Ashes of the Phoenix

By David Wren

This story depicts a biker and his experiences of becoming involved with people in a small Oklahoma community in the mideighties. Set in a time before the custom-bike craze with its TV shows and celebrity riders, this tale tries to present real situations because they are based on things that either happened to me or around me (or I just made up a good lie). This man, injured in the Vietnam War, medically discharged, having to relearn to walk and being labeled an outsider upon his return, becomes involved with a violent streetwise motorcycle gang and their drug- and alcohol-induced law-breaking ways. Becoming unhappy with the hard-core biker lifestyle he is living in California, he is miraculously freed from his club ties and takes on a new identity. With help from other helpful nonpatched bikers, bound only by their love of the freedom of the road, he works his way across the western states, doing heavy equipment work, winding up in the little town of Stigler, Oklahoma. There he meets various characters who make his life interesting. He befriends an old rancher with a secret and eventually goes to a bike rally near Wilburton, Oklahoma, where he meets and falls in love with a redhead who also has a biker-related past. Together, they forge a life involving motorcycles, a local bar and its denizens, fellow construction workers, the local law, run-ins with a former gang member, and help to make an old mans dreams come true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499094732

David Wren

About the Author About three or four years ago, I got the idea I had a story to tell. I didn’t want to put out some big masterpiece; I just wanted to entertain people. I thought about what I wanted to tell, kinda formulated the story in my head, and finally sat down at the computer and, with my two index fingers, eyes bobbing from keyboard to screen and back, pounded out this tale. They say good writers write about what they know. Some folks might tell you I don’t know much, but you don’t live and experience as many facets of life as I have without picking up a few things. I have held several jobs, everything from door-to-door salesman to salesclerk, to security guard, to certified master mason, and to schoolteacher. Everything in this book has one of three things in common: it either happened to me, it happened to someone close to me, or it’s just a lie I made up. The town of Stigler, Oklahoma, the main locale of this tale, is where I grew up. The time period I wrote about contained many memories for me. I enjoyed life then and thought it would be a good time to write about. I started working construction with my bricklayer dad when I was fourteen. By the time I turned twenty-one, I had already lived more than most men ever do in a lifetime. I was exposed to many, many things above and beyond “normal” lifetime experiences for a healthy, red-blooded teenage male. My dad liked to drink and party, and my mother was a Southern Baptist deacon’s daughter who didn’t go for that kind of thing, so any partying my old man did was while he was supposed to be working. Being a snot-nosed kid he couldn’t stash away someplace, I got dragged along. As a nondrinker (at the time), I got to see and learn a lot about life in the bars from a sober observer’s noncritical point of view. I never drank (till I married the first time and had a good reason to), so I saw things and studied the ways of people differently than most barroom patrons. My dad was a generous man who liked to party, and if he drank, the whole crew drank. I got to see sides of the men I worked with that their drinking buddies never saw. Our work often took us on an hour or so one-way trip, and we hauled the crew. Coming home with them after a hard day's work and some R & R at a bar, I learned things. I was curious, too green to know there were things you didn’t ask a drunk, and I had a good memory. I’ve converted a lot of that into this piece. Later on I became a brick mason myself and eventually a partner in my dad’s business. The money was good—when we worked. There were a lot of times we couldn’t work, weather related mostly. I could see I needed to think about securing my future somehow. One of my best friends had become a welding instructor at a vocational school and deemed they needed a masonry instructor. Upon his urging, I applied, was accepted at a different school, and for twenty-two years taught tenth-, eleventh-, and twelfth-grade boys (and a half-dozen girls) the “artistic manipulation of the burned-day product” (a quote from my dad). Spending three hours with one group of students and three hours with another group ten months out of the year, I picked up a lot of unique and personal memories from my pupils. I often said I spent more time with those kids than their parents did. I became friends with many of them, and I’m still friends with them today. Having become an instructor at the age of twenty-four, I was closer to the age of my students than I was my fellow teachers. Because I was so young, I could understand my students better than some of the older educators. I often found myself on their side and also found myself being assigned the “problem” students, whose only problem, as I saw it, was the lack of one-on-one interaction with the teachers. My program was basically a dumping ground. I decided to run things my way, like I did on the job. My principal called me a rogue, and I actually cherished that title. I wasn’t your “average” teacher. Being a rebel really drew me closer to my students and some friends in the faculty and administration, but it was a limited group. I think I scared some of the others. I was five feet eight and 280 pounds of mostly muscle with a generous portion of padding. I had facial hair and a ponytail, and in addition to my other nonconformist traits, I became interested in the biker lifestyle. I was more than your weekend warrior or fair-weather biker, but I wasn’t hard-core, one-percent material either, although I was invited to prospect with a hard-core club. I turned down that invitation for many reasons. I got into the ways of the bikers, accepted these experiences, and learned a little more (you only stop learning when you stop breathing). Another “educational” opportunity came as I had to attend college classes to become a certified teacher. Again, much of this “education” didn’t come from books. I was a pretty good student, excelling in English composition and literature classes and even made the dean’s honor roll at Oklahoma State University with a 4.0 average. I attended summer classes and, when I had time, worked masonry jobs on the side. I utilized some of my students as laborers and got even closer to them. They and the work situations were another source of fodder for my writing. During all this, I fathered two beautiful girls and helped raise them and provide for them. After nineteen years, I’d had enough of their mother and divorced her. I agreed to whatever terms she set down and paid what she and I agreed on for child support. She later tried to get more money, but my lawyer said I was already paying more than any man in Oklahoma, and it was thrown out. I continued to pay the exorbitant amount till they both graduated. Hey, a father takes care of his children. If it weren’t for my girls, I’d say that marriage was the worst mistake I ever made. Meanwhile, I met someone else, eventually married her, got more ammo for my writing, and eventually divorced her. I met my third wife on the Internet. A week after I met her face-to-face, I moved her into my place, and we were later married. She’s still putting up with me, and we love each other, so maybe the third time really is the charmed one. Either that or I finally met my soul mate. I retired and moved to New Mexico and decided to write a book.

