Page 34 of Rough

“No,” Cholo said. “Against payaso babosa’s who ride Sportsters.”

While Cholo and Crip shared a laugh, I shoved the door open.

I walked to the Sporty and stared down at it. Frustrated that I was forced to ride it, and even more aggravated that one of the departing idiots chose to push it over, I bent down and grabbed the handlebars of the overturned motorcycle. As I struggled to lift the 550-pound motorcycle, I grew even angrier.

It seemed every time I turned around, there was another reminder of what Tegan did to my bike.

And it was high time I got my revenge.

ELEVEN

Tegan

As I sat outside the coffee shop at 7:00 p.m. on a Saturday waiting on Pee Bee to arrive, I wondered just what he did all day – everyday – that prevented him from breaking free for thirty minutes so I could pay him.

The sound of music blaring over the unmistakable drone of a motorcycle’s exhaust led me to believe he was pulling into the parking lot, but I didn’t bother looking. Sitting outside at a table with my back to the building, I stared straight ahead as if I could care less about him or his motorcycle.

Dressed in jeans, lace-up boots, and his leather vest, he was either shirtless or was wearing a wife beater, I couldn’t tell. His long muscular arms were bare, and dangled at his sides as he lumbered toward me in more of a galumph than a walk.

Fascinated by his awkward swagger, I watched intently as he approached.

I wondered if it was his big feet that caused him to walk in such a way, or if it was something he did intentionally. Before I could decide, he sat down in the chair across from me.

“See the ride?”

“Kind of.”

“What does that mean? Kind of?”

“I kind of saw it when you pulled in. Like, out of the corner of my eye.”

“You didn’t look at it when I pulled in?”

I shook my head and tried not to smile. “No.”

“Man, you’re a hard little--”

I glared at him. “You about said it, didn’t you?”

“Said what?”

“The B-word.”

The corner of his mouth curled up. “Maybe.”

His hair was all one length, and slightly past his shoulders, which surprised me.

I knew it was long, but not that long, “Why’s your hair so long?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Huh?”

“Your hair. That mess of brown straw on top of your head. Why’s it so long?”

His hands shot up as if to check and make sure it was all still there. He ran his fingers through it, forcing it back along his scalp. “What about it?”

“Your loud exhaust must be ruining your ears,” I said. “Why. Is. It. So. Long?”

“Why. Are. You. Such. A…” He raised both hands in the air and gestured with his index and middle fingers.