Chapter 3: The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

The following morning, I awoke to a silent house and packed without breaking that silence. Mom was already off to work, yet another six-to-six shift to conquer. My boss was already informed by my dejected mother to my absence, though the information most likely won't stay in his mind for more than a few days, I won't have work for a long time. I'm thankful to not speak wit her, though, because I've done enough damage for a lifetime.

I find in the kitchen a bus ticket lying carefully upon the kitchen table, its blue surface juxtaposed against a sullied white background. On its surface is an address for a station inMontanaand reading that word, my heart clenches in pain. But, without arguing with even myself, I pocket it, take up my bags and depart the house.

The bus station is but a few blocks over, so I abandon my car at home, which I'm also grateful for. Despite being a mechanic and having done much maintenance, my white 1984 Ford Escort hatchback with a five-speed struggles to run every day. But, being a Ford, it's the nature of the beast.

When the bus arrives, I am able to slide through the station and am the first to board and chose a seat at the far, far back. The plush, comfortable seats and sub-zero air conditioning relieve me from my trek through the hot urban July morning. Over the ensuing twenty minutes, crowds of elderly and middle-aged people board and fill in every seat. Even the seats closest to the bathrooms in the rear are packed in and I am forced to sit next to businessman with an arrogant voice and near-infinite phone conversation.

The bus driver finally boards not minutes later, a heavy-set middle aged man with a thick moustache and heavy jowls, and the bus rumbles out of the station now milling with people. After we leave, even with the heavy diesel engine of the bus rumbling underneath us, I can still hear only one thing: that phone conversation beside me. In fact, it seems to grow louder and louder with each passing mile.

Trying to bury my head in the seat before me, I suddenly spot a book below my seat. Knowing there is nobody behind me but the restroom and that the businessman beside me didn't have any book in his possession, I kneel down and take it up. It is a hardback copy of 'Crime and Punishment' by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Immediately opening it up, I find it bland and as dry as sand, but, surprisingly, it is enough to distract my mind from the blathering of the man beside me. That and I find myself connecting with Raskolnikov.

As the bus rumbles out of Baltimore and into the countryside, I find the ride becoming increasingly more peaceful. The electronic chat the business chap has dies off after about ten minutes and then he sits and types furiously on his expensive laptop. A few old ladies in the row in front of me chitchat and chortle at stories of their annoying neighbors and the pursuits of their relatives.

Finally, at about part III of the story, as the bus is rumbling through Chicago, the bus has decreased in amount of people while others have been replaced entirely. A stop in Saint Louissees that the bus near empties itself out onto the bustling streets of the city. When the doors hiss closed yet again, I find that nobody desires to go any further than here on this bus's drive toMontana.

I am left alone save for the bus driver himself and an elderly Japanese couple sitting near to the driver. Even from the back of the bus, I can hear the bus driver talking to the elderly couple, his thick, gravely Polish-accent filling the void of the empty bus. He lost his favorite stations hours back and, having delved deep into Part V of the book, I was finding myself growing more tense and insane as Raskolnikov finds himself attached to his sofa, though not his mind, his sister avoiding a murderous ex-lover from St. Petersburg, and the detective Porfiry playing mind games with the protagonist.

Deciding to move up towards the driver, I do so and listen to his ramblings. Despite being nearly unintelligible and half conflicting, they're interesting and a nice relief from the boredom of the road. He reveals that he was raised in Brooklyn to a Polish immigrant father and native mother and did extremely well in high school. But after making many poor decisions, among them fist fighting and drinking, became a long-haul bus driver just to make ends meet. He then confesses a wish to return to his youth and make the right decisions so he may have a better future.

As the bus finally crawls slowly across the wastes and plains of Montana, I watch as the sun begins to gently fade beyond the low hills in the West. Nearly twelve hours have passed since I left home and, by now, I am dead tired. The bus driver became dead silent hours ago and I finished the book, which I pocketed, and which left my body tense and my mind aloft. Even the bus has been drained, as I am the only passenger remaining.

In the distance a tiny blot suddenly appears over a hill and, as the bus draws near, I discern that it is a station platform. Lifting my ticket from my pocket, I check my number and then see that this is stop and then return the paper to my pocket. Looking around, I can hardly understand how I've ended up out here, in the middle of nowhere.

As the bus approaches the wooden shack of a station, the diesel engine begins to whine down, the heavy engine pistons slowing their pumping to allow the ten ton, if not heavier, vehicle to slow. As the noise reduces, I am able to hear the quiet twinkling of country music oozing from the speakers above.

Lifting my eyes up, I see the driver glance up at me through the rearview mirror. He nods his head and then looks away, his hand moving quickly to transfer down through the countless gears the bus's transmission has. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands and then grumble, lethargic and sore from sitting for so very long. But I don't mind the stretch, it's more of the destination that I am not too excited about.

