Inked By My Best Friend's Dad

I’ve got bikes older than that, and they’re way easier to maintain.

Nine hundred ninety-eight…

Easier to keep looking like the day they were made.

The thing is, I don’t feel forty-two.

Inside, I still feel like I’m nineteen.

Nine hundred ninety-nine…

Like those were good years.

Not.

I can’t change the past, but damn if it still doesn’t haunt me after all these years.

One thousand…

I finish my burpee set, ignoring the chiseled, half-naked bulk of man staring back at me from the mirrored wall in my garage once I spring to my feet.

It’s pure routine now.

I tried kicking the exercise habit while Tasha was away. I told myself I should slow down some.

Worst three days of my life.

Having Tasha home again from college is the best, but her being gone the best part of a year and now old enough to drive, move out…

Old enough to have a boyfriend. It’s like I don’t know half of what she’s really up to anymore.

I wince at the thought, and decide a few sets on the punching bag might be a good warm-down.

“Brad’s a nice guy,” she said.

Well, I met Brad, and I can spot a shit stain from a hundred feet let alone on my own god damned couch.

The fucking thought of that kid… his hands…on my daughter…

I right hook the hundred-pound bag clean off its hook, clattering loudly when it hits the floor, a pile of splintered lumber and plaster coming down with it. The sweat from my body, dripping all over it.

I puff out my cheeks and exhale, slowly.

Taking more than my fair share of deep breaths until I feel calm again.

I don’t begrudge Tasha her romance, her happiness.

But Brad?

Jesus Christ bananas. She could’ve picked way better than him.

She could’ve picked way worse too, Slade.

I growl in aggravation, debating whether to clean up the mess or clean myself up.

The sound of bikes thundering into the yard answers my question.

Neither.

I glance at the grease-stained clock on the wall and then at my watch.

The past doesn’t always just catch up with you… Sometimes your daughter has the crazy idea to invite it over for a birthday party.

Speaking of Tasha… Where is she? This was her idea after all.

I make a quick call to see where she’s at.

She’s either totally forgotten, or her absent-mindedness is all part of her surprise on my birthday.

Or, she’s on her way over. Bringing a friend of her own too by the sound of it.

As long as it’s not that shit stain Brad.

It’s not a complete surprise to hear and then see most of the members of the motorcycle club I used to ride with pulling into the yard.

Tasha did mention something about a ‘few old friends’ popping by, but I didn’t really expect so many.

I didn’t really want so many guests today either.

Something about getting another year older and still being alone eats away at me some days.

Today’s one of those days.

Making my way into the yard I grip my gym towel hard in one hand, feeling a little annoyed still but can’t help smiling despite everything.

Something about the deafening rumble of so many bikes mixed with gas, grease, and the smell of a dozen grown men mixed with this time of year.

Some of them have ridden for days just to drop by, and like me, most could use a shower.

I don’t need to count ‘em to know there’s the full club riding today.

Minus only two, of course.

Me and Switch.

I got out years ago when Tasha was still a baby.

Switch and me?

Well, I don’t like to talk about it that much.

Especially on a day like today. Within half a minute, once some of the old bastards are off their bikes, bear hugging me and reaching up to ruffle my hair, I forget about my somber mood.

Forget about showers.

Almost forget why I stopped riding with these guys in the first place.

But they’re here today as friends, brothers.

We know each other well enough to leave the past at the door, and I’m relieved to see they’ve all brought their own entertainment too.

I quit drinking when I quit the club.

Not a hard thing to do either when you’re in prison.

“You still a teetotal, Slade?” Brick, the president of the MC sneers playfully, offering me one of his ‘lite’ beers, which I decline with a smile.

Avoiding the blast of billowing ‘smoke’ from his vaporizer as I step aside, letting him into the house first out of respect.

“Still a big boy,” I humor him, not even bothering to grill him or anyone else on the shift from hard liquor to lite beer and vapes.

Getting older changes a man.

We’re not all as reckless and immortal as we used to feel.

Some things never change though, and the whole gang greets me one by one as they come inside, fist bumping or bear hugging me.

It should be touching, but I really have moved on from this lifestyle. Hell, some of these guys are married with kids now. Still squeezing into their leathers and riding.