“Relax bro. Women have been doing this since God kicked Adam and Eve out of the damned garden. She’ll be fine,” Sonny said.
I left my pops with his bros and stepped through the wall and into the delivery room. My mom lay on a metal table with her feet up in the stirrups. An elderly doctor stood between her legs and assisted in the birth. A few minutes later, I made my entrance into the world. After the doctor cleaned me up and wrapped me in the blanket, the assisting nurse stepped out into the waiting room to find pops. He stepped into the delivery room with a big grin on his face and stepped up to my mother’s bed, where she held me next to her breast.
“Congratulations Mr. Brown. You’ve got a fine looking baby boy,” the doctor said.
My mother beamed. “Isn’t he beautiful, John? He looks just like you.”
“Look at that head full of hair. He almost looks like a cave man,” my pops said.
“I think we should name him after you. We’ll call him John,” my mother said.
***
I rode back to the house, took a seat on the couch and let time roll by. Like I said at the beginning of this tale, when you’re dead, you have a lot of time on your hands. I watched their lives unfold like if I were watching a movie on TV. I saw my mother and father age, their love growing stronger, I saw the little baby that would be my future self begin to grow and form a personality. Five men, Sonny being one of them, all veterans, and my pops formed a strong bond of friendship. They all rode motorcycles; my pops had bought the old Indian from the guy that Sonny knew. My mom started riding on the back with him sometimes, leaving me with the teenaged girl down the street to babysit.
One day in 1959, I must have been about twelve years old by then, my pops and his bros rode down to the High Noon Saloon, so I climbed onto my spirit bike and followed along behind them. They parked out front, climbed off their bikes and swaggered inside. Sonny untied a green canvas bag from the back of his scooter and brought it inside the bar with him. I stepped in behind them and watched them find a table off to itself by the wall. I found a seat at the adjoining table and sat down to listen to their conversation.
My pops motioned to one of the bar tenders and bought them all a round of beers.
“I picked up the vests tonight on the way over. I had the patches made up and sowed on. I think you guys are going to like them,” Sonny said. He sat the green canvas bag on the table and unzipped it.
“I hope you got me a triple X,” a big burly guy with a bushy black beard sitting across from Sonny said.
“You bet I did, Will. I wouldn’t forget your size,” Sonny said. He held up a massive denim vest so the others could see the patch on its backside. The guys sitting at the table let out a cheer.
“The patches came out better than I thought they would,” Pops said.
Sewn to the back of the vest was a patch depicting a large crazy looking dog riding a motorcycle. The top rocker, above the back patch read: Road Dogs. The bottom rocker underneath the main patch said, Arizona. The colors of the patches were black and white.
“After that sit down with the officers of the other clubs, we shouldn’t have any problems on the road,” Sonny said, and then handed out the vests.
“It irks me that we had to go ask them guys permission,” Pops said.
“It’s just protocol,” Sonny replied.
“I’m with John here. I didn’t like it either,” a wiry blond headed guy sitting next to Pops said.
“Yeah, well. it’s done now. We’re a legitimate club. All we have to do is chose our officers. I wrote everyone’s name down on a piece of paper and put them in a cup,” Sonny said. “Bob, why don’t you draw the first name?” He took a tin cup from his canvas duffle bag.
“What am I drawing for?” Bob asked.
“We’ll go for president first,” Sonny said.
Bob took a folded up piece of paper out of the tin cup and handed it to Sonny. Sonny unfolded the paper and read the name to himself. “Well, who is it?” Bob asked.
“John Brown.”
“What? Are you sure? Maybe we ought to draw again,” Pops said.
Sonny laughed. “No redraws. You’re our chapter president. Why don’t you draw for the VP?”
Pops put his hand in the cup, drew out a piece of paper and handed it to Sonny. Sonny looked at it and shook his head
“Who is it?” Pops asked.
“It’s me,” Sonny replied.
“Then you draw the next name. What are we drawing for now?”
“Financial secretary and treasurer,” Sonny replied. He drew a name, unfolded the piece of paper and looked across the table at Bob. “Bob Dawson, you’re our financial secretary and treasurer. Draw the next name.”