Sliding out of the seat, I gently walk back along the innumerable rows of seats to retrieve my things: two duffle bags filled with clothes, toiletries and anything I figured I would need out here on my forced vacation. I throw open the plastic bin above the seats and drag my bags out before clicking it shut again. As I pace back towards my original seat, I see the bus slowing to meet the station outside.

"This is last stop, buddy." The driver says nasally.

His voice is so accented it is hard upon my ears and even difficult to decipher depending on what words he chooses. But after listening to him for hours on end, I hardly notice it. The bus lurches to a stop and then the airbrakes let out. The bus kneels down to meet the ground and slowly the bus doors clunk open.

As they open, a blast of hot air hits my body like a ton of bricks, forcing my eyes to blink rapidly. But regardless, I throw a bag over each shoulder and tromp down the rubber stairs and out onto the road with a crunch of dirt and gravel under each foot. As the heat settles upon my shoulders like pressure in a cooker, I begin to examine my surroundings.

The station I am let off at is a place where the word 'station' is an overstatement. The place is nothing more than a wooden platform no more than a foot off the ground with two wrought iron and wooden benches and a trash can built on it for the customers. A shingled roof filled with so many holes the light streams through covers the entire floor and comes to an end on the other side where a single-person booth with a broken window covered with chicken wire is situated. The only sign of it being built in this age is a wire running from the power lines above and a phone booth in the corner.

Beyond this pitiful little oasis in the desert, the scraggily lowlands extend for miles until it meets the sky at the horizon. Low, burnt grass and patchy, scraggily shrubs so dry they threaten to break off and tumble across the country fill this scenery, so it isn't pure desert. Only about two or three high patches of trees break the monotony of this western stereotype for as far as the eye can see.

The road which runs from East to West seems to slice the entire world in half, a gravel-filled, unpaved road, a leftover from before cars were invented. I heave my bags back up onto my shoulders and pant, wondering if I'm even in the right place. Finally I just stare around, my jaw half open and my eyes squinting to protect themselves from the unbroken light.

Suddenly I hear airbrakes release and swing around to find the door thumping shut. The bus lifts itself up from the road and then begins to rumble away, its heavy engine thrusting the vehicle into motion. I stand paralyzed for a few seconds and then begin to stumble forward. My only ride out of this hellhole, this page ripped straight fromAmericanais rumbling off into the sunset.

"Oh, man, don't leave me here!" I cry out, lifting my hands up and waving them vigorously. "Don't abandon me here!"

But the bus driver must be too preoccupied by his radio to heed my calls and instead of slowing; the land cruiser climbs a gentle hill, crests it, and then disappears into the distance. Once the black rectangle is beyond my sight, I let my arms drop despondently to my side. Turning around, I tromp back to the dusty stage they call a bus stop and sigh with frustration.

"You've got to be shitting me." I mumble as I survey the station.

I mount the platform effortlessly and shuffle towards the creaking, dirty seats, my boots slamming against the rickety, bowing wood, producing a noise which rolls off into the distance. I deposit my duffle bags onto the seats and then draw the ticket stub just to verify that this is indeed the correct stop.

Reading the name of the platform and its number, I match the one on the stub to a name and number hanging above the broken glass window on the ticket booth. When I realize that this is somehow my purgatory, I simply drop the ticket stub and moan, placing my fingers against my temples to rub them to provide myself some relief.

Lifting my eyes up, I look around and realize that nobody is here to retrieve me. Either my two uncles don't care about whether I fester and die in this hellhole, or my mother never bothered to inform them of my coming. But, I know there is really nothing I can do about it and instead resolve to sit down and wait.

I slowly cross back over the station, each one of my footsteps creating yet another creak or crunch from the unaccustomed floor below and then perch myself beside my bags on an old wooden bench facing the road. With a steady hand I wipe my forehead of sweat, but, in reality, I'm not that hot. The heat here isn't like back home. Here it is as dry as a bone; while back home the sea makes it unbearably humid.

Rotating my head right to left, I glance up both sides of the road and see nothing has changed. So I sigh and turn my eyes down towards the ground. On the gravel road before me, I watch as a tiny shield bug struggles to get out of the head. Its brown legs carry it, bumbling and stumbling, around pieces of gravel and old bottle caps. When it finally reaches the side of the broken base of a retro Pepsi bottle, its wings appear and it climbs up and over to where it settles down between strands of burnt grass.

Letting my head roll back, I wonder how I got myself into this mess. If my mother were here, she would tell me I have nobody but myself to blame and I moan at that because I know she's right. But in the silence that ensues, I suddenly begin to hear a little buzzing which grows increasingly distinct with each passing second.

Leaning my head forward, I open my eyes and look to my right, to where the bus disappeared over the horizon. The buzzing slowly transitions into a rumbling and then something crests the hill. I'm hoping its Daniel and David, my uncles who were supposed to be here, but, if it isn't, I'm hoping this person can give me a ride to the nearest town.

