Pops



  Pops

  By

  David Donaghe

  Pops

  David Donaghe

  Copyright David Donaghe 2012

  One of the things about being dead is that you have a lot of time on your hands. Back in 1968, after the zombie plague broke out, I was working at old Bud Hodgkin’s service station when the undead filth came pouring out of the graveyard across the street and stumbled into the station. They smashed the front window, and poured into the mechanic’s bay and I had to fight my way to the back room to get my 357. In the process, one of the SOBs bit me. I managed to escape by busting out a back window and jumping down to the alleyway. I ran around to the front of the station, jumped on the old pan head and burned rubber.

  On the way out of town, I ran into Cynthia, a young high school girl that lived down the street and I gave her a ride. We headed out to the Road Dogs clubhouse, a bar outside of Harlem Springs Arizona called The High Noon Saloon, and I hooked up with my bros in the club. We figured to either hold out there at the clubhouse or head to Sonny’s Cabin. Sonny, our chapter president at the time had an old cabin about one hundred and fifty miles down the highway, that we used once and a while. The undead SOBs attacked the clubhouse, so we bailed out and headed to the cabin. After helping the bros get to safety, Old School and I, another one of the bros that had the misfortune to receive a zombie bite, decided to let the road take us and die like bikers. We hit an old oak tree at over one hundred miles per hour and that’s how I wound up here in Biker Heaven.

  When I first got here, I partied for what seemed like eternity. Up here in Biker Heaven, all the woman are loose as well as good looking, the booze flows free and the music never stops. The booze up here ain’t nothing like what you have down there on Earth. You can drink all you want, and you never get sick or get a hangover. You never tasted better Jack than we have up here. One time in church, I decided to join the Halo riders. The Halos are a division of the Road Dogs motorcycle club, but you have to be dead to sign up. When you wear the Halo patch, you get to go back once and a while to help the bros down on Earth when they need it. That gives me a chance to ride my spirit bike, so I signed up. You aint ever seen a bike like a spirit bike. Imagine your dream bike and multiply that by ten. You can ride all day, they never need gas and they don’t leak oil.

  The spirit bike can cruise down the highway on Earth, looking like your average Harley, or sore up into the heavens like a shooting star. When they’re in their glory, they radiate light and fire shoots out of their tail pipes like lightning. Another thing about the spirit bike is that they can travel through time.

  My pops ticker gave out back in 1965 while I was off fighting in Vietnam, and I heard that when he got to Biker Heaven he went hog-wild. Old Pops always did like to party. When I arrived in 1968, like I said before, I partied for what seemed like eternity, and I spent a good long while cruisin’ the streets of gold. I see my pops at church, but most of the time he’s off doing his own thing. I got to wondering what his life was like when he got back from World War Two, before I was born. I came along three years after the war ended and Pops and some of his bros started up the Road Dogs back in the fifties. I patched in back in 63 when I was fifteen and I was alive when they started the club, but I was a little shaver. I got to wonderin’ what my pops was like, back in the day when he was young, so I climbed on my spirit bike and took a ride through time.

  ***

  I touched down on a lonely desert highway sixty miles outside of Harlem Springs Arizona. The tires chirped and my spirit bike changed from a dazzling steed of chrome and light, to an older well used Harley Davidson motorcycle. A 1938 flat bed Ford pickup truck rattled by going the opposite direction, but the driver didn’t see me. This wasn’t my reality; I was just a spectator on this trip. I rolled on the throttle enjoying the feel of the wind in my face and motored on down the highway. Five miles outside of town, I passed the High Noon Saloon. The building looked newer than it did in my time. It wasn’t the Road Dogs clubhouse right now; that wouldn’t come about for a few more years. Speaking of years, I guess I had better clue you in on the time and place. I landed on September forth 1946, the year my pops came back from Germany.

