by Vivian Lux
I bent my head to my fruit cup, diligently stuffing my cheeks full of melons. I felt her eyes on me, but kept mine lowered. If I didn't look at her, then I didn't have to acknowledge what she wanted to say.
"Em..."
I swirled Splenda into my tea and took a sip.
"Em, come on."
I picked up my purse, pretending to root for my wallet.
"Em, for the love of God, would you look at me?" She caught my arm as I turned to look over into the square. "Em, I want to help you."
"Help me with what? I don't need help." I smiled brightly.
She ignored me and pressed on. "What he's doing to you is abuse, honey."
I sputtered into my tea but she held up a warning hand, her eyes snapping angrily at me. I was instantly cowed.
"Forcing you to quit school? Cutting you off from your friends? When was the last time you saw your parents?"
"I don't want to see my parents," I sulked.
She took a breath. "Well, your brother then. When was the last time you saw Andy?"
I felt a pain in my chest at my younger brother's name. Andy was still at home, without me around to protect him from my father's vicious temper and my mother's passive aggression. I had asked Robert repeatedly to let him visit during his school breaks. But Robert had always dissuaded me.
"Why would I willingly invite a thief into my home?"
I tried to explain that Andy was just mixed up in the wrong crowd, that he would be fine as long as I was with him, but Robert wouldn't hear it. The last time I had heard from Andy, he had asked me point blank when I was coming home. When I murmured something non-committal, he hung up on me. And I hadn't heard from him since.
That had been two months ago.
"Andy doesn't need me around. He's got his own thing," I protested lamely.
"Uh huh. After all those stories you told me about getting between him and your dad when they'd fight. He spent practically every weekend in our dorm room, trying to get away from them, Emmy." Sammie twisted her napkin to her mouth as her voice caught. "You're telling me he suddenly doesn't need the only decent family member he's got?"
The wash of guilt made me jump to my feet. "I have to go to the bathroom," I hissed and hurled down my napkin. I flew through the throng of people on their lunch breaks, people with jobs and lives and interests, and pushed my way blindly into the washroom. Grabbing the sink, I bent my face and splashed cool water around my eyes, rinsing away the hot, angry tears.
When I lifted my head, Sammie's reflection looked at me in the mirror.
"Emilia," she whispered, running her hand up my back. She never called me by my full name, no one did. Except Robert. Something about that fact made me listen.
"Honey, when you called I dropped everything. I hoped, I hoped so hard," she gulped and her eyes blazed with unshed tears, "that you would tell me you left him. He's hurting you, Emmy."
"Robert has never hurt me," I bristled.
"He doesn't have to hit you to leave a mark."
I wavered there. She opened her arms and folded me into a hug, but I couldn't relax.
Robert was right, she was crazy. She was jealous of me and she was trying to drive a wedge between me and the man I was going to marry. I pulled away so quickly she stumbled.
"Leave me alone!" I shrieked, panic rising in my throat. I had to get home, she was messing with my head. Robert might come home soon. He would tell me what to do. I reached into my purse and flung the wad of money at her. "Here, take it, it's what you're after anyway!"
She stepped back looking wounded. "What has he done to you?" she whispered.
But I barely heard her as I fled through the restaurant and back to the safety of my home. Back to my gorgeous boyfriend and my lucky life. A life no one understood but Robert.
I didn't need anyone but him.
Chapter 5
J.
"So this is our last meeting."
J. leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Yeah," he nodded. "You gonna miss me?"
His parole officer laughed. "Actually I am, Johnson. You getting off parole means now I'm probably going to be stuck with absconding asshole who'll make my life hell."
J. chuckled. "Wouldn't want you to have to work too hard now, boss."
"Please don't call me that anymore. You're done." Officer Sayers slid a handful of papers across his desk. "Now I don't actually need your signature here, but I like to ask for it anyway. Makes this seem like more of an occasion, you know?" His voice softened. "You did it. Congratulations."
