The Motorcyclist

 

 

My wife wrote some damn thing called Down the Stairs. I read a few preposterous pages. And yes, the publisher, another woman of course, managed to get it in several bookstores. But these days female writers could write The Maid Who Stole the Cat and it would make it on the best seller list.

 

The sadist part, it’s not the women. Middle aged men haven’t lifted a book since high school and only then one of those paperback ‘read it quick scams’ that can explain Crime and Punishment before you finish your beer.

 

 But, do I get my novel punished? Let’s not get into that or the reasons, nonsensical reasons.

And as I sit at my desk taping on the key board, a damn motorcycle jerk kills my concentration with a blast, thinking everyone loves clouds of nasty, loud, stupid so-called music. 

 

If I could get away with shooting his tires, you can bet that his damn life would end. But then a sweet note of success scurried through my mind.  

 

The next time, I’ll put a big heavy board in the street in front of my house. Let him choke on that.

 

I walked out my front door and yelled quite politely for him to quit the noise!  His response was a middle finger wave.

 

When I came back inside, my wife asked me, not so politely, to do something to stop the noise.

 

“Sure, I tell his wife on him.”

 

She threw up her hands and went back in her cubby and slammed the door.

 

Next day, Mr. Motorcycle waited until night fall. How clever! What a jolly fellow.  At least I wasn’t writing, and the noise was a relief from sitting at our dinner table suffering through my wife’s cooking. I raced out the front door, but he didn’t see me when he came roaring back.  I’d forgotten to turn on the porch light.

 

My neighbors were still gone on some trip. Who knows where. Probably it was somewhere to watch a cows’ annual milking festival. Joanne and her husband, Fred probably thought the cows were relatives. Joanne was their size, and Fred’s voice sounded like he was mooing. Maybe he had to moo to get his wife’s attention.

 

The next night, same motorcycle. My wife offered me her shotgun. I’m not allowed to have one after what happed to the couch. She was sitting there. Her hearing will ever be right.

 

I stood on the porch, with the light on, the shotgun braced against my chest. He roared by, then turned and came back again. Good thing I didn’t have any shells. I should have run to the road and let the stock rearrange his teeth.

 

Why do Motor-jerks have to be jerks?  They’re already stupid. That should be enough to stop them from voting.

 

Nothing happened for the next night or the next. Are we in luck? Had the man on the motorcycle dueled with a train?

 

Finally, once again; he must have recovered from the train tracks.  He raced by, making angles shout from the heaven. I looked out the window as he blazed by, giving me the middle finger salute. I thought he was on a one shot try, but he came back.

 

He skidded and flew over the handlebar! I ran to the front door. He was still in the street. Not moving.

 

Fred was standing over him with the motorcycle looking a little strange, with a rather large log beside it.

 

Damn! I didn’t know Fred had the guts! 

 

Didn’t know they were home!

 

An ambulance showed up. Don’t know what happed to the bike.

 

Cops came by. Fred blamed it on some tree harvesting yesterday. Good call. Lots of various logs were all over, but only one in the middle of the street. Hooray!

 

I shook hands with Fred twice and invited him and his wife to supper the next day.

 

My wife did the cooking. I didn’t really didn’t want them coming back.