Book preview

Chapter One

Escaping the Butchers

The lone officer in the cruiser put down his copy of the town’s weekly newspaper. Roy Thompson was assigned night duties and had just taken his post. He had watched a single biker on a flat-black Harley make two passes through Stigler, as if looking for something. Roy wondered what sort of business he could have here. Bikers were a rare breed in these parts, and being a cop, it was part of his job to be a little nosey. Also, being a member of the Choctaw Indian tribe meant he often looked deeper into situations than the average policeman. He was about to start his cruiser, pull the biker over, and find out a few things when the biker made it easy for him by circling around and pulling up beside him.

In a voice most polite, the rider asked, Excuse me, sir. Where might a gentleman find a drinking establishment around here?

Roy pulled his aviator-style glasses onto his nose to get a better look at this guy. The obviously feigned politeness merely added to his curiosity about the man.

We’ve got two of them here in town, he answered. There’s one just down this next street to the right and at the end of the block, next to the police station.

The biker’s gaze went in the direction Roy had pointed. The street sign said Broadway.

Then there’s the East End Tavern, the officer continued, down the road from where you just rode. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.

The biker noticed the cop’s observation of his coming back from the east.

This guy pays attention, he thought. It’s good to know how an enemy’s mind works. His own mind questioned his labeling of the officer as the enemy, but for now he let it go.

Which one do you think would be friendliest to a thirsty biker? he asked.

Officer Thompson laughed softly.

Looking at you—and I mean no offense—I’d say the East End would probably suit you better, though I’ve got to warn you, this town doesn’t easily accept folks who seem a bit… different.

"Yeah, no offense taken. I gotta admit, I am a bit ‘different,’ as you put it, Officer Thompson. The name’s Tucson, by the way," and he stuck out his gloved hand, which the cop shook. Since there had been no exchange of identities, Roy knew that Tucson had read the name tag on his shirt.

Pleased to meet you, Roy replied.

Why do you think the East End would suit me better than the Stigler Tavern? Tucson inquired.

The Stigler Tavern, the officer explained, "is located in the middle of town, not too far for all the old geezers to walk to. Not many of them drive anymore, or even have cars. They do, however, manage to run up healthy bar tabs and take up space on the bench out front. Some of the locals call it the ‘Spit and Whittle Club,’ but—he chuckled—I’ve also hard it called the ‘Dead Pecker Bench.’"

Tucson joined his laughter, asking, Is that a fact?

And, Roy continued, although I haven’t known many of your kind in my day, I’d guess the Stigler Tavern’s close proximity to the police station (right next door, in fact) wouldn’t make it your first choice.

The biker rubbed the palms of his road worn gloves on the thighs of his faded jeans, saying, almost to himself, Hmm… my kind.

Like I said before, I mean no offense, the officer said. Those old-timers aren’t the easiest bunch to get along with, unless you knew their daddies or grandpas. I think you do some better with the cowboy crowd at the East End.

"Some better?" Tucson caught the hint it might still be a challenge.

Yes, sir. The crowd’s younger there, and in this small town, everybody knows everybody, and they’re gonna have to get to know you. I think if you’re not too loud and don’t mess with their women, you’ll be all right, Roy said and added, Oh yeah, and don’t let your mouth overload your ass.

The biker grinned. Gotcha! Much obliged, Officer, he said, and waving his left hand, he pulled away, headed for the East End.

The night watchman watched the Harley roll out of sight, wondering how long it would be before he saw the old road warrior again. His wry grin acknowledged the fact it might depend on who was feeling rowdy at the East End that night.

On that cool March night in 1984, the old road warrior was a mystery man. The naturally distressed leather jacket he wore bore no name patch, nor were there any colors on the back, indicating a club alliance. There were only a few standard issue biker patches. Old might have seemed too harsh a description for someone in their forties, but the man’s limp (caused by an inoperable piece of shrapnel next to his spine) and the gray hairs in his beard and mustache and at his temples did nothing to deny the issue. Tucson’s story on the gray hairs? I’ve earned every one of ’em!

