips out of view. I look at Steve who is stunned, looking at the pipe he must have grabbed out of the biker’s hand that was behind the counter. We all need to get out of there fast.
I make another “psst” sound to get everyone’s attention and motion for silence and to keep low as they follow me through the doors. I whisper in Flo’s ear to hold the right door open as I hold the left. We don’t want the swinging doors to bring any attention to what we are doing. She nods in understanding and I quickly move to the far door as Flo opens the nearer one. Everyone moves between us. Everyone that is except Steve.
I motion to Flo to show the others where to go to get out the back so I go find Steve. I look back through the doors and he is in the exact same spot he was in after hitting the biker with the pipe. He is staring at the pipe and shaking. His head is moving back and forth as he mumbles to himself. For all of Steve’s bluster and bullshit, he wasn’t used to perpetrating violence. As I go back to get Steve, there are several more rapid shots of at least two or three more guns. If I didn’t know better I’d say that I was on the set of some Hollywood shot-em-up movie. After the shots stop reverberating I hear blood curdling howls coming from several different directions. I so badly want to peek over the counter to see what is going on out there, but I don’t dare if the guy that Steve hit or anyone else is close by.
I get next to Steve and grab his arm. There is a startled look on his face as he brings back the other arm, the one with the pipe in his hand, and it rockets forward. My world goes black.
********************
This hospital room is depressing. I don’t know how they expect people to get better if they have to stay in these rooms. Then again Ken has no idea how dismal this room is. He’s been in a coma for several weeks now. I look at the big guy lying there with the tubes, and the bandages, and the stitches minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, and week after week. He just lies there unmoving, unseeing, and, worse, unknowing.
How in the hell am I supposed to tell him what happened? “Hey Ken, how’s things going? What? Oh yeah, you’ve missed about a month of your life because I cracked you over the head. Why? Well after I knocked that biker with the pipe I couldn’t move. Yeah, it seems I kept seeing the image of hard cold metal colliding in slow motion with the his greasy head. You probably didn’t notice, but there was a tattoo on the back of his neck. Really Ken, it looked like one of those German WWII helmets that had an emblem of a black swastika on a silver iron cross. It looked like the helmet was on the head of some creature with horns. At least I think so, it was hard to tell because most of the tattoo was covered by his shirt. And there was also the big gash torn into the flesh it was inked into. Near the edge of the wound I can make out an even row of tiny cuts from the treading on the end of the pipe. Blood was welling up and about to spill out when he slid out of my sight. Don’t worry though, your wound isn’t as vicious. When you reached out for me I thought it was that biker coming back for me. I thought he was pissed that I had ruined his tattoo. I just swung again cause I was terrified. The doctors say that your injury was mostly due to a hemorrhage caused by my blow.”
Every time I go through a different variation of trying to explain to Ken how he ended up this way I hope he wakes up while I’m speaking to him. That way the momentum of what I’m saying keeps me going as he looks at me with horror and or hate. That would make things much easier. Unfortunately he never wakes up and I’m sitting there crying into my hands like I am now. Sobbing like a little girl who broke her favorite dolly. Steve wouldn’t be here right now if I could have just pulled things together after Jen left with Raoul. He wouldn’t be here if I could have just kept things together in that damn diner. I cry harder.
I’m in the middle of another crying jag when the day nurse comes in to check in on Ken. This isn’t the first time she has caught me like this. She no longer notices. The first few times she tried to talk to me and be consoling, but I can’t bring myself to tell a conscious person what I did. Now she just nods in my general direction without even trying to make eye contact.
Molly came to see Ken the first few days he was in the hospital, but I haven’t seen her in a week or so. I guess things between them are worse than I had thought. Earlier today one of the nurses told me that she left a number to be contacted at if his condition changes. It’s her home number. It seems like she isn’t at all concerned with Ken and is leaving him in the lurch.
I still can’t believe Ken and I were caught in the diner that was the scene of violence between two rival biker gangs, the Hell’s Angles and the Outlaws. I’ve been at Ken’s bedside ever since the cops released me. They have no idea that I was the one that cracked Ken on the head. They figured it was one of the bikers and I didn’t have the courage to say otherwise. The biker I hit in the neck died from a gunshot wound to the gut. I didn’t tell the cops about my part in that either.
Flo has been here just about as much as I have been. She told me what happened after I hit that biker because I was totally out of it. I admire Ken for keeping his head in such a stressful situation. There are flowers all around his hospital room from the other people he helped get out of the diner. I guess we all owe him a debt of gratitude.