  I glanced about as I rode through the outskirts of Harlem Springs. The town looked smaller and somewhat cleaner. When I passed Hodgkin’s station, I looked over. Old Bud himself was out on the island pumping gas for the customers. He sure looked a lot younger than he did the last time I saw him. I turned left on Honey Suckle Court and motored down to the old home place. Back in the forties my mom and pops owned a three bedroom house four doors down from the house that I bought several years later.

  Pulling up in front of the home place, I sat on the bike out by the curb taking in the neighborhood’s essence. A milk truck rumbled by and an old lady came out of the house across the street and began to water her lawn. She wore an old dirty white houses coat and had her hair up in curlers. She was oblivious to my presence. A young boy wearing bib overalls and a denim cap peddled an old bicycle down the street while he delivered his papers. A camp robber Jay sat in a tree overhead and chirped. A neighbor’s black and white mutt ran out to the street and started barking at the bird. The neighborhood was coming alive as people woke up and headed off to work. The smell of breakfast cooking came from several different houses. The wives were up and getting their husbands off to work.

  A yellow taxicab, a beat up 1934 ford, turned onto Honey Suckle Court and approached the home place. I watched it pull over to the curb and saw a young soldier climb out of the back.

  “God look how young he looks,” I said to myself, giving my father the onceover.

  He marched past me in that military strut that soldiers use even when their not marching, and when he passed by me I recognized that look in his eyes. In Vietnam, they called it the thousand-yard stare. Combat veterans get that look after they’ve been in action for a while.

  “I know Pops. I know you were deep in the shit. I been there man,” I said, but of course, he could neither hear nor see me.

  Before he made it to the front porch, the door burst open and a pretty, young looking blonde headed woman wearing a plaid skirt and a white top burst out the front door.

  “Johnny! Your home!” she screamed, jumped off the front porch, ran across the yard to meet him and leapt into his arms.

  “Mom? God I didn’t realize how hot you were when you were young,” I said, and a big grin crossed my face.

  After they finished kissing and what not, they strolled up the walkway, arm in arm, and went inside. I climbed off my spirit bike, crossed the front yard, passed through the front door and into the living room. Pops sat down on the couch and loosened the collar on his uniform.

  “Can I get you something to eat? Do you want a beer?” my mom asked.

  The young man who would be my father looked up and grinned. “A beer would be nice.”

  I watched the young woman who would be my mother hurry into the kitchen. She couldn’t seem to keep the smile off her face. She came back a few seconds later with two beers. She handed one to my father and snuggled up next to him on the couch.

  “Was it terrible, over there?” she asked.

  “You don’t even want to know, baby. I don’t want to talk about it. How are things with you?” my father asked.

  “Good, now that you’re home safe.”

  I watched them finish their beer and listened to their conversation. The next thing you know, they were making out on the couch. My father’s hand went to the front of her shirt and he began to unbutton it. I turned away. My mother stood up, took his hand and they headed upstairs. I stayed down in the living room; there’s some things I don’t need to see. I looked around at their m
odest furniture then crossed the room to the fireplace. The picture of the young couple picnicking by the lake made me smile.

  “God she was so pretty and he looks so young,” I said to myself. I looked around the living room taking in the furnishings and then headed into the kitchen. Reaching my hand through the refrigerator door, I grabbed a beer and pulled it through the door. Once my hand touched the bottle, it disappeared in that reality and entered mine. I popped the top on the beer and sat down at the kitchen table. A newspaper sat on the table as well, so I picked it up and started reading the news. It was mostly about the troops coming home along with the occupation force in Germany and Japan. I tried to ignore the sounds coming from the bedroom upstairs.

  About twenty minutes later, they came back down stairs. My pops had his arm around my mother and they both had shit eating grins on their faces. My mom started cooking dinner and my pop sat down next to me.

  “Read the newspaper if you want, while I cook dinner. There’s news about the boys coming home and about the occupation force,” my mother said.

  “Okay, dear. Where’s it at?”

  My mother looked over her shoulder from where she stood next to the kitchen stove. “Why it was right there on the table a minute ago. Maybe it fell on the floor.”