No one knew if the man really was in his forties, or if Tucson was even his real name. He said he had chosen that name after some kind of a scrape. The few facts anyone knew about him consisted of the information he’d given about himself, with no way to prove or disprove any of it. Which ones were truth and which ones was the fabrication of his fertile mind was anybody’s guess. Traveling the country, he was used to the closed doors and closed minds of small towns. That seemed to be a common trait of the smaller communities, which was one of the reasons he kept moving, avoiding the creation of any ‘history,’ and occasionally disappearing into the larger cities. The bigger the city, the easier it was to get lost, blend in with the crowd, and never have to answer too many questions.

Tucson hadn’t had any close family for years. He had never known his father, and his mother had died when he was sixteen. He’d had one sister but lost contact with her after his military service. When his mother died, he lied about his age and joined the army. For a while, the military was his family. He had served in Vietnam until that shrapnel plowing into his back had almost produced a letter of bereavement to his sister. After he was wounded, army medics told him he would never walk again. A medical discharge severed him from the only family he had, the army. Many of his brothers had never come home from the rice paddies.

Early in his hitch, he had considered himself lucky to be assigned to an engineering crew, building roads instead of being on the front lines. His luck didn’t seem to last too long, as the VC was not in favor of roads being built to move combat vehicles and troops. His construction detail was always on the alert for mines. Some of the crew had fallen victim to snipers, mortar attacks, and gun battles. They were among those never to return from that rice-paddy world. Tucson himself was lucky to have survived the attack that nearly killed him.

His first two years out of active duty were spent in military rehab units, trying to learn to walk again. Gradually, his strength and determination conquered the medics’ dire predictions, and he could walk. Albeit with a limp, it was still walking.

Once he could walk, the army was through with him and turned him out into the world. The chronic anger at his personal situation, the separation from the familiar repertoire of the army, and the screwed-up attitude of the postwar world in general led him to seek escape through the consumption of alcohol. He became an outcast, shunned by most citizens, a term he’d picked up when he temporarily found solace in a biker gang in California. Life with the Butchers eased his misery for a while, but he came to feel he didn’t fit in with them either. There was too much of a struggle for what they considered glory. To Tucson, their version of glory consisted of too much backstabbing, underhanded deal making, and thirst for power. He had read of the early bike clubs back before they became gangs. These groups seemed more like the family he’d known in the military, a bunch of guys bound together by circumstances beyond their control, with brotherhood and loyalty. They were quite unlike the group of misfits who made up the gangs of his time.

Another term he heard was wannabe, those who dreamed of being the freewheeling outlaws that made up a hard-core club but who would never learn to live the lifestyle demanded by gangs like the Butchers. Eventually, he realized that the wanabes disdained by the clubs weren’t the only wanabes around. Inside every club with which he’d ever had contact, Tucson had found those who were never satisfied with the status quo. There was always another office they should have been elected to, another club they should have been able to patch over to their elite group, or more territory they felt they should expand to.

There was another part of club life Tucson couldn’t accept. The war had sent home more dope addicts than society knew how to deal with. If injuries from the war hadn’t caused them, the young serviceman’s access to illicit drugs and substances unfamiliar to them only built on the dilemma of those who returned from the war into an unkind and misunderstanding world. There were those who returned with the proverbial monkey on their back and not enough funds to support it. Tucson knew he was damned lucky not to have fallen into that group. He’d had plenty of opportunities, but he’d just never gone for the hard stuff. It was true, the meds he’d been on while recovering from his injury were hard enough to require some serious detoxification before he was released. Another truth was that he had burned a ton of weed, and still did occasionally, but he saw no harm in that. To him, it was the same as having a few brews.

But for gangs like the Butchers, the drugs that were a big part of their lifestyle took money. The need for cash was generally met by means not in agreement with legitimate enterprises. The free sexual attitude of the seventies made prostitution an easy route, and most clubs had a stable full of eager young females, ready to do anything to stay in good graces with the group. Of course, the free love era made it hard to sell what was being given away. Guns were also a dependable source of income—if one had a dependable source of guns. When neither of these plans worked out, there were others, from petty larceny to grand theft auto. Unfortunately, the Greybar Hotels were full of less fortunate brothers who had found out the hard way, these types of fund-raisers often led to less grandiose accommodations than they were used to.

