WARMIN' UP

By Roadrage
© 2008

Billy tried to shake off the chill of the miserable, wet night that had been his only companion for the last 170 miles as he walked through the door of the diner. It had been a good trip up until the clouds rolling in off the ocean settled onto the highway and began emptying themselves. Ten days on the other side of the mountains, away from the coast, with a group of friends—good brothers from days gone by who were still close it was like they’d never separated—riding hard, partying harder and just enjoying the freedom of the road again.

It was a reunion of sorts. The four friends of us had been virtually inseparable since before grade school, playing together in each other’s back yards, starting school and learning the lessons of life along the way. They stayed friends through everything, including that ugly incident with the “borrowed” car one rowdy night that landed them all in front of the town judge. It was all fun and games until, in all his wisdom, the judge took control of things, hit the brakes on the good time, and told the four free-and-easy young men—boys, really--he was going to save them from themselves and gave them a simple choice: start doing time for the reckless stunts they’d pulled, or join the military and make restitution. Join the army or go to jail…it was an old story.

Nobody went to jail, but there was much debate about which service to join up with. For Billy, there wasn’t really a choice—he was going to the army. It was a family thing, his dad had been in the army, and insisted the big green machine would make Billy a man, and give him a future. The brothers, George and Joseph, were dead set on the Marines. They figured they might as well go hard and go all the way if they were going. Mike was set to go with the brothers to be a jarhead, but when Billy went to go sign the army papers, Mike was there with him. They four some was split up for the first time in nearly twenty hell-raising years

Everyone made it through their respective service none the worse for wear Billy ended up with the Air Cav, Mike drove tanks, and the brothers…well, they were Marines and did what Marines do. Eventually, everyone came back home and promptly began riding motorcycles and raising a different kind of hell, always being careful not to get in front of the judge again. The four were tighter now than ever before, and they had a confidence about them, but still weren’t angels. Folks in town knew that if you fucked with one of the boys, the rest were going to be right there. That’s just the way it was. They were brothers in every sense of the word.

It was tough scratching out a living above the broke-dick-biker poverty line with all the road wandering and tail chasing they did. Eventually, as happens, they four drifted apart as they all chased their vision of the American Dream.

But they always got together at least once a year, usually more, back at home to drink a little too much, ride as much as they could, and just be brothers hanging out again. That’s what this trip was about.

Billy ended up on the coast—just outside Seattle. He was almost home now…another forty or so miles of nighttime city riding in the rain and he could climb into bed with the ol’ lady. That thought buoyed Billy a little as he slid heavily into a booth with squeaky faux leather. The burgundy-red seat with worn springs showed some wear—plenty of butts had slid in and out of this booth, and Billy’s ass sank deep into the seat as he settled in. The whole diner looked a little worn. Clean, but worn. The smell of grilling burgers, overcooked meatloaf and greasy fries mixed with the stale smell of cigarettes and wet clothing to create an almost appealing cacophony of odors. Billy liked it, though, mostly because it was dry.

“I’ll have to remember this place,” Billy thought as he lit up a smoke, pulling on it deeply. Just then a shiver ran through him—the cold of the rainy road trying to leave his body.

He sat there a moment, feeling a little tired and looking like a drown rat, thinking about not wanting to get back on that bike and ride for another hour or more in the slop that passed for fall weather in the Northwest. Billy already missed the sun and clear nights of home a few hundred miles to the East.

“Want some coffee, there?” the waitress asked. The question startled Billy back to the present.

“Yeah,” he said, flipping over the cup and sliding it towards her. “Thanks.”

She poured the coffee, left a menu, and turned away. “I’ll be back in a few, K?” she said.

Sipping at the coffee Billy looked around. The place was about half full, which seemed surprising for nine o’clock on a Sunday night.

Sitting in the booth next to him were an older couple. They were dressed neatly, like most people of that age do when they go out. They were from the World War Two generation, the kind of people who believed in looking your best whenever possible, and carrying themselves with dignity no matter where they were. Their age group might be the last ones to hold that standard near and dear.

