Page 42 - Leather Blues

30 Jack Fritscher

screeching. Didn’t even stop at the corner signal.
Martin stuck his greasy head out from under a lube job.
“Damn fool women drivers,” he said.
But Den didn’t hear him. He was thinking instead about
the lunchtime offer. He threw his oily windshield rag into a
plastic pail between the pumps. A few pictures. A few bucks.
Why not.
At ten that night Denny was zipping his leather jacket.
“You never take good care of yourself,” his father said.
“Late hours. Go to bed. Whatever you’re staying up for ain’t
worth it.”
Denny slammed the door on his voice. “Old Man,” he
shouted at the closed door as he back-stepped to the garage.
“Old Man, I take better care of myself than you ever took
of me.” He slapped his hard belly. “You already had a gut
when you were my age. You had to marry straight. To some
mousey woman. No one else would have you.” He sprinted
his way to the garage.
Inside the dark building, with only the lights filtering in
from the street, his was the motorcycle the kids in his old
high school called the hottest bike in town. “They better
believe it,” Den said. He pushed the machine off its mount,
straddled it, and kicked it into roaring life. His cock grew
hard. He gunned the bike. Again and again. Exhaust roiled
out into the moonlight. The revving explosions of the motor
roared down the driveway. Echoed between the houses. A
light on the Hanrattys’ porch flashed on. It was the royal
Hanratty himself: Madonna’s father. Den couldn’t hear
what the old fart yelled. He only saw the paunchy figure
shake his fist as he roared down the drive into the street.
“Screw all you little old ladies of both sexes!”
Once out of the quiet neighborhood, he swerved through
the traffic, gunning and braking, lights flashing red and yel-
low for his slows and turns. He was his machine and half of
what looked like breakneck chances to startled motorists was

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