Page 68 of Misadventures of a Biker

“I don’t know that I’d describe anything that included him as being fun,” Herb said. “But it’s often entertaining.”

“How about we agree to cuss,” Teddi said, winking at me as she spoke. “We’ll just be ourselves.”

“Sounds good to me,” Herb said. “As long as dipshit agrees to it.”

“I’ll agree if you can keep it civil,” I said.

“Fuck it,” Teddi said with a laugh. “It’s settled. We’re cussing.”

Herb poked a piece of gravy-slathered steak into his mouth and looked at Teddi. “You know, when you jumped dipshit’s ass in that meeting right after he started, I told him he should have told you to go fuck a goat. Now that I’m getting to know you, hell, I like you.”

Teddi smiled. “He was intimidating at first. I overreacted.”

“That’s not what you said, old man.” I gestured to him with the tines of my fork. “But whatever.”

“I thought we were being civil?”

“Civil and honest,” I said.

Herb swallowed his food and took a drink of tea. He looked at Teddi. “I told him you should fuck a goat.” He looked at me. “There, is that better?”

Teddi gasped. “Holy cow.”

“Goddammit, old man,” I seethed.

He gave me a look. “You said to be honest.”

“I meant if you can’t be honest, don’t speak.”

“Well, that’s not what you said,” he huffed.

“It’s fine,” Teddi interjected. “I probably would have skull fucked me too.”

We all had a laugh and continued with our meals. It was a nice change having Teddi at Sunday dinner. Herb saw us as the children he never had the time to father, and we each saw him as the parent we’d lost at an age earlier than we were prepared to let go.

We talked about Jeopardy’s best all-time players, Vanna White’s tits, and the recent resurgence of game shows like Match Game, The $100,000 Pyramid, and Let’s Make a Deal. Convinced that there was a place in my life for Teddi and that she was in it, I picked the steak from between my teeth and listened to her and Herb attempt to solve the world’s problems.

“I think the government needs to get its hands out of everything,” Herb complained. “They overtax us, regulate shit that’s none of their business, and can’t seem to make decisions when it’s high time to do so. Guns, drugs, terrorists, don’t get me—”

Herb flinched at the sound of someone pounding on the door.

“Who in the hell could that be?” he asked.

I didn’t need to ask. The “cop knock” was all too familiar.

Herb rose from his seat and shuffled to the door. Upon opening it, he began his tirade.

“What did I tell you the last time you came banging on my door like that?” Herb asked. “What the fuck are you doing here on the Sabbath? Don’t you rotten pricks ever take a day off?”

“I need to see Mr. Wallace,” my parole officer announced.

Herb leaned to the side, giving a clear view of the dinner table. “There,” he said. “You can see him. Now get the hell out of here.”

I stood. “It’s all right, old man.”

“Who is it?” Teddi whispered.

“My parole officer.”