Their faces showed their age…the couple looked like they earned every wrinkle. Wisdom lines Billy’s grandma used to call them.

The old guy was wearing a blue blazer over a plaid dress shirt. His thinning white hair and pale skin made him look fragile. His wife was wearing a blue dress with a white lace collar. It was a pretty dress, modest, and pretty. Their coats were folded neatly beside the old man. Off to his right, lying on the table was an American Legion garrison cap. I couldn’t quite read the embroidered gold writing, but there were a couple pins decorating the hat, and it was spotless. He clearly took good care of it.

The waitress returned, bringing a desert to the couple. Apple pie for the missus, and vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup for the old man. Then the waitress stopped at Billy’s table, poured more coffee in his cup and asked, “You wanna order something, hon?”

“Nah. Just the coffee, thanks.”

Billy thought about eating, he was hungry, but eating something would just make him feel heavy more comfortable; make it even harder to get back on the bike. He just wanted to warm up a little, and then push on home.

Just then a young kid in a camouflage field jacket bounced past, heading for the john. As he passed, the old man looked up and watched the kid go by. The old guys eyes turned steely as they locked on the kid.

Billy lit another cigarette and worked on his coffee. The old man was now holding his garrison cap, clutching it. Billy could read the embroidery now. There was an emblem from the First Infantry Division—The Big Red One—it was unmistakable. Billy recognized the other pin, too—a Purple Heart. The gold embroidery spelled out “First Infantry Division, 1942-’46.”

Billy was impressed. Shit, this old guy was somebody. He’d rolled with Patton, and had to have seen some serious shit during the war. Most likely, that’s where he earned the Purple Heart, too. Then, he’d probably gone back to finish up the war with his unit. That was admirable, for sure, Billy thought.

The young kid came out of the john. He was a punk. His jet-black hair was pretty long on one side, covering one eye and hanging down his face. One eyebrow pierced with a stud. His lower lip was pierced twice, a ring on either side, and it looked like he had a diamond in his nose. He was older, maybe 24 or 25, but he still had pretty bad acne.

Abruptly, the old man spoke. “Hey, you ought not be wearing the flag that way,” he said to the kid in a soft but determined voice. His wife glanced up from her pie with a startled, almost fearful look.

That was when Billy saw the kid had sewn an American Flag upside down onto the left sleeve of the jacket, which was a too new looking knock-off of army issue he probably bought, or stole, at a surplus store somewhere. On the right sleeve was the green and red patch of the First Infantry Division.

Billy wasn’t sure what was going on with the patches, but could tell the kid hadn’t worn them in the service. Just then the kid threw the old man a sneer and went back to a booth near the door where a few other kids, two girls and two guys, all about the punk kid’s age, were sitting.

The old guy was clearly pissed. His blue eyes blazed with a rage Billy recognized. If the old guy had his way, he’d have torn the kid a new asshole right then and there. No explanations, no apologies. But, he maintained his composure, and went back to his ice cream, complaining to his wife about the kid having the flag displayed that way.

Only a few minutes passed when the kid returned, heading for the can again. The old guy tried again, this time with a friendlier, but still firm tone.

“Excuse me, young man, do you…”

The kid stopped at the booth and said loudly, “What’s your problem, man? Fuck off, OK?” Then he disappeared into the bathroom.

Billy had already laid out a few bucks for the coffee and waitress, and was collecting his gear to leave when the kid snapped at the old man. The old guy was shaking, maybe not from fear, though he was clearly startled, but from anger. The old warrior didn’t like what had just happened.

Watching the old guy and his wife, Billy rose from the booth and crawled into his still wet leather. The cool and damp of the cowskin settled over Billy, forcing him to harden himself again for the ride that waited for him outside. It was a familiar feeling, one that changed Billy’s outward appearance, and outlook.

