Page 17 of Tito

6

Tito

The sound of an approaching motorcycle caused me to snap out of the semi-conscious state I’d slipped into. Troubled by my past and worried about the future, I walked to the window facing the street and peered through the blinds.

Riding his newly-reassembled hardtail chopper, Goose cleared the hill at the end of the block. His hands were positioned well above his shoulders, gripping the era correct “ape hanger” handlebars he’d fitted the forty-year-old motorcycle with.

His motorcycle came to a rest in the driveway. After allowing the machine to idle for a moment, he shut the engine off. He stepped over the seat and gave the motorcycle a long look as he hung his helmet on the handlebars. A satisfactory smile was plastered on his face.

I opened the front door. “Feel good to have it out?”

“Feels great,” he replied, glancing at the machine over his shoulder. “Nothing beats the rumble of a finely-tuned Shovelhead.”

“Sounds great.”

“The cam gave it a decent amount of bottom end,” he said, stepping onto the porch. “The stroke on that crank gives it a ton of top end. That thing flies when you whack the throttle.”

I stepped to the side. “Come in.”

He glanced around the modest living room. “Just wanted to see how you were doing. I—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he insisted, looking at me as he spoke. “I guess whether or not you choose to talk about it is up to you.”

“I’m doing just—”

“Your life’s sweater has a loose thread,” he argued. “My fear is that if someone pulls on it, you’ll come unraveled.”

Lying to Goose was like lying to my mother. It wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t easy, either. He was far too savvy to be bullshitted into believing something that wasn’t totally true.

“Do you remember the summer of 2009?” I asked.

His gaze dropped to the floor for a moment. He looked up, grinning. “How could I forget it? Ghost had that old ’63 Chevy truck with the 409 in it. Damned thing was so fast, it’d spin the tires at a hundred miles an hour. Baker cut off his beard, Cash was fucking that Brazilian chick, and you shaved your head after you lost that bet with the bartender about who could do more pushups. We went to that bike rally in Oceanside, and you brought that chick from the mall. We did that job in Escondido—” Mid-sentence, he paused. His face went stark white. “Oh shit. I’m sorry, Brother. It’s not the hat, is it?”

I wanted to respond but couldn’t seem to get the words to clear my throat. I shook my head.

“She gave it to you, didn’t she?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Keeping something that reminds you of a loss isn’t always a good thing,” he said. “Like the parents who have a child die in an accident. They might keep the bedroom exactly the way the kid left it for years. It stands as a reminder of the loss. The healing begins once they find the strength to put the things away and turn the room into a study.”

“What are you saying?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s best that the hat’s gone. Hell, I didn’t put two and two together. Now that I have, I realize you’ve been clinging onto that summer for ten years. It’s not healthy.”

“Have I been a mental case for the past ten years?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t say that. No.”

“If I hadn’t lost the hat, would you say I needed therapy?”

He smirked. “No more than the rest of us.”

“I’m not unhealthy,” I said. “Mentally, or otherwise.”

“You haven’t dated anyone since that summer.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s unhealthy.”