Things That Last

Jack rolled the garage door shut and locked it with the keys chained to his hip. Trudys thudding engine was coughing like an asthmatic needing her morning fag. He looked at her in mock sympathy while reaching for a leather tobacco pouch. He knew from long experience that this was how some shovels were, slow to fire up in the morning, a bit like him. And he was in no hurry. Time had become just one more of life's promises broken and fallen flat into the ashtray of his mind. He rolled up a morning smoke, his own personnel blend. Old port rum pipe tobacco and a few herbs from his garden, catnip, licorice and dandelion. And a few that the small minded rabble that ran the world might not look so kindly on. "But fuck em" he mumbled chasing the long smoke into his mouth with a match, " I paid me dues and I'm still fucking owed, they can have the rest when I'm ready." He drew back and turned to watch the world in front of him. Across the road the bank was wet with dew and frost. It twinkled in the first grey probings of dawn. In the wispy adolescent birch tree a banded wood pidgion looked briefly up from its puffed donna warm wing, blinked in mortification and outrage at the old shovels silence ripping barrage. Over head a pair of ducks flashed past, calling out to each other as they shot towards the oncoming day.

Jack smiled, like them, he knew that this was the best traveling time. Before the roads became congested and filled with truck fumes. Before the idiot wage slaves realized they were late for work, even the ones who wouldn't realize till they were halfway to work that it was Saturday. Those ones worried him most of all. But he was in no hurry, happy to look one last time over the unkept botanical writing that was his front yard. There tucked under a shrub was Heubert the garden gnome, brightly painted and on the job. His wife had bought it for him, god knows why. But then it was her way of doing little things like that that had kept him on his toes and happy. Life's too fucking serious most of the time anyway. She even laughed when she found he and Dave had painted the little buggers eyes and Dave had glued a bong to its hand. They had all stuck poor old Heubert down there and told him solemnly "keep watch!" Spose he had too, the years here had been long and good. This was what they had worked for all those years ago. His wife had always toyed with him asking, "isn't it about time Huebert got a raise?"

It had become a standing joke. "I don't piss on him like the dog does, that's payment enough" Back when he had a dog. Now the neighbor hood dogs came by to piss on Huebert. Life's like and Jack felt sure Dave would have seen the humor in it.

Dave was gone now of course, heart attack at last, just as he said, "I'm always giving it away so I spose it'll break first." He had been the best mate Jack had for over forty years. They had been out so often that Dave couldn't help but see Dave's old pan around without looking for him from instinct. It was owned by some yuppie RUB now. Its haunts had changed from the rsl* and local pub to cafes and internet arcades.

Last Dave heard it was about to be torn up to be "restored" full of Taiwanese parts from a catalogue and not the sweated steel of an honest owner. All those custom parts would be stripped off, the apehangers, the long forks and high sissy bar. Those didn't conform and now adays everyone believed the factory knows best. A bloody shame that somehow brought home the loss all the more. Jack had helped on so many parts of that chop, hours spent with a mug in one hand, inspiration in the other and then preceded to shape reality with oxy touch and welder. It had been the slow and gradual growth of a fully authentic 60s chopper, like the ones that had inspired them to slip from the folds of sedated authority and plug into a wave of freedom that was sweeping the country. And now it was going to be torn up and "restored."

Jack left the thought where it was and crushed the last of his smoke out under his old GP. He knew where it went too well and at the moment and it was a road he didn't want to travel.

Trudys engine had warmed slowly and was now thumping happily like a girl who is laughing at a private joke. He looked at her with a smile and came around to mount her with motion worn with time.

He pulled a pair of old goggles on and did up a leather vest. His hands found the bars that chugged gently in time with the engine like they were gently shaking hands. He liked those bars, apehangers they called em. Made the ride more exiting, and Trudy more friendly, like a women who had been bought a new dress or something. Other than that she was pretty stock, an s&s filter and shotgun pipes were the only changes. Jack liked to keep things simple and sweet. He swung her around and barked her out of the driveway. Almost enough to leave a small black mark in the way that used to wind up the neighbors so much when he first arrived. He had done it for years just to remind em he was still here.

He hit the highway going up gears without conscious thought. The wind picked up, not as fresh as it once had been, but still it felt good. As the wind eddies tugged at what was left of long shoulder length hair he realized that he had forgotten his lid. Shit his mind must be going. He had had to wear that thing for decades. It had tarnished the ride, something the safetycrats had dictated had to go along for the ride. And of course the police had taken it damn seriously. He remembered arguing with the dew faced cop many years ago, not able to stomach the same old lines.

It's the law Its for your own good Why should we pay for hospital cost when your hurt

The final had been too much, "why should you pay? Fuck you! Man me and my friends have paid heaps for you, we paid our taxes, we paid our dues when our country asked us, ask your damn father he might remember! We took a heap of freedom and we shared it around! You got most of it trapped in that damn book your holding."

The cop hadn't liked that at all. That wasn't how citizen A was supposed to respond to Rhetorical lecture 4 (from the code on how citizens may enjoy the roads they paid for in the vehicles they love!) the result was a ticket and constant harassment. In the end his wife had demanded he give it up. Too expensive in tickets you see. When a loaf of bread costs $50 + the bread then they have you holed up where to fight em you hurt your family. But he had no family anymore, and incidentally he had no bloody lid. He replaced it with a smile, the old "devil may care" attitude that came back soooo easy!

His mind drifted back over his memories, like a clerk clicking a filophax. Might still be a bit of room at the back for a few more. He was old but the breeze was fresh and the highway beckoned with the old lure of paths unknown. Two neon sports bikes flashed by him, their black helmeted pilots flicking their helmets at him as they shot past. Like many at first he had resented their bikes, short lived high revving tinny sounding things. But after a while it occurred to him. If the coppers were going to chase these kids at least gave em something to catch. It was the old youth verses the system all over again and though they were using their freedom in a different way at least they valued it.

He threw them a casual wave of support, knowing full well that they were probably too busy watching their dials and the sinuous python of bituchemen that their rockets turned into a treacherous taipan.

He mused on what that sort of speed was like, the frictionous controls and the heart in the mouth rush of it. But it hadn't been the same. At 200+ the wind ceased to be a friend and tears at your gloves, shades and body. The road ceased to relax you and zone you in and became aggressive. And the bikes felt like they were going to explode, not the gentle thumping that feels like shaking hands with a friend. So he kept old Trudy, with all her ways and moods. Because he had had the time to get to know her, and she wasn't so much a way to the ride as a part of it. And If there was one thing he was still learning, deeper and deeper over the years it was this.

You gotta love the things that last!