The old man and his wife watched as Billy adjusted his jacket and put on his cold, soaked gloves. While the old man’s eyes were still on fire, he looked frail to Billy again. He and his wife watched—either scared or disapproving, maybe both, as the leather-clad Billy stood there, pretty much towering over them, looking back. Billy didn’t blame them for looking at him the way they did; he was quite a sight. The road, the rain, and the ride hadn’t been kind to him that night.

Billy decided to dump some coffee before getting back on the bike for the last hour or so before home, so he headed to the can, water squishing out of his boots as he walked.

Going into the bathroom, Billy saw the punk kid at the sink counter putting a line of something up his nose. Coke, crank, it didn’t matter, it was pretty ballsy—and stupid. The kid looked up at Billy with an indifferent glare, and just stood there with a small line of the shit laid out on the edge of the sink.

“What?” the kid barked at Billy. It was more a challenge than a question.

Billy sighed and shook his head as he stepped to the pisser.

The kid laughed, kind of to himself and mumbled something about the wet ass of Billy’s jeans showing out the back of his chaps and being to poor to buy a whole pair of pants.

Billy zipped up and turned around. The punk was standing there, wiping the underside of his nose and staring at Billy. Billy gave him a cold stare in return and moved towards the kid, his wet boots still squishing.

With that same sneer he’d given the old man, the punk taunted Billy. “Ooh! The big tough biker is scaring me!” He looked down at Billy’s soaked, worn boots at let out a giggle and pointed to them, saying, “Hey, you need to do somethin’ about that noise, bro. It’s pretty annoying.”

“ Bro?” Billy thought. He stopped right in front of the kid, maybe a foot away. The punk stiffened up and tried to puff out his skinny chest.
Billy definitely didn’t like the kid, but he hadn’t been trying to do anything to the kid, but he started thinking about it right then. He thought about lumping him up right there, like the old days. The cockiness the punk had rubbed Billy wrong. And there was the matter of the upside down flag on his sleeve, and the way he mouthed off to the old guy.

One by-product of the judges’ ultimatum all those years ago was respect. His time in the army gave Billy an appreciation of his country, the sacrifices made to make it what it is, and what it stands for. Billy’s buddies he’d just left were the same way. It was something he lived everyday. The other thing he lived everyday was being a take-no-shit kind of guy. That’s just the way it was for Billy, and the sneering kid in the bathroom with the upside down flag had run headlong into dangerous territory.

In the second Billy stood there in front of the punk, the decision was made, right then, right there.

The kid was opening his mouth to say something when, in one effortless move, Billy gut-punched the kid with a stunning expertise. He’d been in a scuffle or two over the years, and knew the finer points of throwing a good punch. The air left the kid’s body with a grunt. He doubled over, but didn’t go down. His head hung right in front of Billy, his mouth still open, only now he was gasping for air and trying to puke at the same time. Billy stepped into a second swing with his balled fist aimed at the side of the kid’s face. The flat of Billy’s knuckled right fist landed at the kid’s jaw, just in front of his ear. It was one of those perfect lights out punches.

The punk fell to the dirty, wet floor, immediately motionless…his head and shoulders were partially in one of the stalls. Billy stood there a second or two, feeling satisfied with himself. He saw the upside down flag on the kid’s jacket again and made another decision.

Billy slid his buck knife from sheath looped around his belt and knelt down, roughly planting his knee in the middle of the punk’s back. Deftly, he sliced the material of the camouflage jacket around the upside down American Flag. It came off easily—this wasn’t the first time Billy had cut off a patch. He grabbed the kid’s other sleeve and quickly cut off that First ID patch, too. Standing, he put the knife away--it was almost invisible under the waistline of his leather riding jacket--and shoved both patches into his pocket.

The punk was starting to move a little when Billy was ready to go. The weathered biker couldn’t help himself…the temptation was too great. He had already made his point, but Billy wanted to rub it in. Billy put his wet boot squarely between the kid’s shoulder blades and stepped down—hard. The kid grunted softly.

