Charlie

By Howard R Music

Charlie rides a 1954 Panhead Harley Davidson, owns a 1952 Chevrolet pickup, and listens to 45 and 78 records on a 1948 Silvertone record player. His hair is cut in a ducktail, he wears a t-shirt with a pack of Camel cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve, and denim jeans that are cuffed over black motorcycle boots, and a studded leather jacket embroidered with a white eagle on the back. In his pocket is a metal can opener he carries to open Lone Star beer bottles ... his favorite brew. Charlie works at an automotive wrecking yard and makes money on the side racing his hopped up motorcycle. Life is good and he intends to marry a local girl he has fallen in love with. But his plans go awry when his boss shuts down the salvage yard and he loses his job. The biker is evicted from his home and worse, he gets arrested after trying to stop a co-worker he befriended, an older man who gets drunk and shot down by police after making threats with a pistol. Charlie needs money to get his life back together and does it the only way he knows how: he challenges a rival to a dangerous high speed midnight race down Highway 101.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Howard R Music
• Release date: Apr 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370346486

Howard R Music

I've been a motorcyclist all my adult life. Enjoy writing, and have had short stories, poems, cartoons, and illustrations published in many motorcycle publications. I also write music and perform in various places in Denton, Texas, which is well known for it's eclectic music scene. I currently ride a 2001 Harley Sportster, which is a blast to ride on Texas back roads.

Book preview

Charlie

Copyright April 2017

Howard R Music

Smashwords Edition

Cover art: Howard R Music

This ebook is for your enjoyment. Thanks for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

The tinny, high-pitched strings of a rockabilly guitar faded at the end of a song playing on a Silvertone phonograph sitting on a small table in the living room. The record player was built into an unpainted fiberglass shell with a matching hinged top that could be closed and latched. The phonograph could spin 45 rpm records, as well as full size 33 albums and even old 78s, of which the owner had a substantial collection stacked side by side on a shelf next to the table. Above the control knobs on the front was the face of an AM radio, which had the words Standard Broadcast lettered next to the white programming numbers. The needle arm slid towards the center of the black disc, raised itself, and rotated counter-clockwise away from the center as another record stacked above it dropped onto the turntable. The arm rotated back in place, dropped down, and made popping noises as the needle made contact with the scratched disc. A rapid snare drum beat blared from the speakers, preceding the start of the vocals.

"He wore black denim trousers and motorcycle boots

And a black leather jacket with an eagle on the back

Had a hopped up cycle that took off like a gun

That fool was the terror of Highway 101"

(The Cheers, Black Denim Trousers, 1955.)

The room in the old shotgun house held a lumpy couch that sat next to the window close to the front door. A bowl with bits of puffed rice cereal and a half empty glass of milk were sitting on a scarred coffee table, next to a glass ashtray full of butts. Stacked next to the breakfast remnants were several dog-eared automotive magazines and a grease-smudged Harley Davidson service manual for the years 1948-1957. A stained oval shaped rug lay on the scuffed hardwood floor. Mismatched curtains fluttered slightly as a breeze came through the open windows. There was no air conditioning, other than a heavy General Electric oscillating fan with four curved blades inside a large diameter wire guard. It was turned off, as was the large bulbous television which sported a set of rabbit ears.

The walls were decorated with automotive posters and other memorabilia dedicated to speed; there was a green and white metal Sinclair gas station sign with a dinosaur silhouette hanging next to a black and white movie poster of a sneering Marlon Brando astride a motorcycle advertising the Wild One. A large picture of a racing boat, a hydroplane with a golden brown hull and green cockpit named Miss Bardahl, hung next to a studded leather jacket on a hook near the door. Though there were several different oil company posters and signs, including Texaco, Gargoyle Mobiloil, Oilzum, and Red Crown, Bardahl Oil dominated. There was a picture of Bill Hielscher next to a 1957 Chevrolet lettered Mr. Bardahl. Another advertising poster for Bardahl had a caricature of a man in a black coat and hat driving a convertible. In the seat beside him was a woman in a green coat holding a green and black can of Bardahl oil. The caption read, Bardahl Did It Again. Whether this insinuated that the car ran better after adding Bardahl or that the driver got laid was left up to the imagination of potential customers.

In the bathroom, which contained a seven-foot-long clawfoot tub and a toilet with an overhead wall-mounted tank with a pull chain hanging down, a man stood in front of the sink, which was below a beveled mirror on the medicine cabinet. He was just less than six feet tall and sinewy, and wore a white t-shirt and denim jeans with no belt, cuffed over heavy black boots. Clean-shaven, his eyes were dark and without a hint of color, as if there were no outer irises but simply two oversized pupils, which would have appeared strange except that they reflected light like polished obsidian. This, along with a face quick to smile with uniform white teeth, gave the man a youthful, impish quality, making him seem younger than his thirty years.

Reaching down, he picked up a bottle of Vitalis hair tonic, removed the cap, poured some into his palm, rubbed his hands together, and then ran both palms through his dark hair. Next, he took a comb out of his back pocket and slicked back the oily locks, turning sideways as he did so that he could check out the short ducktail. Satisfied that every hair was in place, he stuck the glistening comb into his back pocket. He opened the cabinet door, which had a metal sign next to it with the silhouette of a Native-American in a full headdress embossed with the logo Indian Motorcycles, put the hair tonic inside, and then turned on the water to wash his hands. The handles were labeled: one with a C, and the other with an H. The sink itself was not set inside a cabinet, but was bolted directly to the wall, which exposed the water inlet lines and the drain trap. He dried his hands on a towel hanging on the wall and then walked into the kitchen as the last verse from the Black Denim Trousers’ song played.