Tucson (or Junkyard Dog, as his club brothers knew him) had finally gotten his fill of the Butchers, but one just didn’t walk away from a gang of one-percenters. Few walked away alive, and those who did wore permanent reminders of their affiliation. Those colors decorating the back of a biker’s cut, or tattoos with the club name or logo, were property of the club. A biker didn’t own them; he was merely allowed to wear them. There was never a simple surrender of the colors. They had to be removed, returned, and accepted by the president of the club. The very best you could hope for was to be beaten within an inch of your life and literally left for dead, somewhere so remote that help was not expected to find you in time to save you. Club tattoos were expected to be inked out. That was the easy way. If you were lucky enough to be allowed to black them out, you’d better get it done quickly. If caught still wearing the club’s insignia or name once you were outed, it was the club’s duty to remove them however they saw fit. One method employed was to have the ink surgically removed, which meant removing the layer of skin housing the tattoo. This could be done with switchblades, razors, pieces of glass, or whatever sharp instrument would do the job. Another method was to have the tat burned out, using a welding torch, a can of gasoline, or whatever flammables were at hand. This latter technique was a big contributing factor to the ones who didn’t walk away alive.

If you were lucky enough to live through that, there were other complications. Law enforcement officials considered outed members to be a wealth of information. The police loved to somehow convince an ex-clubber to divulge information on other gang members. Since bikers never go by their real names, identities of club members were very valuable. The road names they wore were given to them by club leaders, usually describing a physical trait or personal attribute of a person (hence, the name Junkyard Dog). Cops wanted phone numbers, locations of club houses, meeting places, number of members in a club, and so on. They would use a biker’s criminal record and existing warrants (even John Doe warrants) as bargaining chips, offering a certain amount of immunity and protection (at least from the police) for this information. These exes composed a threat to the biker gangs. Many times they simply knew too much to be allowed to live.

The Butchers’ Junkyard Dog would have been just such a threat. He had been high enough in the hierarchy of the club to have been dangerous out of the club. The business with the tattoos didn’t apply to him, as he’d never been inked with any kind of tat. A wise old sergeant had once advised his troops against getting tattoos, saying they could be used to identify a person forever. Maybe deep down inside Tucson felt his club affiliation might not be as permanent as the ink job.

His removal from the Butchers was, by his own definition, an act of God.

Chapter Two

The Phoenix Rises

While attending the annual run, rally, and motorcycle races in Hollister, California, the Junkyard Dog had gotten drunk with a fellow Butcher who had come all the way from Arizona. At the end of the merriment and festivities, Two Bits had invited him to ride with him to Scottsdale to meet some of the locals. Being tied to nothing in California, it sounded good to the brother, so as soon as they were sober enough to make the trip, they rode. It was an uneventful trip, due to the fact there weren’t any breakdowns, sometimes common to long hauls. Sightseeing side trips were not a part of this ride, as their main objective was simply to get to Scottsdale.

Once there, the duo resumed partying. JD made new acquaintances and met fellow Butchers. Eventually, the celebration of road freedom spilled over to a little town about halfway between Scottsdale and Tucson, Arizona. In typical biker fashion, the festivities ended with the help of the law. The partying bikers found themselves in a small country jail. The Dog couldn’t even tell you what charges were brought against them. All he knew was that he and a brother in Butchers’ colors wound up in the same small cell. Of course, both men’s colors were confiscated and held by the authorities at the time they were locked up. Two Bits was nowhere to be found. JD figured he had been moved to a more spacious facility, due to the large number of arrests in such a small town.

The next day the prisoners found themselves being transported to the county courthouse for sentencing. Junkyard Dog and his companion, Junkie Joe, were discussing the chances they’d get out in time to see the new Star Wars flick, Return of the Jedi. As they traveled, a tanker truck full of aviation fuel, headed for a local airport, tried to take a corner too fast and crashed into the police cruiser. Upon overturning, it exploded into a fireball, engulfing both vehicles. The Junkyard Dog had been spat out the cruiser’s back door on impact and was thrown several feet away, landing hard on the pavement. He tried crawling back to help those in the fire, but the intense heat and flames wouldn’t allow it. His futile attempts were interrupted by the gathering of onlookers and the arrival of the police and fire crews.

Amazingly, in the confusion of the moment, authorities failed to recognize the denim-clad biker as a prisoner. He had been allowed to keep his own clothing instead of being issued an inmate’s uniform. Since his boots had had no laces, he was allowed to keep them. No one noticed in the turmoil that he was wearing handcuffs. Too much was happening, and to them, he was just another spectator. Once the initial shock wore off, he found a newspaper and tried to hide his bracelets. He made his way out of the crowd and into the nearest alley. He wandered as inconspicuously as possible until dark then started seriously to try to find help. In a strange unfamiliar town with no brothers around, it seemed an impossible task.

As stated, this miraculous escape could only have been orchestrated by God, and the Junkyard Dog acknowledged that fact, since only His plan could have worked out the way it did. At the end of a dark street, the freed biker was contemplating this while wondering which way to turn. The deep throbbing pulse of a Shovelhead made the decision for him.

As the biker pulled up to a garage door and honked, another biker opened the door to let him in. JD decided to grab the only opportunity he saw. Walking over to the garage, he knocked on the smaller wooden door beside the larger one. The guy who opened it was your typical small-town biker, wearing a worn denim jacket with the sleeves cut out and the Harley-Davidson bar and shield over the right pocket. As the Dog would later notice, there were no colors on the cut. Above the left side pocket was a black patch outlined in H-D orange thread. The same thread spelled out Rebar.