“What’s your problem, man?” Billy asked, stepping down a little harder on the not quite conscious kid, grinding his heel a little. The kid made some inaudible noise.
“You need to do somethin’ about that noise, man. It’s pretty annoying.” Then just for fun, Billy leaned forward; putting most of his weight on the kid—making it hard for him to breath, and said, “Fuck off, OK?”

Billy left the punk there on the floor.

When Billy walked out of the john, his heart was pumping hard. The adrenaline had kicked in and he was feeling it. His eyes darted around looking for a new threat. He was ready, and walked with a menacing gait.

The old guy was helping his wife with her coat. They looked small and frail again to Billy, their heads rising about to Billy’s shoulders. The old guy had his garrison cap perfectly perched on his head, his raincoat on, ready to head into the night.

Billy approached them and they both stopped cold, looking at him with that half frightened-half defiant look. Billy realized he must look pretty frightening—he’d just thumped a punk in the bathroom, and was ready for more Plus, there was still that road worn look he had. He tried to relax and soften is demeanor as much as he could.

He reached into his coat pocket with a wet-gloved hand for the sliced-off patches, pulled them out, and handed them toward the old guy.

“Here, these are for you,” Billy said.

The old man seemed confused and hesitated, then looked at the patches in Billy’s hand. Billy nodded to him, coaxing him to take them. The old soldier’s pale, thin-skinned hand reached out and took the trophies as his wife watched with a worried expression. When the old guy realized what was now in his hand, the steel returned to his eyes and he looked Billy in the eye.

“A gift from the Air Cav,” Billy said, giving him a little smile and gentle slap on the shoulder. “Thank you for your sacrifice.”

Billy nodded to the wife, “Bye.”

It was past time for Billy to get out of the diner. He made a beeline for the door. The old couple followed right behind him. Billy hesitated a second at the table full of the punk’s friends, but thought better of starting more shit. He’d done what he needed to do; now it was time for him to go. He walked out the front door and across the parking lot to where his scooter waited for him. He fired it up and let the machine idle a bit, warming it up for what was going to be a quick ride home. Billy didn’t wait too long…the kid would be getting out of the bathroom soon, and who knows what might happen then.

Billy rolled through the parking lot, his road-worn Evo barking loudly. As he passed the old couple, Billy saw the old man standing at the door of his car. He had already helped his wife into the car, out of the rain. Billy locked eyes with the old man as he rumbled past The old guy gave him a slight nod, and Billy thought he saw a little smile on his lips. In that moment, the old guy didn’t look so frail to Billy. He looked like a strong, proud American standing there in the rain. He was young and hard in that moment, showing Billy something that means more to an old soldier than anything else…gratitude and respect.

Billy nodded back and goosed the throttle, steering his bike out onto the road, leaving the diner behind him with that familiar roar of the v-twin tearing through the night air.
Billy twisted the throttle and pointed his bike onto the freeway entrance ramp, picking up speed and immediately feeling at home on his steel companion as he headed into the city. It was still raining and cold, but the rain didn’t seem to be as heavy to Billy as it had been earlier. He wasn’t feeling the cold so much, either. As he rolled up on 70 mile per hour, the rain was stinging his face a little, but it didn’t matter.

Billy was happy to be back on the bike. It was warm and comfortable. He felt nothing but the joy of the road—and maybe a little satisfaction of having set something right.
The back end of the bike squatted onto the pavement as Billy took advantage of being on the freeway, a nice change from the two-laner he’d been on most of the trip. Billy was feeling good. He’d be home soon. The fatigue had lifted from him, and he was looking forward to cracking open a beer and slapping the ol’ lady on the ass and getting a little quality time.

One the next trip home, Billy would tell the story of the punk in the bathroom to his brothers over a few drinks, and that would launch a bull session lasting into the night. He’d remember the look of pride and respect an old soldier had given him when Billy had handed over two symbols that meant a lot to the old guy, so they’d no longer be abused. Billy might even stop in at the diner again sometime, after all, the coffee wasn’t bad, and he did warm up while he was there.

That was the reason he stopped at the diner in the first place.