I don’t know what brought me this far north, it’s fuckin’ cold in this god forsaken tundra. I remember seeing a travel brochure with a picture of the fall leaves in Duluth and decided, why the fuck not, looks nice enough. They don’t fucking put the icicles longer than your arm on the post cards. I turned my bike north and rolled into town as fall was losing it’s fight with winter. I ended up drunk in some dive bar called Willies with an anthropomorphic penis as the mascot. I had been nursing a Heineken and wondering what the fuck I was going to do if I got snowed in with my bike when the bartender slid a glass of bourbon in front of me. I looked up at him in question and he raised a glass and inclined his head toward me.
“Like the bike.”
I grabbed the glass and took a drink. Mmmm, Knob Creek, fancy stuff for a shithole like this. Good man. “What makes ya think it’s mine?”
“There’re only two men who’d ride a bike like that ‘round here, and I know both of em, so it’s gotta be you laddie,” I laugh and toast my glass to the man.
I ended up closing down the bar that night. Gage, the bartender, kept feeding me free drinks and by the end of the night I didn’t know my own name. He called me a cab and set me up at some no-tell motel, saying I could pick my bike up tomorrow from his boss’s place. My sorry ass was too drunk to put up much of a fight, so I went along with the plan.
I showed up at the gates of the compound just before noon the next day. When Gage came out, he said there was a party and I should come meet the Brothers. Last night had just worn off so I saw no problem in starting another round of fun, so I stayed.
I met King, the President of the Forsaken Sons, that night along with the rest of the Brothers; they rekindled something within me that I thought was lost forever. Being back in the compound and around the Brothers, I realized just how much I had lost while out on the road. I missed having Brothers to bullshit with instead of “single serving” strangers at a bar. The connection, the shared sense of community; I missed having a family, especially after New Jersey.
I showed up for a party and lo-and-behold, I ended up joining that damn Club. I lived through my year as a prospect and got my patch. Now here I am eighteen months in, considering putting a bullet in one of my Brothers’ heads if he doesn’t shut the fuck up… I guess I’m really part of the family now.
Speaking of the fucking devil, Gage’s chipper ass plops down on the barstool next to me as I pour another drink for myself and I can feel his goddamn fucking smile burning into the side of my face. No way in hell am I giving the bastard the satisfaction of engaging in this bullshit or sharing my bottle. He got me out of the room, I’ve paid my dues to him this fine day. All I want is to be alone and wallow in my own misery goddamnit.
“Dammit man, I was looking forward to drowning yer arse. Didn’t think ye would get yer shit together today,” he says, his thick Irish brogue grating on my hungover and frayed nerves as he reaches for my bottle.
“Fuck off” I snarl, slapping his hairy paw away.
“I know, today’s shit Brother- talk to me,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Not looking for a therapy session either,” I mumble into my glass, brushing him away again.
“Fine. Pass me the bottle then, and I’ll get tits up drunk with ya. Not gonna let ye drink alone ye bastard,” he reaches for the bottle of bourbon again and I snatch it away, curling around it and giving him my back.
“Jaysus Sawyer. It’s not a fuckin’ babe’s bottle,” he laughs, smacking me upside the head. I growl and slam the bottle back on the bar, righting myself on the stool.
“Fuck off ya leprechaun.”
“Get yer sorry arse up Sawyer. Not letting ye drown this shit in a bottle, no matter how magically delicious ya find it.”
“Not asking permission mom,” I grind out, throwing back another shot just to spite him.
“I get it laddie, but last year it took ye almost a fuckin’ month to get yer shit straight. We’ve got a run next week and I ain’t picking up yer slack.”
“Gee, thanks fucker.” I’ve had enough of his shit, Road Captain or not, I don’t need him questioning my ability to do my job on top of everything else. He doesn’t want to watch me drink myself into oblivion? Fine. He doesn’t have to watch. I push up from my seat and stalk toward the front door. Someone calls my name, but I don’t even bother to look and just flip the bird to the room pushing through the main doors and into the cold early April wind. It’s still before noon and there’s entirely too much day left for my liking. Patting my pockets, I find my keys and hop on my bike. Picking my way through the parking lot, I make my way through the gates of the compound and I open up the throttle. Speed out of our little town and down toward the city in search of a bar that won’t ask so many fuckin’ questions.
After riding for a while, I roll up to a shit hole dive bar on the north end of the city. It’s a dilapidated A frame hunting lodge that hasn’t been kept up in the last 20 years at least. The parking lot is more pothole than asphalt and the windows are so caked with grime or advertisements I can hardly make out the flickering ‘OPEN’ neon sign. It looks like there was once a sign by the door proclaiming the name of this quaint little shithole, but it’s long gone judging by the rusted mounts and broken masonry of the wall. If there is a place more broken and forgotten around here, I’ll be damned if I can find it; should suit me just fine. Dragging my ass inside, not a single head moves to note my passage to the cracked and busted wooden barstool at the end of the bar that creaks ominously as I settle into it. The crustiest, old sailor, salty dog barkeep looks up from his paper showing his unkempt gray hair and full on ZZTop beard. “Whatcha want?” he pushes out in a grunt.
“Bourbon, Double, Neat.”
“I got Jack. Close enough.” Man, I thought I was gonna like this guy.
“Yeah and a moped is a fuckin’ Harley. Whatever. Pour the drink, asshole.”
“My booze’ll get ya there, stop yer whinging,” he admonished as he pours the piss into a mostly clean glass.
I throw some bills on the bar, “Keep me wet ya prick,” he scoops up the cash and just nods, maybe HE isn’t so bad, just the shit ass booze.
I’m not sure how long I sit there; hard to keep track when the glass never really gets empty, but eventually I get up to take a piss and the room fishbowls around me. I can still stand, oh well, guess I can’t even get that right today. Standing means I can think, I can feel, I can remember; fuck that noise. Settling back into my seat I pick up my glass and shake it at ZZ the sailor, he grudgingly grabs a fresh bottle of swill; what the fuck is a Hawkeye and why is it on my booze? We have a thing now, I flip him off, he gives me swill, I swallow without tasting, he calls me an ass; it works for us.
We finish another round of our ritual and I’m staring down into my ice, wondering when the fuck the ice got in there, when some trailer park asshole with an honest-to-god greasy mullet walks up and starts yelling for ZZ Sailor to bring him and his buddies some Buds. Why the fucker had to come up right next to me, I don’t know. Why he felt the need to shout when ZZ Sailor was 8 feet away is lost to the ages. ZZ Sailor puts some bottles on the bar and Mullet yanks them away, hitting my glass and spilling my precious swill over my hand and onto the bar.