Page 75 of Misadventures of a Biker

He was physically fit for his age and wasn’t overweight or disproportionate in his build. If anything, he still looked as if he were in the military. His aging chest was broad, his waist was trim, and his arms still bore the shape of an athlete regardless of whether or not they were as muscular as they once were.

He always wore khaki-colored polyester pants, a button-down, short-sleeved shirt, and soft-soled walking shoes. In my opinion, he was adorable in looks and in attitude.

I smiled at his remark. “Thank you.”

“Can’t believe this shit was made in my kitchen.”

“It’s not where it’s made, old man,” Devin said. “It’s who’s making it.”

Herb lowered his fork and gave Devin a dirty look. “Would you just shut up for once? Just once? Let me eat in peace.”

“If you weren’t talking nonsense, we’d all be eating in silence,” Devin retorted. “But you keep saying dumb shit.”

“You don’t have to correct everything I say,” Herb complained.

Having eaten with them on the past four Sundays in a row, I realized their back-and-forth banter was nothing more than playful antics. At first, I didn’t know what to think. I now saw it as entertaining and often found myself goading them into an argument if I could.

“Just try to minimize the stupid remarks,” Devin said.

Being a part of Herb’s weekly routine was something I looked forward to more than I ever would have expected. The death of my parents came at a young age, leaving most of my adult life to be lived without parental figures, family dinners, gift sharing on Christmas, or a celebrated birthday.

Something as simple as Sunday dinner with my biker boyfriend and a retired army veteran was enough to satisfy me to no end.

“Can we make this a tradition?” I asked.

Herb looked up. “This fish? Fuck yes, we can.”

I laughed. “I mean the Sunday gatherings.”

“I declared it a tradition after the first time you showed up,” Herb replied. “I told dipshit if you weren’t here on Sundays, he was going to have to find someplace else to live. His tight ass doesn’t want to spend a dime if he doesn’t have to, so he agreed.”

“Is he frugal?” I asked.

Herb barked out a laugh. “Tell her how long you’ve owned your motorcycle.”

I looked at Devin. “How long?”

“Nineteen years.”

“Wow. Really?”

He nodded. “Really.”

“Ask him about the boots.”

His boots were worn, but they couldn’t be very old. I asked, nevertheless. “What about the boots?”

“Twelve years,” he replied. “Maybe thirteen. They were in a closet for eight of those, though.”

“Don’t make light of the fact that you’re a frugal prick,” Herb snarled. “Most men would have tossed those nasty bastards upon receiving an eight-year sentence. What’d he do? He put them in the back closet. He cleans ’em once a week and oils them nearly every night. Man hates to spend money. The thought of it makes him itch.”

“Really?” I asked.

Devin nodded. “I’ve always been this way.”

“Have you spent any of your bonus?”

He shook his head. “Not a dime.”