Looking the fugitive over, Rebar asked, Can I help you with anything?

Still not fully past the traumatic experience of the day, all JD could say was I need help.

Looking past the ragged-looking caller and checking to make sure he was alone, Rebar was satisfied there was no threat. He told the Dog, Come on inside.

The Junkyard Dog, looking more like a whipped pup, followed him into a better-lit portion of the room, occupied by two other individuals, dressed pretty much the same as Rebar.

Pointing at the pair, Rebar said, This is Tiny, and this is Sid.

The Dog was struck by the glaring misnomer given to this huge man they called Tiny. He probably weighed in at three hundred pounds and stood about six feet tall. His massive weight was composed of very little body fat, and he had the appearance of a championship wrestler.

The other man, Sid, had been the pilot of the Shovelhead JD had seen enter the building. He had no outstanding features, was very plain and common looking—like a Sid.

Tiny broke the silence by asking suspiciously, Just what kind of help is it you need, mister?

JD replied by simply raising his cuffed wrists and saying, I was in that wreck today and… That was as far as he got before the trio snapped to full attention.

Holy shit, man! Rebar exclaimed. We heard some prisoner got loose. That was you?

With a sheepish grin, the escapee said, Yeah, I guess it was.

How’d you find this place? Tiny wanted to know.

Well, I didn’t know where to go, he told the big man. I’d come over here to party with Two Bits . . .

Again his story was interrupted, this time by Rebar, saying, We know Two Bits, and turning to Sid he said, We gotta get these irons off him.

JD’s worries about being turned in were greatly diminished. The wayward convict was led over to a workbench where bolt cutters appeared from a drawer in a tool chest. As the tool made quick work of separating the two cuffs, he continued his tale.

We were partying when John Law shows up, and me and this other brother got hauled in with a bunch of others. Don’t know why, he said. Don’t matter, I guess, he mused as attempts were started to free him from the individual cuffs. Then as they were taking us to the county courthouse, that truck hit us. I was thrown out the back door. The others didn’t make it, he said sadly. I’m not sure what he was hauling, but it went off like napalm.

Yeah, Rebar said, we heard they were transporting two gang members and one of them escaped. The other one and everyone else in the crash were burned beyond recognition. What the truck was hauling, by the way, was jet fuel. Which biker are you?

JD was deep in thought. Beyond recognition, you say? he asked.

The three nodded an affirmation. JD let this sink in before he answered Rebar’s question. He decided to take a risk.

Jackson, he said. I’m Junkie Joe Jackson, giving them the name of the other biker in the car. He held his breath, fearing that the others might have known Joe as well.

Tiny finished cutting off the cuff from Joe’s hand and shook it, saying, Glad to meet you, Joe.

Yes, sir, added Rebar, glad you found us instead of some those goat ropers. They might have strung you up for burning a police car!

Laughter filled the garage, and Junkie Joe said, Much obliged for your help, guys. As much as I’d like to stay, I need to get going.

Hey, that’s right. You’re going to be hot property around here for a while. Where ya from anyway?

Joe had no intention of telling them he was from California. He was suddenly free from any obligations to the Butchers and had every intention of staying that way. The dead biker had said he was from Tucson.

Tucson, he replied. I’m from Tucson.

OK, then. We’ll just have to see about getting you back there, Tiny stated. First thing on the agenda is getting your bike back from the fuzz.

Hmm, Joe said, that might be a problem.

Piece o’ cake! the big man exclaimed. Wouldn’t be the first time a hot bike disappeared from the po-lice impound lot, would it, boys? You just tell us which one’s yours and leave the rest to us. We know all the local bikes.

Joe thought quickly. He couldn’t risk getting his old bike back as much as he’d like to. Besides any legal complications, there were the Butchers to think about. They might try to track the description of the bike (there were no numbers on it) or trace the tag number. If that happened, his new identity wouldn’t be worth much. He gave them as much of a description of Joe’s bike as he could remember. Tiny got on the phone, and Rebar started to dig through papers in an old filing cabinet in the corner. Catching Joe watching him, he explained his actions.

You’re gonna need new papers on that bike. The cops and God knows who else are gonna be lookin’ for it. He pulled out an old title and registration, saying, This will make you as legal as you need to be. With your permission, we’ll start to camouflage your machine.

Joe had seen this kind of operation before, usually under different circumstances and without the pressure he felt, but the same operation. He would leave here with a new machine and a new name. Wryly he thought, I can trade ’em both off if I don’t like ’em!

The rest of the night went by swiftly. Within a half hour, Joe’s Shovelhead was brought in by two guys in a canvas-covered army truck. The reconstruction crew had arrived a little earlier. Cold brews were handed out, and the work began. A small clock radio on the old file cabinet played one of Queen’s latest hits, Another One Bites the Dust. Joe couldn’t help thinking the song somehow fit the moment perfectly.