As the little metal vehicle in the distance approaches, I see it is a Ford pickup truck from the mid eighties rocking to and fro as it descends into the valley. When I'm able to see the two-tone white and blue paint, I am also able to distinguish two figures sitting in the cab.

I rise from the bench seat and, without moving from the platform, I observe the vehicle approaching quickly, its wheels kicking up a massive dust storm which trails it. It's unblemished but dulled paint glitters in the orange sunlight. As the vehicle nears, it begins to slow down and I know that I am finally getting out of here.

Kneeling down, I scoop up the straps to both of my bags and shoulder them once more, rising up to watch the two men, arms hanging from the windows, approaching. As the vehicle slows to where I am standing, I place the toes of each boot over the edge of the platform and try to keep a straight face.

Inside the cab the man in the driver seat turns to face the man beside him before they both nod their heads. They then retract their arms into the inside of the truck before they get too close. The vehicle then stops directly in front of me, it's old, worn brakes screeching piercingly and the suspension system failing to keep the vehicle from rocking back and forth.

"You Jack?" The man in the driver's seat asks immediately.

I examine the man before me prior to answering. He is a man who appears to be in his late forties at the eldest. On his face is a thick, brown handlebar moustache which rings thin, aged lips. An angled nose holds up dark aviator sunglasses which block me from seeing his eyes or what he scrutinizes. An oversized, snow-white cowboy hat with a leather rope ringing its base tops his head, barely reveling thin, conservatively cut hair and low sideburns beneath it. He wears a plaid blue shirt with a rope tie.

"It depends. Who are you?" I reply.

Those thin lips pull outwards into a smile and then he leans forward so that deep brown eyes may peer over the top of his sunglasses. His left hand, with a watch around the wrist, wrings the steering wheel while his right hand disappears. Moments later his right hand is thrust from the window and is presented to me. I glance to him for an uncertain second and then reluctantly take it.

"My name is Daniel Henderson. This here's my brother David." He says and nods to the long-haired man in the passenger seat, who nods in return. "I believe your mama sent you out here."

Daniel shakes my hand, which is more like a calloused vice grip, with one, strong jerk and then lets me free. Looking over to the man in the passenger seat, I see he is almost entirely the opposite his brother in every way. He has long, light brown hair which covers most of his head in shining waves and billows gently over a white button-up shirt. He has a younger, rounder face, a thin moustache accompanied by a goatee on the lower lip, much like mine, and appears nearly fifteen years younger, though I believe they're the same age.

"Yeah, Ma--well--yeah, she sent me out here." I stutter.

I'm not proud of the reason why I've been exiled out here, but, if they are unaware of those minor details, I'd prefer to keep them ignorant to such unflattering information. I scratch the back of my neck in a nervous twitch, wondering if the brothers noticed my stammering.

"Well, then hop on in. home isn't too far from here." Daniel commands his voice deep and sultry.

Nodding my head, I rearrange the duffle bags on my shoulder and turn towards the bed of the truck. As I step down from the platform, I lift the bags over the side of the truck and deposit them within. Quickly, I round the chromed rear of the truck and begin to approach the passenger side door, wishing to get quickly away from here. But when I arrive at the door, I find David still rooted in his white vinyl seat.

"You'll be riding in the bed this time, kiddo." David says gently.

"Now don't get the wrong idea." Daniel interjects. "It wasn't supposed to be that way, but apparently my brother ordered yet another piece of useless shit out of one of those mah-guh-zeenes he loves so very much. It's also why we're late; we had to run to the post office."

Peering across David's lap, I see a big cardboard box settled between the two men. David pats the side of it with his left arm; his shirt rolled up to the elbow, and then rests across it. I scoff at the notion and disappointedly shake my head. Turning away from the cab, I step back towards the bed of the truck. Upon reaching the wheel well, I put a strong foot onto the top of the tire and hoist myself up and in.

I don't even have anything to say in response to this and instead I just sigh with frustration. My boots fall heavily upon the corrugated bed of the truck and quickly I let go of the side of the truck, which I used to balance myself. And the moment I let it free, Daniel lays onto the gas pedal.

Before being able to get myself situated, the truck lurches out from beneath me and I tumble down onto its surface. I knock the side of my head off of the metal and simply lie still. Despite the pain going away slowly, I don't sit up to try to yell at the men who put me back here. I just lie still and hold onto the ruts in the bed with a death grip for dear life.

Below me the truck swings around and then guns back up the road, bouncing as it dips in and out of every rut and hole in the road, returning in the direction from which it came. As it peaks the hill I saw in the distance, I have a moment of weightlessness, but come slamming back down onto the metal yet again. The wind whipping over the truck yanks at my body, making me hold on tighter, and hoping the ride isn't long.