Now the night nurse comes in to let me know visiting hours are over. I walk out of Ken’s room and down the hallway to the elevator. The door opens and there is Flo.
“I thought I would meet you in Ken’s room, but I was running a bit late. How is he doing?”
“The same.” I still have a hard time looking her in the eye. She has been so supportive of me since the incident. She never asks questions, but I think she knows what happened. After one of the times of talking to Ken she came into the room and gently laid a hand on my shoulder. When I looked up she had tears in her eyes. I’m sure she heard something, how much I don’t know, but something.
Ever since that day Flo as been “there” for me. As much of a comfort as she is, her attention just compounds my guilt. Not only did I put my buddy in the hospital, but I think something is starting between us. It just doesn’t seem right to be falling for someone while a friend is in a coma because of my actions.
I get up the next morning and go through my rituals before going to the hospital. As one of my Navy buddies used to say I “shit, shower, and shave”. When I step off the elevator and start down the hall there are a bunch of people going in and out of Ken’s room. Worried, I pick up my pace to see what is going on. As I get to the door, the day nurse, who usually checks on Ken, stops me with a grin on her face.
“He’s awake! He came to around 4am and the doctors have been checking him out to make sure everything is ok. They will be in there for a little while longer. If you go to the waiting room at the other end of the hall, I’ll come get you when they are done.”
I nod dumbly. I’m stunned. He’s awake and he probably has a lot of questions. I shuffle down the hallway to the small waiting room. There is a payphone in the room and I give Flo a call at the diner.
“He’s awake.”
“That is so great Steve! Have you seen him yet? Is he doing good?”
“I don’t know, the doctors are checking him over.”
“I’m leaving here now and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Flo…I’m scared. I don’t…”
“I know Steve. I’ll be there in a little bit. It will be ok.”
“Flo…thanks for everything. I…”
“I know Steve. I’ll be there in a few.”
I have no idea how much he will remember. The doctors said he could suffer some memory loss. They said the blow wasn’t too hard, but hard enough to cause the problems.
I don’t know how long I sit there staring at my hands when Flo shows up. She doesn’t say anything. She just sits down next to me, puts her slender hand in mine and gives me a sad smile. We sit there like that, her hand in mine, neither of us talking or looking at each other.
“Mr. Collins?” I look up to see one of the doctors that have been watching after Ken, I think his name is Dr. Alban, a tall slender black man. I look up.
“Mr. Collins, we have been trying to get in touch with Mrs. Witt about her husband’s status. Do you have any suggestions?”
“I only have her home number. Is she not answering?”
“No. I guess because we have no other family to converse with, I will need to talk to you.”
A huge lump clogs my throat. This is not sounding good. The scene of my arm shooting forward and connecting with Ken’s head flashes in my mind. I can only manage a nod.
“The good news is Mr. Witt has come out of his comma. He has retained all of his functions and doesn’t seem to be severely impaired by the blow he suffered. The bad news is that he has some short and long term memory problems. Because we have no history before he came under our care, we are unable to assess the extent of long term memory loss. We are asking you to talk with him for a while and see if you can get a feel of the damage.”
“Ok. I’ll see what I can find out.”
I get up and start walking down the hall. It feels like I’m walking on unsteady legs like when I’ve been zooming around on roller blades for a few hours and I have to walk in normal shoes. Flo is there on my right, holding my hand firmly.
I stick my head in the door and there Ken is staring blankly at the ceiling. I stand at the door for a few moments.
Ken slowly rolls his head in our direction, blinks a few times, and then a weak smile cracks his lips.
“Hey buddy. How are you feeling?”
“Has ….. cough….. Molly been by? Is she here?” He coughs some more. I look for some liquid to give him to drink. There is a pitcher of water next to his bed and I pour him a glass. He takes a few sips, thanks me, and waits for my answer.
“Yeah she was her a few weeks back. She didn’t stay long and she left your guy’s home number for contacting her if your status changes. Dr. Alban said they can’t get a hold of her.” An undecernable look drifts over his face. He turns his head towards the window and is silent for a long time. I let him have his peace to think.
I wait for what seems an eternity and as I sit down he asks, “The doctors say I’ve been out for almost a month. They also say I’m going to have some memory problems for a little while.”
I open my mouth to ask him some questions because I know the doctors are waiting to find out how much of his memory he has lost. I sit there like a mounted bass.
“Have you heard from Molly? Is she here?”
“No Ken, she isn’t here. Like I said the doctors can’t get a hold of her.”
“Oh.”
