Page 77 of Misadventures of a Biker

“I find that refreshing,” he said. “Gals at the clubhouse sit there all day on their phones, pecking away while they eat lunch. Hell, they don’t even talk to each other.”

“Sad, isn’t it?”

“Damned sure is,” he said. “I’ll tell you another thing that’s changed. Sending those damned messages. Before we were married, when I wanted to talk to Midge, I had to walk to her house. She didn’t have a phone, and there were times when we didn’t either. Sometimes, I’d walk all the way to her house—three miles, mind you—only to find out she wasn’t home. If it was the middle of the night and I thought of something I needed to tell her, I couldn’t send her one of those messages. I had to scribble it down on a pad I kept on my nightstand so I didn’t forget, and then I’d tell her the next day.”

“That’s awesome,” I said.

“We had three television channels, too. ABC, NBC, and CBS. The big three, that’s what we called ’em. That was it, until about fifty years ago, when they added PBS. Now I’ve got two hundred twenty of ’em, and I can’t find a damned thing worth watching. They need to bring Laugh-In, I Love Lucy, The Carol Burnett Show, The Honeymooners, and Archie Bunker back on TV. Maybe kids would stop shooting up the schools if there was something meaningful to watch.”

“I think they’d stop shooting up the schools if their parents paid attention to them.”

“You’re probably right.” He looked at Devin. “See how we do this?”

“Do what?” Devin asked.

“Talk without arguing,” Herb replied. “I talk, she talks, I talk, she talks. Neither one of us has to be right, and nobody’s wrong. We’re just chewing the fat, passing time. You should try it sometime.”

“Go to hell, old man.”

Herb looked at me. “What about that pie?”

I shot up from my seat. “Oh, crap.”

I pulled the pie from the oven just in time. After it cooled a little, I served it warm with two scoops of vanilla ice cream.

Herb ate his slowly, seeming to savor each bite. “Reminds me of Midge’s cooking,” he said, directing his comment to Devin. “Your cooking reminds me of Tex Miller. That piece of shit couldn’t cook to save his respective ass.”

“Who’s Tex Miller?” I asked.

“Cook in the army,” Herb replied. “Lazy bastard had three dishes he cooked on rotation. Undercooked scrambled eggs, overcooked burgers, and liver and onions. Dipshit here isn’t much better. He cooks undercooked burgers, overcooked eggs, spaghetti with store-bought sauce, and a damned fine chicken-fried steak.”

“At least he cooks,” I said.

He lifted a scoop of pie. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

Devin glared. “How about you cook next week?”

“How about you pay half the mortgage?” Herb asked.

“How about you kiss my ass?”

“Go fuck a goat,” Herb muttered.

I rolled my eyes and stood. “Anyone want seconds?”

Herb raised his spoon. “Right here, sweetheart. When you get to be my age, you learn to appreciate the finer things in life.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Close friends, distant enemies, quiet sunsets, a loud television, a dark room to sleep in, a bright light to read by, something sour with my Scotch, and something sweet with my meal.” He looked at each of us and smiled a heartfelt smile. “And the most rewarding thing of all is if that meal is with my family.” He handed me his bowl. “Thanks for making this possible, sweetheart.”

I took his bowl and quickly turned toward the kitchen. As I filled it with an extra-large piece of pie, a tear escaped my eye.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, wiping it away with the heel of my palm. “Family dinners are hard to beat.”

Devin sneaked up behind me and kissed my neck. “Impossible.”

Chapter Twenty-Five