“Cool,” Bob replied and drew another name. “What’s this name for?”
“Road captain,” Sonny said.
“So who is it?” Will said.
“That would be you, Mr. Johnson. I’d also like you to serve as sergeant of arms until we get some more guys,” Sonny said and then looked across the table at a stocky young Hispanic guy that had been sitting quietly watching the proceedings. “Well, Tony there is only one more name in the cup and it says Tony Sanchez. Tony, you are our tail gunner.”
“I can handle that. I like riding in the rear of the pack,” Tony said.
“I guess we need to start holding meetings every month and start looking for prospects.” Let’s have our meeting here on the first Friday of every month. I’m sure Sam will let us use the room in back,” Pops said
“What time?” Will asked.
“How does six thirty sound?” Pops replied.
“Six thirty is cool with me,” Bob said.
“We need to choose our biker names,” Sonny said.
“You already got a name,” Pops said. “Sonny sounds better than James Taylor.”
“You’re the only one of us with a kid. I think we should call you Pops,” Sonny said.
“Pops. Okay, I think we’re gonna call Will, there Wild Bill.”
Will laughed and looked over at Bob Dawson. “Bob here is as skinny as a string bean. Why don’t we call him String Bean?”
Everyone laughed.
“That only leaves you Mr. Sanchez. Anyone have any ideas?”
“He’s about as stock as a fire plug,” Sonny said, “but I got nothing. What do you think, Tony?”
“Call me Poncho, after Poncho Villa.”
“Poncho it is then,” Pops said standing to his feet. “Let’s raise a toast. To The Road Dogs. String Bean get a ledger to keep records of our meeting. Write this date down. September 5th 1959, the day the Road Dogs were born.”
They stood to their feet and clinked their beer bottle together. “Road Dogs now and Road Dogs for ever,” Sonny said.
“Road Dogs in life, and Road dogs in death,” Wild Bill replied.
“Now let’s party,” Pops said and they all headed over to the bar.
***
Once again, I sat back on the couch and le time roll by. I watched a young boy grow into a young man, I watched the love that my mother and father shared grow, and I watched love blossom between a father and a son. As I sat there watching time pass by like a movie, I gained a deeper understanding of my father, and I loved him all the more for it. One day in 1962, my younger self stepped off the school bus one afternoon and saw my father and his buddies sitting on the front porch. Their motorcycles set in the driveway and the sound of their vulgar talk and laughter floated on the breeze. A big grin spread across my young face. Back then, I loved my pop’s friends. I thought they were cool. I still do.
“Get you ass up here youngster. We got something to discuss,” My pops said.
The younger version of myself swaggered up onto the porch with a guarded look on his face. I remembered that I was wondering if I was in trouble or something.
“What’s up dad?” My younger self said to my pops.
“There?
??s something in the garage that I want you to see.”
My pops set down his beer, stood to his feet and we headed down the driveway to the garage. He laid a friendly hand on the back of my neck while we walked. Behind us, his buddies followed. My pops pushed open the door to the garage, my eyes widened and a grin crossed my face. There set a 1953 Triumph Bonneville. It was a faded burgundy color and the tank was two toned, both silver and burgundy.
“Whose bike is that?” my younger self asked.
“It’s yours. It’s not running right now, but we’ll work on it together.”
Sonny stepped up and handed me a denim vest with a Road Dogs prospect patch on the right breast. “Here, put this on, prospect.”
In a state of shock, I put on the vest. My Chest puffed out with pride. My pops took my arm and said, “Let’s go back up on the porch and have a beer.”
On cloud nine, I swaggered back to the front porch with my pops and his bros. I couldn’t believe it. My pops had never offered me a beer before. I remembered wondering if mom would get mad, but I didn’t care.
During the months that followed, my pops and my younger self spent hours on end in the garage working on the Triumph. Once we had the bike running, we painted it, put on new tires and a new seat. We spent many summer evenings on the road with the club. I rumbled along reliving it from behind on my spirit bike and a lump formed in my throat when I remembered all the good times that we had. Five months after they gave me my vest, they patched me into the club.