J. took a deep breath. "Thank you," he replied. There wasn't really more he could say.
"Your job working out?"
J. grinned again. "Real well."
"You do love motorcycles, huh?"
"Yeah, I do."
"You got a safe place to stay?"
"Clubhouse, behind the shop."
Officer Sayers grimaced. "I trust you J. You're one of the good ones, I know it. But hanging out with bikers all day? Is that really a good decision?"
J. bristled and clenched his fists, then slowly exhaled as he counted to ten in his head. Anger management classes do come in handy sometimes, he thought to himself.
"We're brothers, boss. They look out for me. Teach got me the job and lets me stay there. He and MacDougal taught me wrenching. I don't know where I'd be if it weren't for them."
Officer Sayers pressed his lips together in a thin line. "I can't say I like it. But you've done your time well. Just keep your head down."
J. nodded. "I plan on it."
"Then that's it then." Officer Sayers stood up and looked him in the eye. "Good luck, J. Stop by and see me sometimes. It'd be nice to remember not everyone I deal with is a complete fuck-up."
J. stood up from the chair, unfolding himself to his full height and brushed his hands across his jeans. Looking down at his short, pudgy parole officer, he grinned then clasped the hand extended to him. "I'll do that. And thank you."
Officer Sayers nodded and straightened the papers on his desk. "You're free to go."
Free, the word clanged in J.'s mind like a bell. He felt ten pounds lighter as he stepped across the threshold of Sayers' dingy office and out into the warm spring air. It was perfect riding weather, and there was no better way J. could think of celebrating. Free free free.
J. swung his long leg over his custom Harley. It was the shiniest and cleanest thing on the entire block. He had been customizing for ages, adding parts as the money trickled in. It had been hard to scrape together while he was still paying his restitution to his victims, but now he was done. His money was his to do with as he pleased.
He kicked the bike to life and slowly made his way out of the narrow streets of North Philly The entrance to I-95 was clear, the early morning traffic snarl having cleared up a while ago. He roared onto the highway, heading north, away from the skyline, away from the congestion. J. wanted to ride on hills, he wanted to see trees and smell spring in the air.
Ride to live. Live to Ride. It was the unofficial motto of the Sons of Steel M.C. J. could see his brand new patch out of the corner of his eye as his cut fluttered in wind. Road Captain - it was a phrase that filled him with more pride than he had ever felt before. The position of Road Captain meant that he rode in the rear of the pack when the club went for long distance rides.
It was up to him to watch for signs of trouble.
When a brother fell out of the pack with mechanical problems, J. was right there with his toolbox, ready to fix things on the side of the road. Being Road Captain meant he kept the brotherhood of bikers together. Anytime they rode together, he was there blocking traffic in the passing lane until everyone in the pack could get over, anticipating lane changes and spotting problems before they happened. He watched out for them, and the brotherhood knew that he had their backs.
Prison had taught him how to keep an eye out for trouble. Six years of ducking both the COs and his fellow inmates had sharpened his senses to hyper awareness.
Six years of fear had reshaped him. He was tuned for fighting, like a radio that only broadcast one station.
J. gunned the bike faster, hoping the wind in his face would blow away the bad memories that threatened to overtake him. Faster and faster he wound in and out of traffic, but his pain was even faster. The anger hit him like a punch to the gut, forcing him to relive it all.
The low points where he wasn't sure if he'd make it out alive.
The courtroom, the anxiety, his sister's anxious face. Waking up in a steel bunk every morning. The depression that threatened to swallow him whole. Red rage that made him ball his fists and blinded his sight.
Motorcycles saved his life.
It was a complete fluke that led him to sign up for the motorcycle repair course. J. had never had much use for school. He and his best friend Randall had skipped more days of school than they had attended, but the chaos of Strawberry Mansion High School meant that he was passed from grade to grade regardless. But once he was behind bars, his boredom led to curiosity, which led him right into the vocational classroom of Teach Jones, philosopher-mechanic.
