The Second Fuck

Part VII of Fuck Me Twice

(Scroll down the blog to read parts 1-6)

In the interest of, ahem, brevity, I will avoid going into great detail about the deaf woman who approached as we pushed the carcass of my Suzuki GT380. She told us she called the police from a payphone regarding the stolen motorcycle in front of her house (turns out she didn't have a phone, or electricity either).

I will refrain from transcribing her vernacular, not because of the wishy washy PC douchebags, but because it would take too long to do so and be far too painful to read.  Suffice it to say she sounded like Helen Keller talking out of some Ebonic Speak N Spell.

The short version of her spiritually and aurally agonizing tale is that the 21 year old turd who stole my motorcycle also happened to have impregnated her 14 year old daughter.  His name was Corey.  I remember this 20 years later because I have never met anyone named Corey that I actually liked.  It just seems like a douchey name.  The Corey in question had a violent streak, so when he wasn't spreading his seed through the statutory rape of young girls he liked to get rough with them.  My heart went out to this woman, and I tried to imagine raising a child and grandchild here in the dark without even a phone, but it was too big.  I had not come to solve all society's ills this night, but merely to return my motorcycle home, preferably before a confrontation with Corey.  Possession is 9/10ths of the law, and if that son of a bitch possessed a knife or a gun, he was the law.

We pushed that motorcycle back through the wasteland as it grew ever heavier.  Three miles might as well have been one thousand as the flat tires made this back-breaking, awkward labor.  The night was stickily humid and black like ink.  Sweat poured down and soaked our clothes without relieving the body.  If only it was cooler, I thought.....

As if in a wry answer from the universe, a terrifying crack rent the night and from some ironic heaven obscured by smog and darkness, a deluge came.  The thunderstorm I wished for three days ago arrived.  At the worst possible moment.  The sky was alight with electricity and thunder broke overhead like bombs exploding.  It rained so hard we couldn't see our hands in front of our faces, let alone push a boat anchor with flat tires.

Luckily we were only two blocks from a friend of Kevin's who allowed us to wheel the beast into her yard.  It was 4 am. Dripping and exhausted we abandoned the bike, agreeing to come back first thing in the morning to remove it.

Kevin went to his girlfriend's house, I returned home.  The rain stopped and the humidity rose again.  I lay in bed, thinking about the work that would be necessary to fix my bike.  Expensive, well beyond any value of the machine, but it seemed like the only appropriate fuck you to the thief and the universe that created him.  I dozed, taking some small satisfaction in the fact that what was left of my motorcycle would be back home tomorrow, and the process of rebuilding could begin.

The telephone jangled me awake at 8:00. It was Kevin.

"Did you come and get that bike already?"

"No, I just woke up."

"It's gone man."

"What?"

"Your bike ain't there. It's gone.  Somebody must have taken it."

Fuck me.  Again.

As I slept, visions of a triple rebuild danced in my head.  All for naught.