Red Molly

This short fiction is for my good friend Jim La Marche, who first introduced me to the Richard Thompsons song “1952 Vincent Black Lightning”.

She came roaring into my life on a vintage Norton motorcycle. Yellow and chrome.  She pulled her helmet off her head, spilling out her medium length red hair. Dressed all in black, she was someone you could not look away from. Eyes from every direction swung round to stare.

Seeing this woman, in the ordinarily landscape of  Wyoming , did something to you. It played with and heightened your senses. It lifted something off you. You became buoyant with the desire that she might look your way, and smile.

She dismounted the bike, strolled right past me into the hardware store on my left. I was slouching against the front of the cafe, my belly full of breakfast. Probably some scrap of food clinging to my shirt front. I looked down, and to my amazement, no food, no stains. Just the pouch of a beer belly peeking back at me.

I wondered for a while if this would be just another day for me; of sitting in the shade, drinking ice tea, thinking about Lori, and why we couldn’t be together. She wanted me to be better. “Better than what?” I said. “Well, just better than now”, she replied.

I tried, I did. But it wasn’t to going to happen. Probably, the previous three decades of my existence were not a prelude to ‘better’. I’d lived through some shitty times, and shittier relationships just to get here. Here, was not much better.

She walked out of the hardware store and stood directly in front of me. “You wouldn’t have a 10 millimeter socket on you, would you?” she said.  “All the time.” I replied.

“You’re a fuckin liar!  But I like your attitude.”

We walked over to her bike parked at the curb. She bent down and pulled off the side cover to expose the tool kit, pulled out the kit, and unrolled it on the asphalt next to the bike.

“I was just pulling your chain, asking about the 10 millimeter socket.  I know, no one can find the one they have,” she said.  I pulled one from my front pocket and showed it to her. “Oh, fuck off.” she exclaimed. But she wasn’t mad, more amused that someone would wait and plan for a opportunity like this, just to fuck with someone else’s head.

But, that’s me. Always ready to fuck with someone’s reality. They think their reality belongs to them, when it is just a flip of the cards whether it’s the Ace or the joker that comes face up. That’s the reality of life. Just a flip of the cards.

I’d like to say after we buttoned up the tool kit and put things back together, I climbed on the back of her bike, and rode off into the distance with her, but that didn’t  happen. She had a single seat on her bike, for a very good reason.

“I don’t like to carry the past with me.” she said.

So we checked into the motel at the far end of town, and made love for two days straight, until neither of us could take any more.

On the third morning, she roared out of town on the Norton;  ridden by the one woman who could break this busted up cowboy, away from the dust and the dirt and the boredom. It wasn’t going to get any “better”.

I wasn’t the one dealing the cards.

If you liked this short fiction, hit the heart button. Or better yet, share it with someone you know.