"…But he hit a screamin’ diesel that was California bound

And when they cleared the wreckage, all they found

Was his black denim trousers and motorcycle boots

And a black leather jacket with an eagle on the back.

But they couldn’t find the ‘cycle that took off like a gun,

And they never found the terror of Highway 101."

Like the bathroom, the kitchen floor was covered in faded linoleum so worn that in places the hardwood underneath showed. A square table with a rubberized plastic cover was in the middle of the room. Four wooden chairs with cloth-covered cushions tied to the bottoms and backs surrounded the table. Several empty bottles of Lone Star Beer sat among black dominos scattered on the surface, along with a well-marked note pad and a short, yellow pencil used to keep score of the game.

On top of the stove, a two-piece, stainless steel coffee pot simmered. The lower carafe supported an upper, half-round funnel on top that held the coffee grounds in a sieved container. The heated water rose into the top and then drained back down into the pot as brewed coffee, and a rubber gasket seal prevented leakage. The man removed the top half containing the grounds, placed it in the sink, and then filled a cup that he grabbed from a dish drainer. As the Elvis song Don’t Be Cruel played on the Silvertone phonograph, he carried the mug into the living room.

The early morning sun cast shadows and bits of light at irregular angles on the floor. The man placed his mug on the coffee table, and removed the leather jacket from the hook on the wall and slipped it on. The only markers were the studs, snaps, and zippers, and an embroidered eagle sewn high up on the shoulders on the back. He felt around in the pockets, and then went back into the kitchen. On top of the refrigerator sat a carton of Camel unfiltered cigarettes. He took out a pack and stuck it in one of the zippered pockets of his jacket, went back into the living room, and reluctantly turned off the phonograph just after the Elvis tune finished. He shut the lid, picked up his coffee, and walked out the door on to the front porch. Shutting the door behind him without locking it, he stood there, sipping coffee and taking in the morning. It was spring and the irises were in bloom. The residential street he lived on was full of the green-stemmed plants with their delicate flowered tops. Most were planted by color in well-maintained beds, but a few were neglected, and had grown wild and intermingled in a collage of haphazard yellow, white, purple, and bi-colored flowers.

Across the street, several cats pressed against the front door of his neighbor’s house waiting for Mrs. Woodson, who was only one or two felines shy of reaching Crazy Cat Lady status, to bring them food. Unlike his own yard, Mrs. Woodson’s was immaculately mowed and trimmed. Though she was married, she did the yard work herself. Her husband was retired but was in good shape, so Charlie didn’t know if she was a perfectionist and didn’t trust her husband’s work, or if he was like Charlie and didn’t give a rat’s ass how tall the grass was. The house glowed with fresh paint, which a contractor had done. He guessed that Mr. Woodson drew the line at his seventy-year-old wife climbing a ladder.

Hey, Charlie, yelled a boy of about twelve, who was riding up the street on a bicycle with a baseball glove hanging on the handlebars.

What’s up, Sam?

They say you smoked Buck Stoveall again last night.

So what else is new? Charlie said, stepping off the porch.

Buck said you were in for a payback.

You believe everything you hear?

No.

Later, gator. Charlie started walking on a worn path in the tall grass in his front yard that led around to the back of the house.

After a while, crocodile, Sam answered, grinning as he pedaled away.

Beside the house was a gravel driveway that had weeds growing sporadically up through it. A 1952 Chevrolet pickup was parked towards the back of the house under a large live oak tree. It had the short wheelbase, stepside bed, with a tailgate that was latched with a twin set of chain hooks. Though the Forester Green paint was scratched and dinged in places, the truck was totally stock, from its 216 Thriftmaster six-cylinder engine, column shift transmission (three on the tree), and polished hubcaps with Chevrolet stamped on the surface. As he walked past the truck, Charlie noticed someone had written Kilroy Was Here! in the dust on the driver’s side window. Next to the lettering was a crude cartoon of a man’s head with a big nose. Sam, thought Charlie, who kept walking to a dilapidated, cedar planked shed at the end of the driveway in the backyard. It appeared to have never been painted, was leaning towards the right, the grey roof shingles were curled and lifted, and the black felt tarpaper underneath was showing in places, yet, oddly enough, the rain never leaked through.

Taking a small set of keys out of his pocket, Charlie sat his coffee on the ground and removed a padlock from the hasp on the sagging double doors. The left door swung open easily, its rusted hinges screeching loudly before it came to a rest on the corner of the narrow building. The right door, however, was dragging against the ground, and could only be opened ninety degrees before it wedged into the gravel and grass. Charlie picked up his mug, walked into the gloom, and sipped his coffee as his eyes adjusted.

On the dirt floor sat a 1954 Harley Davidson FL, with a 74 cubic inch Panhead engine and Hydra-Glide front end. Like his pickup, the Harley appeared showroom stock, from its large solo seat, foot clutch, and hand gearshift beside the left gas tank, to its rigid frame, whitewall tires, and bullet shaped mufflers. Even in the shadows and dust-bunnies, the black paint appeared to glow as if it absorbed the dim light and then, like an awakening sun, burst to life with radiated energy. A thin smile formed on Charlie’s face, a phenomenon that repeated itself daily when he opened the shed.

He sat down on the leather seat and gripped the handlebars, and rotated the leaning front end into a straight-ahead position. Checking to make sure the gearshift was in neutral, he set his feet, lifted the heavy motorcycle up, and rolled it out onto the hard-packed gravel. Setting the bike onto its jiffy stand, the man stepped off and noticed some oil and dust on the valve covers, which resembled cooking pans, hence the