When I wasn’t riding with the club, or going to school, I did odd jobs trying to earn enough money to buy an old Harley. The summer I turned seventeen, I almost had enough money. One of the club brothers had an old Pan Head for sale, but I was five hundred dollars short. On my seventieth birthday, my pops kicked in the last five hundred and bought the bike for my birthday. The year I turned seventeen was the best year of my life, but then when you think you’re on top of the world, life has a way of kicking you in the ass.
***
A year later, my pops had a heart attack. It was one month before my eighteenth birthday. Watching it happen, during my ride back through time was just as hard as it was when I experienced it the first time. My mom rode in the back of the old red and white ambulance with my pops, the younger version of myself rode to the hospital on my Pan Head. The bros from the club met us at the hospital. I cruised along on my spirit bike watching my younger self from the past motor down the street. I noticed tears rolling down my young face and then glanced in the rear view mirror and noticed a couple in my own eyes as well.
The bros comforted my mom and my younger self, while they rushed my pops into the ICU. We played the waiting game for the next two hours, but finally an elderly doctor came out to greet us.
“How is he doctor?” my mom asked.
“He’s going to be all right, but he’ll need to slow way down. He needs to cut back on the drinking and the smoking. This was a warning sign.”
“Can we see him?” my younger self asked.
“Yes, but only for a few minutes.”
We went into his hospital room and gathered around his bed. I stood in the background watching the scene unfold. I noticed the tears in the eyes of my younger self. After hugging my mother, my pops turned to my younger self. “Don’t fret son. I’m gonna be fine. We’ll be back on the road before you know it.”
“You just get well Pop.”
Turning to the bros, my pop said, “The doc says I need to slow down. I think I’ll need to step down as chapter president. What about you Sonny? Are you ready to step up?”
Sonny let out a sigh. “I would, but things at work are keeping me too busy right now.”
My pops glanced around at the bikers gathered around his bed. His eyes locked onto a young man a couple years older than me. “What about you Little Danny Boy? You live and breathe the Road Dogs. Are you ready for some responsibility?”
“I’ll do whatever it takes, man. I’ll take the spot for now, but when you get better, you can have it back,” the stocky young dark headed man said.
“Good. I think you’ll make a damned good president,” my pops said, and he was right.
Time rolled by, my pops got better for a while and then Little Danny Boy received his draft notice and went to Vietnam. Things had slowed down for Sonny at work and since my pops was still not feeling too good, Sonny took on the job as president of the chapter. Sonny hinted around about giving me the VP slot, but then Uncle Sam called on me as well. When I arrived in country, the first person I ran into was Little Danny Boy. We were tight for the first six months of my tour, but then Little Danny Boy and our squad stepped into an ambush. Little Danny boy died in my arms. It was three days after that, when I received word about my pops second heart attack. This time he didn’t make it. The Army sent me home for the funeral.
As I stood in the back of the Walker Brothers funeral home watching listening to my father’s eulogy for the second time, the pain was just as real, just as fresh as it was when I experienced it for the first time. I glanced up at my younger self, sitting on the front row of the chapel with my arm around my mother and saw my back quiver, rocked by grief. I was older more muscled and hardened by the horrors of war, yet inside I was just a little boy grieving for his father. There is something about the love between a father and a son that transcends time.
The door behind me squeaked open and my father’s spirit, along with an old biker named, Fat Bob stepped into the back of the chapel. Fat Bob bit the pavement a year after I patched into the club. I guess they sent him back to bring my pops home. My pops, looked at me, his eyes widened and then he looked at the front of the chapel noticing my younger self.
“What are you doing here? And how can you be here and up there with mom at the same time?” my pops asked.
“I’m just taking a ride through time, Pops. I’m in my past: your present.”
Pops nodded at Fat Bob and said, “Old Fat here says we’re going to a place called Biker Heaven.”
“Yeah, you’ll love it there Pops.”
“I told you,” Fat Bob said.
“And what about these spirit bikes? Those things are snazzy.”
“Yeah Pops. You’ll love them too. You can ride for eternity and never have to put gas in them, but the best thing of all is they don’t leak oil.”