  I tossed the paper down and it appeared on the floor at my father’s feet in his place and time.

  “You’re right. Here it is, but I could have sworn it wasn’t down there when I sat down.”

  I watched my mother cook dinner and listened to their idle conversation, trying to learn what my pops was like when he was young. My mother cooked up some roast beef with gravy and mashed potatoes. Then she fixed up a garden salad. When the dinner was ready, she looked at the beer inside the refrigerator with a puzzled look on her face.

  “What’s the matter, dear?” my father asked.

  “I thought we had four beers left. There’s only three in here. We only drank two earlier, right?”

  “Yeah, I had one and so did you.”

  My mom shrugged. “Oh well, it doesn’t matter.” She took two beers out of the frig, handed one to my father and took one for herself. I chuckled under my breath and listened to their conversation while they ate dinner.

  Finished with dinner, my pops said, “Hey, would you like to head out to the High Noon and play some pool?”

  She waited for a few seconds before she spoke. “No Hun, why don’t you go alone? I just bought a new romance novel that I want to start. Some of your buddies will probably be down there and want to catch up on things. It’s been a few years since you’ve been able to sit at a bar and drink with your friends.”

  “Okay then. I’ll try to come home early.”

  “Don’t drink too much.”

  “I won’t babe,” my father said. He kissed my mother good-bye and then headed for the door. I followed him outside, he jumped into his old pickup truck and I climbed onto my spirit bike. Pops pulled out into the street, headed for the highway and I followed along behind him as we headed west toward The High Noon Saloon.

  ***

  Pops pulled into the gravel parking lot of the High Noon Saloon twenty minutes later. A few MAC trucks along with several old pickup trucks and a few older cars filled the parking lot. My pops climbed out of his old Dodge and swaggered across the parking lot. I sauntered along behind him. He oozed attitude and I could tell by the way he carried himself that he was as hard as nails and he wasn’t afraid of anything. Pops entered the room, and all eyes watched him make his way to the bar. Up on stage a country band began to play.

  A man couple of years older than my pops said, “Well if it ain’t John Brown back from the war. Welcome home. I’ll buy your first round.”

  My pops glanced over. “Thanks Ed. It’s good to be home.” A few more of the men from town came over to join them. They sat at the bar drinking and catching up on old times. A group of truckers sat down the bar. They were drunk and starting to get loud. Twenty minutes I heard the rumble of a motorcycle pulling up out front and a young man with short blond hair wearing a black leather jacket, jeans and black motorcycle boots entered the bar.

  When I looked up at the biker, I saw the same look in his eye that I saw in my father’s, the same look I saw in my own eye when I looked in a mirror after I came home from Vietnam: the look of a combat veteran. “My God, that’s Sonny. Look how young he looks,” I said to myself, but no one in the bar either heard or saw me.

  When the biker swaggered up to the bar and ordered a beer, one of the truckers spoke up.

  “I didn’t know you served scooter trash in here, Bob.”

  The tall skinny bartender gave the fat big-mouthed trucker a nervous smile. “It’s okay. His money is as green as everyone else,” the bartender said.

  A tight-lipped smile crossed the biker’s face. “Make it a Budweiser,” he said, ignoring the trucker’s comment.

  “I’m surprised at you Carl. Do you need the money that bad, to take it from trash like this?”

  “Mister, I don’t know what your problem is, but I don’t want any trouble,” the biker said.

  “Well, you’ve got it, biker boy, weather you want it or not,” the trucker said rising to his feet. Four of his buddies climbed out off their bar stools to back up their loud mouthed friend.

  “Put his beer on my tab, and bring me another,” Pops said, stepping up next to the biker.

  “Thanks for the beer,” the biker said. “But are you sure you want to get mixed up in this?”

  “I think I do. Where’d you serve?” Pops asked.

  “In the Pacific. I was in the Marines, and you?”

  “I was in the Army over in Germany.”