J. had never met a man like Teach. He had been working as a votech instructor at the correctional facility in Perkiomen for nearly twenty years and he had seen it all. Nothing flustered him. Nothing set him off. Instead, the older man radiated calm authority. He commanded respect as his due.
One day in class, one of the inmates, a squirrelly little wannabe skinhead, gave Teach shit. He stood up at his worktable, screaming out slurs and complaining that Teach's long gray dreads stank too badly for him to stay in the room. J. watched, waiting for Teach to respond with anger when the little punk called him the worst names there were. In fact, J. was ready to beat the punk down himself, right there in front of everyone.
But instead, Teach had folded a socket wrench into his huge hand and crossed his arms. He waited impassively for the loudmouth white kid to shut his face. The silence lasted so long, J. started to squirm uncomfortably. He had never seen a man so still, so immovable. The punk kid slowly trailed off in the face of his calm and meekly sat back down. Teach stood in the prison classroom as if he was planted there and nothing could move him from that spot.
J. was fascinated.
As his sentence dragged on, he learned everything he could from Teach. Mostly about motorcycle repair, but also about religions and history and Teach's favorite subject, philosophy. J. went to the prison library and picked up the teachings of the Roman philosopher Seneca, Teach's personal hero. He spent many nights in his cell, laboriously picking through the dense words.
"The point is not how long you live, but how nobly you live." He memorized the word and took them to heart. The teachings of the Stoic philosopher calmed the red rage in his mind almost as much as the intricate work of dismantling a 1200cc, 74 cubic inch, horizontally opposed V-Twin engine and rebuilding it from scratch.
J. slowed his bike, hugging the curve of the off ramp. The road along the Delaware River wound among the rolling, grassy lawns of mansions as he made his way up to the bridge at Lawrenceville. Riding led him further out of Philadelphia than he ever would be without it. Riding cleared his head and soothed the riot of anger that sometimes threatened to consume him. Riding let him see the country. Riding had given his life purpose. He had a job now, a place to live and brothers who would die for him if asked. Ride to live, Live to Ride.
The sun peeked out from behind a cloud, warming the black leather of his jacket. The wind was in his face, the roar of the engine filled his ears. He could do whatever he wanted, he was free. For the first time since that stupid fuck-up six year ago, he was his own man. "Keep your head down," Officer Sayers had warned him, and he intended to listen to that advice. No more prison, no more screw-ups, no more red rage getting the best of him. No getting mixed up in other peoples' drama,
And no more fighting. That was going to be the hardest part.
Chapter 6
J.
It was late in the morning when J. got back from his ride. Crash and MacDougal were still dead asleep in the clubhouse in back of the shop, sleeping off lethal hangovers no doubt. J. wasn't surprised to see Teach already behind the shop's counter, leafing through parts catalogs he still insisted on ordering from, no matter how many times J. reminded him of the existence of the Internet.
When Teach heard J.'s key in the lock he looked up quizzically and punched the volume down on the news show blaring out of his old boombox. Since retiring after twenty-five years at the prison, he had nothing to do but putter around his shop full-time. Despite that, it still looked like it was 1992 in there.
Teach raised his bushy eyebrows, but said nothing.
J. nodded in reply to the unasked question. "Yep. I'm done."
Teach's mouth twitched.
"Don't tell me I made you smile, old man," J. growled in mock anger.
"Don't get full of yourself, you little shit," Teach growled back. But he was stepping out from behind the counter, his arm already extended. J. grasped the proffered hand firmly, and looked into the older man's watery, but still sharp eyes and saw the pride there. "Congratulations, kid, you did good. Now keep your head down."
J. nodded. "Plan on it."
"You gonna work today?"
"Yeah I gotta deliver that job tomorrow."
Teach chuckled and shook his head, his long gray dreads swinging across his chest. "Weekend warriors. Gotta love them."
J. grinned. "Long as they pay me."
Teach nodded and wandered back to his catalogs. J. dropped his riding leathers into a heap behind the counter and stepped through the back doorway and into the garage.
