Out of Place

I'd been away for 9 months. Nothing had really changed, yet everything was out of place somehow, different. Even the house was alien to me. The furnishings were different and the rooms had all been rearranged. The only thing that was unchanged was my motorcycle.

Opening the garage door and letting daylight fall onto her showed me even that changed. She was still burnt yellow and black, but there was new chrome. Still, her curves brought a smile to my haggard face. Hell, I got off the plane yesterday and slept, apparently, till noon.

Settling into the saddle and backing out of the garage I felt at home, no, at peace. Yeah, it was November but it also Texas and I had grown up in NJ. A ride now was what just the ticket to feeling better, at home, you know. I was already tired of feeling like a stranger in my house.

What they say is true, stress is wind soluble. Having my leathers back on and being in the wind was fantastic. I felt good enough for lunch and a beer.

I rolled into the next roadside eatery that I could find. There were several other motorcycles there, Harley-Davidsons, all of them.

It was darker inside than any bars or restaurants you'd go into at this time of day. This was more of a biker bar. Here I was, on my Honda amongst some hard core, long bearded Harley riders.

The bar was full of smoke, odd pieces of broken bikes, biker gang emblems. The bar itself was beaten and scarred, most of the wooden parts were replaced with 2x4's and 4x4's, some were newer than others. It was stark in one sense, colorful in another, but at the same time.

I knew that the other patrons were watching me. After some much time working in Bosnia as a Field Operator with one partner and an interpreter I knew, could feel it, when I was being watched. I held onto that feeling, pulled off my helmet and walked up to the bar. That was when I drew more attention than I could have ever wanted.

Knowing that bar fare was bar fare anywhere I looked at the beer signs and made my choice. Yes, I was still being watched. The bartender, about 6'6" fat, muscled, a walking lump of scar tissue now stood in front of me. His eyes were cold. "What'll it be?" he asked around the cigarette in his teeth.

"I would a burger, fries, and an Amber Bock, please." The voice I heard was not mine. The voice was thickly and heavily accented. It was a Serbian voice talking in broken English. Holy, shit! In the mirror i could see that there was now a group of bikers were now standing behind me.

My skin prickled all over as the adrenaline pumped into my veins. A bit of sweat trickled down my back. The smells of stale smoke, old sweat, and, now that I could see the dried blood stains about the bar and on the tables, the memories of the smell of blood filled senses.

One old, long beard with steely grey eyes looked me over as I stood up. In his Texas drawl, asked, "That yer Honda out there?"

My answer was reflexive, "Da .... yes, it is." The bartender was behind me with God knows what kind of weapon behind the bar, baseball bat, shotgun, pistol anything was possible. I was facing a group of 10 bikers of varying sizes. Not one of them looking like an easy target. I was surrounded and not a friendly face in the place was to be found.

The group was spread out in a semi circular pattern in front of me. The old grey beard who asked about my bike stepped forward. What I wouldn't give for that piss-ant 9mm I had to turn in back at Capodiccino in Italy. Now I took my sunglasses off and put them on the bar and changed my footing so that I was in a decent kickboxing position, all I had to do was to pick up my hands. That I had used this a number of times in Bosnia brought was comforting. Right then, the entire bar closed down in my vision to just this one guy and me.

I had read enough about Honda burning at several biker rallies to get a picture of what might be going on. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. With that same thick Serbian accent, I said "Yes, that is my ride." I stood tall, somewhat relaxed, ready to move. One man at a time and this one is first.

The others just stood there, outside the edge of my conscious awareness. They weren't moving. Me, inside this circle with another man; seemingly ready for a knock-down drag out fight.

Churchill had once said that he likes a man who smiles when he fights. This guy smiled at me. You could see that some of his teeth were missing and the rest were stained by who knew what. With that gapped tooth, stained grin coming from that scarred face with steely eyes, the old codger, still smiling. "That's a sweet ride. I'ma thinking 'bout gittin' one m'self."