The first part of the bike to bite the dust were the ape hangers, replaced by a set of six-bend pull backs. The king/queen seat was replaced by a solo seat. The sissy bar was removed and discarded. The peanut tank and both fenders were removed. Sid bobbed the back fender and discarded the front one. The smaller tank was replaced by a set of fat bobs that Sid had also sanded. The tanks and fender were primed and shot flat black by One Shot, the crew’s painter. When they were dry enough, they were reattached to the frame. It was impossible to tell this was the same machine that had rolled in there on the truck a few hours earlier.

I hope that paint dries enough for you to ride it, Sid worried.

It’ll be dry enough, One Shot assured him. Turning to Joe, he said, I’m sorry I didn’t have time to do you a nice job on it, but I could shoot flat black using less paint and having it dry faster.

Joe waved him to silence, saying, "It’s fine! You boys have done way more than any sane man could ask, let alone and old fart like me!"

At about 6:00 a.m. the sky was just starting to see daylight. The same canvas-covered truck drove up to haul Junkie Joe and his new bike out of town. After he gave the crew his heartfelt thanks, Tiny handed the man $200 they’d taken up to help their road brother. Greatly humbled, Joe told him, I’ll get it back to you.

The giant shook his head and said, No, just pass it on to another brother in need. Joe knew he wasn’t referring to another patch holder, just a member of the Brotherhood of the Highway. They would never know the tremendous change they had made in his life. He crawled into the back of the truck with the bike, and they were off, just a few hours before the cops showed up asking questions. For some strange reason, they thought Tiny or Rebar might have had something to do with a motorcycle vanishing from the impound yard. They didn’t bother questioning Sid (after all, he was just a Sid).

An hour or so after the truck had left the garage, it bounced to a stop on a deserted back road. The driver and his helper moved very quickly to unload the bike and its owner. They paused just long enough to give Joe his directions to the highway to Tucson. They were gone so fast he didn’t even get to ask their names, assuming they would have given out that information anyway. Checking to see the tanks were filled, Joe started the bike and took off to find the two-laned blacktop leading to Tucson. He motored past the town’s city limits sign and stopped only long enough to eat breakfast. While consuming his huervo rancheros, he thought about his new name. He was certainly no junkie, and Joe was just too plain for him. As he headed east out of the Arizona town, he passed a sign that settled things. The sign originally said, You are now leaving Tucson. Bird crap or something thrown at the sign had given it a comma. To the passing biker, it now said, You are now leaving, Tucson.

That settled it. From now on he would be known as Tucson. He’d worry about a last name when the need arose.

Tucson found work in Arizona, which led to work in New Mexico then on through Texas and into the Oklahoma panhandle. Two years had passed since his life had been changed by that freaky accident and the events that followed. He had never regretted a minute of it, nor had he ever doubted that God himself had made it happen. He was very grateful but, not being a religious man, wasn’t sure how to express that gratitude. As far as his club was concerned, JD was dead. When the Butchers got word, his colors were collected from the police and burned, a tradition for a fallen brother. His bike was recovered as club property and sold.

Like the legendary phoenix, the biker had died a fiery death and arose from the ashes.

Chapter Three

Settling In

The East End Tavern was as easy to find as Officer Thompson said it would be and about as welcoming as he had implied. Dolly Parton’s Nine to Five blared from an old Wurlitzer in the corner as Tucson walked confidently but cautiously through the front door, making a quick assessment of the crowd. They, in turn, gave him a quick but thorough examination. There were a few looks of disgust but mostly a curious once-over. The long-haired leather-clad stranger made his way to the bar and ordered a beer.

Need a glass for that? Jimmie, the bartender, asked.

The biker replied, No thanks. I’ve been drinkin’ straight from a can for so long, I hate to dirty up a good beer mug.

A few of the patrons closest to him chuckled.

He sipped his beer slowly as he took in the atmosphere of the place. It definitely was not a biker bar. Tucson wondered if he was the first biker to enter here. Rodeo pictures, cowboy-related news articles, and beer ads of the same ilk adorned the walls. Various beer signs were lit by colored florescent light tubes. A pool table with a well-worn felt top sat squarely in the middle of the bar, with the only two usable cue sticks lying across it, remnants of the last game played. A single-tubed shop light illuminated the table as well as the rest of the establishment. The only other sources of light were the beer signs and the weak lights behind the bar. Although he felt out of place here, he should have been used to surroundings like this. Working construction, he had inhabited many similar joints. Usually he was with a crew and sporting work clothes and a hard hat instead of leathers and a do-rag, and no one bothered him. As long as the beer was cold and the temperature comfortable, he could adapt. Today, both those factors seemed about right.

As he enjoyed his beer, one of the local girls sat down beside him. He noticed a hush fall over the room.

Well! she observed, "We sure don’t get many of your kind in here!"

Tucson tried to play it cool without being offensive yet not overfriendly.

What? You mean guys who like cold beer? he asked.

A few of his neighbors chuckled.