“The doctors said that you would have some short term memory loss.”
“Yeah, I think I remember they said something like that.”
“Do you remember what all happened at the diner?” My throat goes dry and the word “diner” sounds half croak, half word.
“I remember the bikers fighting. What about that guy you hit. Did that kill him?”
“No, he was shot in the gut and bled out. At least that’s what one of the cops said.” He nods his head again.
“So did anyone of the people behind the counter get hurt?”
“No, they all made it out the back. It wasn’t too long after that the some ATF task force showed up and took all the bikers into custody. I guess they had been waiting for some kind of confrontation, but weren’t ready for it to happen so quickly.” He nods his head and looks at the ceiling again. Flo squeezes my shoulder and smiles at me when I look up.
“What are they going to do about you hitting me?”
I pause as fear and shame permeate my body immobilizing me. “They think it was one of the bikers.”
He turns to look at me again. “You didn’t tell them otherwise?”
My mouth goes dry, what do I say? How do I explain? I’ve never felt so much like a coward as I did at that moment.
“Why should he?” Flow bursts out. “He saved Ashley’s life by hitting that evil man. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He thought the guy he hit was coming back for him. It wasn’t intentional that you got hurt.” I look up at Flo. She has a look I’ve only seen in movie heroines. Her feet are planted shoulder width apart with her fists on her hips. She must have heard all of my explanation to my unconscious friend.
“Flo? You heard …...?” I stammer.
She ignores me and continues, “I saw what happened, Ken. Steve was clearly not in his right mind when he hit you. You can’t blame him for what happened.”
Dead silence follows her outburst. I can’t breathe as I look at the floor in shame.
“I don’t blame Steve. I was only asking because I don’t want him getting in any trouble for what went on. You are right, he probably did save that girl’s life and I’m proud of him for that. He has been full of piss and vinegar since his wife left him and that was the first truly admirable thing he has done in a long time.”
I look over at Ken awestruck. I had no idea that I had been coming across like that. I never put two and two together, that all that anger that I’ve had bottled up was coming out. No wonder I got fired. I can now see why Ken was so keen on getting me out of that city and on my bike. He was being a good friend.
The silence that follows is deafening. I have no idea what to say so I don’t say anything. I’m stunned. I want to explain myself. I want to make things right between us. I try again to say something, anything to ease the tension. Now I know what they mean by a “pregnant silence”.
Ken turns away and whispers, “I’m tired. We’ll have to talk more later. Thanks for visiting Flo. Bye Steve.”
I nod my head, get up, grab Flo’s hand, and walk out of his room.
********************
It’s been two weeks since I’ve regained consciousness and Dr. Alban has finally given me my release from the hospital. I have a few meds to help with the pain and to keep clots from forming in my brain. I am walking under my own power, though slower and more careful than before. I feel like I was a tackling dummy for a pro-football team for a day.
I guess now I have to find a way to get home and deal with Molly. A few days after I came out of my coma the hospital was finally able to get a hold of her lawyer. Evidently she filed for divorce and didn’t want any contact with me. It seems she had a private detective following me for the past few months and has quite the run down on my infidelity. I can’t say I’m surprised, she was always a mistrustful and bitter woman, well that was how rationalized my actions anyway. I think it’s for the best. This bonk on the old helmet rack must have knocked some sense into me.
Steve came back to visit a few times, but neither of us had much to say to each other. There is this weird tension between us now. A week, or so, ago Flo stopped by and we chatted for a while. She told me how Ashley and the regulars were thankful for my clear thinking in the crisis. Her boss extended an all I can eat free pass for the rest of my time in town for my bravery. Funny I don’t feel brave. I don’t even feel like I was clear headed. I just reacted to save my own ass and took everyone else along with me.
She also told me of Steve’s talks he had with me when I was out. The little guy feels so bad about what happened. I can’t say that I blame him, but the look in his eye when I touched his arm will haunt me for quite a while. There was a look of fear for certain, but behind it there was something else, something darker. I wouldn’t have noticed it except for the up turned corner of his mouth that didn’t fit with the fear. It was sinister, almost evil. It was like he enjoyed inflicting pain on the biker and he was going to enjoy hurting me as well. From what I gathered from Flo and the nurses who witnessed his expulsions of grief, Steve has no idea of the undercurrent of hate and perverse power that was flowing underneath the feeling of fear and disgust with what he did. Because of that I’m not sure I’ll be able to be totally ok with him. We’ll have to see.
Now it’s time for me to clean up my old life and figure out what I’m going to do with my new one.