  “My name’s James Taylor, but my bros call me Sonny,” he said extending his hand. My pops took his hand in his own, giving the man a firm handshake.

  “My name’s Brown. John Brown,” my pops said.

  “Now John, we like you and we’re glad you came home safe, but are you sure you want to buy into this?” The loud mouth trucker said. “What’s this biker trash to you?”

  My pops and Sonny turned with their backs to the bar facing the truckers.

  “Shut up Earl. You’re a loud mouth tub of shit and I’m sick of hearing you. If you’re coming, then bring it on,” Pops said.

  The truckers rushed my pops and Sonny. As one man, they stepped forward to face the truckers. My pops punched Earl in the nose, splattering it all over his face. Blood gushed out of his nose and covered his shirt. He took a step back. Another trucker swung a pool cue at Sonny’s head, but he dived under it, slammed a flurry of punches to the trucker’s wind, and then lifted him up off his feet with an uppercut. He finished off the three-punch combination with a left hook and the trucker hit the floor. My pops and Sonny stood shoulder to shoulder battling the three remaining truckers. They made short work of it and when the fight was over, five truckers lay unconscious on the floor.

  “I guess I’d better get out of here before the coppers show up,” Sonny said.

  “No, you stay. Have another beer. Them truckers are always causing trouble,” the Carl said from behind the bar. “ I’ll square things with the law.”

  “Thanks, Sonny,” replied. He looked at pops and said, “I’ll by the next round.”

  The police showed up, rousted the truckers whom were now coming to, took a report and left. Sonny and pops sat at the bar talking, drinking and smoking for the next two hours.

  “I’d better hit the highway. The old lady will be gettin’ pissed about now,” Sonny said.

  “I’ll walk you out. Them truckers might be waitin’ outside for some payback,” Pops said.

  When they were outside, my pops stood under the boardwalk, looking at Sonny’s motorcycle.

  “That’s one of them old Army bikes. I used to see those in Germany,” Pops said.

  “The Army is selling them cheep. I know a guy who’s got one for sale, only it’
s an Indian not a Harley. Would you be interested?”

  “Hell yeah,” Pops said.

  Sonny wrote down a phone number on a matchbook. “Here’s my number. Give me a call and we’ll go take a look at it. Is tomorrow okay?”

  “Tomorrow’s fine. You live here in town?”

  “Yep. Over on the north side.”

  Pops put the matchbook in his shirt pocket. “I’ll call you tomorrow then.”

  Sonny nodded, put the shifter into first and crossed the gravel parking lot to the highway. Pops headed over to his truck, leaned on the front finder and an intense excited look crossed his face while he watched Sonny ride away. He stood there until he could no longer see the taillights, and then climbed into the pickup and headed for home.

  ***

  I climbed onto my spirit bike and motored my way back to town, only I didn’t head back to the home place. The air around me shimmered, I breathed in the smell of burning ozone and the scenery flashed by at what looked like light speed as I rode forward in time. I pulled into the parking lot of Saint Ann’s hospital and parked the bike. A band of evil little demons in filthy black robes gathered at the front door of the hospital. They were on the hunt for souls. They gave me an evil hiss, but I ignored them and passed through the main entrance of the hospital, not bothering to open it. Swaggering down the main corridor, I headed down to the maternity ward. It ain’t every day that you get to watch your own birth.

  My pops paced back and forth in the waiting room looking as pail as a ghost, and he seemed about as nervous as a rabbit with a broken hopper in the middle of the interstate. I let out a low chuckle watching my pops pull a bottle of jack out of his coat pocket. He took a shot and ambled over to the nurse’s station.

  “Is there any word?” he asked the nurse on duty.

  The matronly looking nurse smiled “No Mr. Brown. These things take time. That baby will come when he’s good and ready and not a minute before.” I heard the rumble of motorcycles pulling up to the front of the hospital. Sonny, and four other guys all decked out in leather jackets and denim jeans, sauntered down the hallway. They greeted my pops and did some backslapping. Pops seemed glad to see them.