The bike he was building for the doctor in Rittenhouse was nearly complete. The weekend warrior had wanted all the bells and whistles J. offered him. J. wondered if he really was interested or if he was just intimidated by the color of his skin.
J. had seen it a billion times. Teach's shop was famous throughout the Philly biker world as the best place to go to get custom work done. Rich suburbanites ventured nervously into the no-man's land under the Frankford El, and then were startled when they met an old black biker behind the counter. They were doubly startled when the head mechanic was a tall, broad-shouldered, bare-chested young black man in a patch covered cut.
"Hey asshole, what're you doing trying to sneak off to work like that?"
J. grinned at the voice booming over his shoulder. "Some of us actually work for a living, you lazy piece of shit."
"Ha!" J. grunted when the impact of Case's bear hug nearly knocked him to the floor. Before he could react, his best friend had his arms pinned at his sides.
"Put me down you Viking-looking motherfucker!" J. yelled, kicking his feet as Case lifted him off the ground.
"Or what, you think you could take me?"
"You snuck up on me."
Case dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor of the shop and struck a fighting stance. His pale cheeks were flushed under his blond beard. He quickly tied back his dirty blond ponytail and raised his fists. "Go ahead, I'll even let you have first hit."
J. balled his fists threateningly, then burst out laughing. Case yanked him into another bear hug and clapped him on the back with his huge hands so hard J. started to cough. "You're done right? Free man as of today?"
J. coughed again, trying to catch his breath. "Yup, I'm done. Official parole documents filed with the county and all that shit."
"You're done?" Crash's sleepy voice floated out into the shop from the bunk area. "For real?"
"Way to pay attention, asshole," Case grumbled.
"I pay attention. I just forgot!" Crash whined. "You know I can't remember shit, asshole."
They heard the creak of springs as Crash heaved himself painfully out of his bunk. He appeared in the doorway rubbing his stubbled head blearily and squinting his pale blue eyes at the sunlit glare of the shop. "We gotta celebrate!"
"You look like you did enough celebrating last night," Teach rumbled, taking in Crash's
pale, puffy face and squinting eyes.
"Just because you forgot how to have a good time, old man."
"Don't look like you're having such a good time now," Teach shot back. He rifled through the drawer under the counter and came out with a flashlight, which he promptly shone in Crash's eyes.
"Ow, fuck!" J. and Case laughed as Crash flailed his arms trying to escape the beam of light.
"That idiot does have a point." Case poked J. in the ribs. "We need to celebrate. How long has it been since you had a drink anyway?"
J. gulped and thought for a second. Imprisoned at eighteen, six years behind the walls, and then a year of parole. "I've never had one legally."
Case whistled softly. "Yeah, that needs to change."
Crash managed to dunk behind a wall of accessories, hiding from Teach's persistent flashlight.
"Ya wanna go down to the Dog?" he called from his hiding place.
The Black Dog Saloon was their normal hangout, a place to grab cheap whiskey, cheaper women and the cheapest beer.
"Nah that place is a shithole. This is an occasion," Case scoffed. J. looked at his tall, blond friend and ducked when he saw the pride in his blue eyes. "We're going somewhere posh tonight."
Case flung his beefy arm around J.'s shoulders. "Mister Jeremiah Johnson is now a fully rehabilitated member of society. He needs to be reintroduced properly." Case grinned. "Let's go tear up this town."
"Yeah!" Crash shouted from behind the accessories wall. He bounded out from his hiding place and instantly dropped to the ground when Teach shot him with the flashlight.
"Stop that shit! I yield!" he cried, covering his eyes with his hands.
"Go drink some water," Teach called, switching off the beam of light. Crash jumped up from the floor and bounced back into the clubhouse, banging his bum leg against MacDougal's bunk on the way to the bathroom. The old man swore in his sleep and immediately started snoring again.
"To be young again," Teach proclaimed, listening to the cacophony of bangs and crashes coming from the bathroom. "Drowning in pussy and bourbon."
