Spokes

The sound was undeniable. It was the roar of a twin-cam Harley-Davidson ripping down the wet asphalt of Union Street, the powerful vibrations slapping against the clapboard row homes of Charlie’s neighborhood. It moved through him like the Holy Spirit, the acoustics reverberating all the way up his body, from his muddy chuck tailors to the tips of his crew cut. 

Charlie wasn’t raised in the church, but this feeling was religious. 

Not that he hadn’t thought of “the man upstairs” before. In fact, it was almost all he could think of lately.

He wasn’t sure what his first memory was, it could have been, probably was, his mother, but maybe it was his dad. I mean it should be a fifty-fifty shot right? 

But it wasn’t and Charlie knew it.

His dad had tried, he knew that. But the truth was his memories with the man were far and few between, and were definitely less than fond. 

There had been a few Rockwell esque’ moments. Pop throwing the baseball with him for a few minutes that one afternoon. The Christmas where he stayed sober till after the presents were opened, though not much of a feat considering how little waited under the tree. And who could forget the birds and the bees talk where his father had handed him a skin mag and told him to figure it out?

Dad had his demons but so did everyone. He had spent two years in a foreign land with a gun in his hands, and that made him a hero… and a terror. Mom said it wasn’t his fault, it was Nixon’s. There had been a time when the two of them went on dates and danced to rock music. 

Now, Charlie wasn’t sure if there would ever be music in the house again. Not that he had really seen their record player do much more than collect dust. 

“This is just the way things go sometimes.” 

This was what their neighbor Don had said to him as Mom was busy talking to the police. 

He had heard a number of similar platitudes in the last week. 

Things like “Sorry for your loss.” (a lie). 

“He was a good man” (a bigger lie).

“I’m going to miss him” (The biggest lie).

The priest had told him his father was in a better place. Charlie was only thirteen and so hadn’t done a ton of research on the subject, but this seemed highly doubtful. You didn’t need to be a theologian to surmise the chances of a man who regularly left his wife with black eyes and his son with welts probably wasn’t getting St. Peter to roll out the red carpet. 

Despite all that, he hoped he was somewhere nice. He certainly hadn’t been a fan of it here on Earth. His note and the mess left behind made that very clear. 

The casket had been closed, which made sense. Still, Charlie was curious about what he looked like in there. They had dropped off Dad’s best (and only) suit at the funeral home earlier in the week, but he didn’t know what for. How do you dress someone that’s blown their head off with a shotgun? How Dad had even managed to fit it under his chin and still reach the trigger was beyond Charlie, but this seemed an even bigger feat. He must look like the headless horseman in there. 

He remembered Mom had taken him to see a matinee of Ichabod Crane once while Dad slept off a bender, proving his drinking wasn’t all bad. 

The funeral director had tried to have Mom book the big room for the service but she made it clear that wasn’t necessary, and she wasn’t wrong. While his father hadn’t been popular, Charlie had thought people would at least show up for his mother and himself. Other than a few obligatory relatives and a couple of curious neighbors, the place was empty. 

Charlie couldn’t help but think maybe Dad’s assessment of his situation wasn’t far off. He checked out early but did anyone even really care? Suicide is supposed to be a selfish act, but so far as he could see, no one would be holding it against him. 

It was at this moment he made a promise to himself. When his time was up, whoever it was that was dropping off his best suit, that person would demand the big room. They were going to need it. The house would be packed. 

As mom whispered her last goodbyes to the cheap pine box that his father would never leave, Charlie picked up one of the many prayer cards that had been left unwanted. It was like a baseball card for dead people. 

That’s when he had the idea. 

It was exactly like a baseball card. For whatever reason, probably some deep and unwarranted guilt, Mom had sprung for the premium paper stock. It was perfect. 

He waited till his mother had her fill of box wine and wake cold cuts and went to take a nap. He grabbed the scotch tape and his beat-up old Schwinn. Its red paint was fading and the fenders were ready to fall off, but as Charlie placed the prayer card in the spokes, adjusting it just right, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He pushed down the pedals and the beast came to life. The click-clacking of spoke and paper became the bellows of flame and chrome and Detroit thunder. 

As he rounded the end of the driveway and pulled onto the open road, the world laid out before him, he saw it all. All the good, all the bad, the horrible certainty of his past, the infinite possibilities of his future. He was not his father, only his son. As he drank the cold and wet of the autumn air deep into his lungs, he knew this to be true. Things would be different for him.