“Fat says that we can drink up there and party like we do down here.”
“Pops the booze flows free, the women are loose and the party never stops.” I took a bottle of Jack from my vest pocket, took a shot and handed it to my pops. “You never tasted Jack until you’ve tasted the Jack we have over there. Old Mr. Daniel’s himself has a big distillery set up and he keeps us well supplied.”
My pops took a shot, his eyes widened and a grin spread across his face. “Damn. That is good.”
He handed me back the bottle, I stuck it in my vest pocket and grabbed him up in a big bear hug. “I love you Pops,” I said and we did some back slapping.
“I love you too, son.”
“Pops, you’ve still got the graveside service and a party to go to out at The High Noon Saloon, but I’ve got to go. I’ll see you up in Biker Heaven,” I said.
“Okay son. I’ll see you when I get there.”
I left my pops and Fat Bob in the chapel, headed outside and climbed onto my spirit bike. I fired up the beast, rode through town and did about fifty miles down the highway. Pulling up on the handlebars, I shot up through the sky and headed home.
***
####
Watch out for the continuing adventures of Cave Man and the Road Dogs motorcycle club in The Woolly Boys. Below is an excerpt.
Lightning flashed across the desert and thunder rolled across the land. Thunder Paw looked over at Wolf Boy and howled. Wolf Boy grinned and let go with a wild feral howl himself that echoed across the desert. Behind them, White Fang gunned the throttle, pulled his custom chopper over
the centerline and pulled up next to Thunder Paw.
“I’m hungry!” White Fang yelled, trying to make his voice heard over the rushing wind.
Thunder Paw glanced in his rear view mirror, taking in the pack, and noticed the course hair sporting up on his neck.
“I know! We all need to feed! There’s a town up ahead! I think the locals call it Harlem Springs! We’ll stop there!” Thunder Paw yelled.
White Fang backed off on the throttle, letting Thunder Paw roll by on his flashy blue chopper and took his place in the pack. The clouds parted and a full moon rose into the sky as the Woolly Boys rolled through the night toward Harlem Springs Arizona. Five miles outside of town, they pulled into the gravel parking lot of The High Noon Saloon.
***
Chico, Tiny, Dirty Dan and Lead Belly sat at the bar inside the High Noon Saloon when they heard motorcycles pull up out front. The smell of tobacco smoke and stale beer filled the air and loud rock and roll music emanated from the building. Thinking that some more of the bros had pulled up out front, they glanced at the front door wondering who they were. Chico’s eyes widened when a group of bikers sauntered into the bar. They obviously weren’t Road Dogs.
“Damn. Those are some hairy sons-of-bitches,” Dirty Dan said. “They’re even hairier than you are, Tiny.”
Lead Belly laughed. “That’s pretty damned hairy.”
“I ain’t never seen that patch before. The Woolly Boys? You heard of them Chico?” Tiny asked.
Chico shook his head and the said, “What the hell?” when they began to remove their clothing.
“I hate to waist a good pair of jeans and my club vest,” Thunder Paw said and then grinned.
The Road Dogs inside the bar stood to their feet and turned to face the new arrivals. The Woolly Boys, now fully nude, began to sprout course hair and their bodies changed morphing into wolves. Collectively, the Road Dogs stepped back. Thunder Paw, now fully changed into a wolf extended his claws and let out a howl. Chico pulled his 45 and shot him in the chest. The loud bang of gunfire filled the room. The bullet knocked Thunder Paw on his ass, but he just rose to his feet and swaggered forward. “That one hurt a bit. What kind of loads are you shooting in that thing?”
“Hand loaded,” Chico said and shot him again.
Thunder Paw flew backward once more, but climbed back to his feet. Blood soaked his fur. The wounds in his chest were already healing. “You’re gonna pay for that,” Thunder Paw said. The werewolves charged forward launching themselves at the Road Dogs. Thunder Paw, grabbed the nearest Road Dog by his head, ripped it from his shoulders and tossed it across the room. The head bounced off the wall and rolled across the floor. The rest of the Woolly Boys attacked slashing with their claws and snapping with their teeth. Blood and body parts flew into the air.