No, she snarled, I mean dirty, smelly road rats!

The road rat would have had to be deaf, dumb, blind, and retarded not to have been insulted, but Tucson tried to act as if he had missed the remark.

Oh, I’m sorry, he apologized. I didn’t realize my deodorant had worn off. I’ll just move down a few seats, and he proceeded to do just that.

Now the girl’s insult became a challenge.

What’s the matter? You think you’re too good to associate with the likes of me?

Before he could reply, George, one of the older gents at the bar, spoke up.

Aw, for Pete’s sake, Lila, leave the boy alone and let him drink his beer. He saw you, so go sit down!

Lila tossed her head, assuming the attitude that she’d been the one insulted, and went to pout in a corner booth.

Tucson raised his half-empty can as a gesture of obligation to his rescuer.

The old man growled, Don’t pay her no mind. She just wanted to make sure you noticed her.

Tucson, several years the man’s junior, stated softly, "It woulda been kinda hard not to!" which brought laughter from most of the bar (excluding Lila, of course).

The rest of the night passed pretty much without incident. No more insults were thrown. Lila sat pouting in her corner, and not one of the customers moved to console her. The newcomer even managed to play a couple of games of pool (which he strategically lost). As he paid his tab and walked out, there were half a dozen young cowboy types hanging around his scooter.

This yours? one of them asked.

Tucson mentally prepared himself for a confrontation, hoping it wouldn’t come to that. Outwardly, he gave no sign of feeling threatened, even though he was outnumbered. It could be they were just good ol’ boys checking out a new ride in town.

Yes, it is, Tucson replied, pulling his gloves from his pocket.

Looks pretty fast’ the boy commented.

It’ll do was all the bragging the biker offered.

The next words out of the youngster’s mouth were a challenge.

Wanna run ’em? he asked.

Against what? Tucson inquired, knowing fully well he wasn’t going to race anyone.

The cowboy was quick to answer, telling him, I’ve got a ’56 Ford short bed pickup, with a four-sixty, four barrel, and four on the floor.

The biker grinned. Naw, he said. You’d probably beat me so bad I couldn’t face my friends.

I’m surprised the likes of you has any friends, the boy taunted. I think you’re just afraid to race me!

The rest of the grinning crew began to gather around Tucson, who managed to keep his back to the wall of the bar. The cowboys waited to see what the road warrior had to say now. Tucson was determined not to let this escalate if he could help it.

Yeah, you may be right, he said. Then again, I’ve seen too many of these little ‘contests’ develop into someone getting their feelings hurt, or their pride stepped on, and then an argument starts and the challenges go out. Before you know it, a perfectly good night has been spoiled by a fight.

While talking, Tucson had been preparing himself. He had pulled his gloves on and was sizing up the group, fully aware this was not going in the direction he wanted it to. The boy doing the talking was the smallest of the bunch, probably a prearranged situation. The challenged biker also noticed the positions of the larger members of the group. His past experience in fighting had him relying on lessons learned. An observer would have noticed his shift in position, indicating Tucson was bracing himself and assuming a defensive stance.

About that time, just such an observer ambled around the corner of the bar and headed in their direction.

You boys admiring this man’s motorcycle?

The would-be troublemakers suddenly became as schoolboys caught in the act of making trouble.

Yes sir, Officer Thompson, one boy answered. We was just checkin’ it out.

Roy nodded. Mm-hm. Thinkin’ about buying it?

The speaker shook his head. No, we was just lookin’.

And have you seen enough? the officer asked.

The group mumbled something, indicating that they indeed had seen enough.

Then I think it’s time you boys went home, don’tcha think? Roy inquired. "Or I could start checking licenses for underage drinkers," he concluded.

A quick shuffle had them all at their vehicles and starting to leave.

Tucson managed a small grin and said, Glad you came by, Officer Thompson.

Looked as though things were going to get interesting, Roy said with a grin.

The biker admitted, "Yes, it did. That’s not exactly the way I like to get acquainted with the local citizens when I move into a place.

Roy’s grin left his face.

Sounds like you aim to stay awhile, he observed.

I’ve got a lead on a job here, the biker explained. If it pans out, then yeah, I’ll be around for a while.

Well, the officer said, I guess I’ll be seeing more of you, and with a touch to the brim of his hat, Roy turned and walked back to his cruiser parked around the corner.

Tucson’s grin had also faded, as he said to himself, Yeah, I guess you will.

Dragging a stocking cap from his pocket, he traded it for his do-rag, mounted his bike, and was gone.

Chapter Four

The Job

Tucson had found a room at a local motel, and returning there he chained the bike to a porch post outside the room. Unlocking the door, he went inside for a good night’s sleep.

The morning after making his presence known at the East End, the biker/construction worker went to check out a rumor of work. The local high school was expanding, and a new gymnasium was being built. There was a need for equipment operators. Tucson’s preference was running a backhoe, but the need at this point was a crane operator. Construction work before going into the army, heavy equipment training while serving his country, and a host of other various positions as an operator following his military stint gave him knowledge of just about anything on tires or treads.

This particular assignment was to convey heavy buckets of concrete up to a masonry crew who poured it into large tubs then into wheelbarrows and finally into bond beams. These were hollow concrete blocks laid every sixth course and, when filled with steel reinforcing bars and the concrete, provided the equivalent of a solid concrete beam across the wall of the building. This provided reinforcement to the wall and allowed it to be built taller. A mason’s helper stood atop the wall, guiding the operator’s movements with the crane, usually with hand signals. It was a simple task for an experienced operator and the mason’s helper would not have even been necessary, but when the superintendent says he needs to be there, he’s there.

Tucson had made several lifts, sending the heavy buckets of concrete with no trouble. He barely paid attention to the young man guiding the buckets up; the job was so routine. On about the sixth lift, the laborer on top of the wall (perhaps sensing his uselessness) began to find fault with the way the biker was sending the mud buckets up. His hand signals became more animated, and his voice got louder than necessary, shouting his verbal instructions. Tucson just ignored him, which seemed to irritate the boy even more. He became so agitated that he jerked his hardhat from his head and banged his leg with it. At that point, Tucson recognized him as the leader of the cowboys from outside the bar last night.

Hey, you stupid jerk! the boy yelled. Can’t you get that mud up here any faster? I got men waitin’ on it!

Tucson could see no worker standing idle because of his alleged slowness. He wasn’t sure if the young man recognized him or was being rude for some other reason. Maybe like Lila, he just wanted to be noticed.

The kid yelled again, saying, Hey, dirt bag! Let’s see if you can get that load up here sometime today!

Carl, the boy’s uncle (and boss), said, Jerry, you might want to cool it down just a little.

Jerry, the angry young man, yelled back at him, Sure, Unc. I’m just tryin’ to get things movin’ up here!

Carl told his nephew, It looks like things are moving pretty well to me. You need to settle down. Have you got a good look at that guy? He doesn’t look like someone you’d want to piss off.

Yeah, I saw him limpin’ across the parking lot earlier. He don’t look so tough to me. I’m just tired of ’em hiring these inexperienced jerks to run equipment! B’sides, he’s down there, and I’m up here. What’s he gonna do about it?

Listening to Jerry’s insults, especially the last statement, set off something in Tucson most men wouldn’t want to see. He never said a word, but with a few jiggles of the joystick, he had the bucket swaying as it went up the wall. As it got closer to the smart-mouthed kid, it appeared to be swinging wildly out of control, although in truth, Tucson was in complete control of the situation.

Hey! Watch it! Jerry shouted. What are you trying to do, knock me off of here?

The highly competent operator nudged the swaying bucket even closer to Jerry’s precarious perch atop the twelve-inch-wide wall, fifteen feet off the ground. Now the young man’s anger turned to fear, and he leaped from the wall down onto the safety of the scaffolding. Tucson stopped the swaying of the bucket easily so it could be unloaded. Revving the motor, he drowned out Jerry’s angry shouts. When the bucket was emptied and lowered, he backed away to the concrete truck for another load.

By the time he got there, Jerry, red faced and full of rage, had climbed down off the scaffolding, ignoring his uncle’s warnings to stay put. He hurried to confront the man he thought was trying to kill him. Seeing the look on the young man’s face, no one dared get in his path. As he came alongside the crane, he yelled up at the operator, Just what the hell do you think . . .

His ranting was cut short as Tucson leaned out of the cab and removed his hardhat, giving Jerry his first good look at his tormentor. The shock of recognition stopped the cowboy in his tracks, his anger switching to uncertainty as he realized who Tucson was. Here on the job, he was without his buddies for backup, and he was also missing the bulletproof protection of a six-pack or two. Seeing the wide, mocking grin on the biker’s face, he quickly began backtracking the way he’d come. As he climbed the scaffolding he’d just left so quickly, some of the crew watching the whole thing questioned his hasty retreat. Unconvincingly, Jerry tried to tell them it was just a guy he’d met at the bar joking with him. None disputed his story outright, but their looks of disbelief said enough.

Back in the crane, Tucson sent a few more loads up the wall to complete the pour, with no more comments or directions from the helper. If this story made it back to the East End, he wasn’t sure if he’d be shunned or welcomed.

Oh well, he thought wryly, I can always occupy the Dead Pecker bench!

After work, he made his way to the East End for a cold beer. Evidently, the little run-in at the job didn’t change his status at the bar. There didn’t appear to be anyone who’d heard of it, or if they did, just didn’t give a damn one way or another. Neither was Tucson accepted any better nor was he ran out of the place. There wasn’t even a mention of Jerry. It was just another night, and he was just another thirsty customer, and that suited him just fine.

His pool game had improved, or so it seemed to the bar crowd. He’d gotten less careful about being sure he lost to the right people. The biker had figured out just which ones took their game too seriously and which ones appreciated his skill with a cue stick. Most all his losses now were because