#standing in lane's room with the floorboards pulled up and the bed flipped over. like. god

[panharmonium]

Mama, please, the phone.

[softpascalito]

I To Dig a Grave I Chapter 4 I

Summary: Twenty-one years after the outbreak, you come to Wyoming looking for something and end up in Jackson after a stranger saves your life.

But he doesn't stay a stranger.

Turns out Joel Miller is looking for something too. It feels like a fresh start. But when bad luck seems to follow you, Joel is the only one to turn to, forcing both of you to confront your feelings about your pasts- and each other.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 16k+ Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Age Difference, Smut, Explicit Content, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Chose not to use Archive Warnings, Tags to be added

AO3 LINK // Series Masterlist // Playlist

notes: thank you guys so much for all the love on the last chapter, sending all of you forehead smooches <3

this fic will deal with heavy topics. please note that it doesn't use archive warnings and tags will be added as we go in order to avoid spoilers. each chapter will have detailed warnings in the end notes on ao3.

Chapter 4 – The Note

‘I wish you goodness but I can’t be around to see it.’ — Unknown

You can't say if you've slept at all. Everything seems not inherently wrong, but unimportant. Your body keeps functioning on its own accord, no doubt using up all the reserves it can. But it functions surprisingly well, given the circumstances. You’re not throwing up anymore. Still, a trashcan is placed next to the bed. A glass of water and some tissues occupy the nightstand that usually sits empty, Joel only using the one on his side of the bed.

It’s a bittersweet reminder that you don’t belong here. It’s not your bed or your house, Joel is not yours. The things that are yours are undoubtedly being inspected by whoever Maria has tasked with investigating the situation. Kitchen drawers being rummaged through, notebooks for your classes being picked apart. Looking at a room and weighing whether or not it could’ve belonged to someone who wanted to leave.

You wonder whether or not they’ve found the letter yet. Considering where Lane could’ve placed it so that you wouldn’t see. It suddenly strikes you that she must have been gone when you woke up. That while you were tiptoeing around the bathroom and kitchen, trying to make no noise that could wake her, her bed was empty.

You avoid going further down that road. You don’t think you could stand it if she’d already been dead while you drank your coffee and pulled on your winter coat and flipped through books without a care in the world.

Life pretending that it was still as it had been the day before.

Joel got up a while ago, far too early if the darkness outside the windows is anything to go by. You felt the mattress dip and then rise as he disentangled himself from the sheets while you were giving no sign that you were awake and listened to the floorboards creak as he headed through the room and escaped into the hallway.

It takes you a solid ten minutes to convince your body to crawl out from under the warm covers, still radiating the smell you’ve come to associate with Joel, and pad over to the bathroom. You try hard not to look into the mirror. Of course, just like with everything else, you fail.

The face staring back at you carries dark circles, glassy eyes. The corners of your mouth are slightly cracked, no doubt from last night's intense heaving. But what strikes you most is that every part of your face seems rid of any emotion. There is no light in your eyes. They look just as dead as you imagine Lane’s to be.

You stare at your reflection until your eyes begin to burn. You try to remember to blink. To take a breath and then another and another. Nothing seems to work like it should.

Joel is in the kitchen when your feet carry you downstairs a few minutes later. He pretends to be very busy with the dishes, but you know he’s been waiting for you to wake up. He reaches for the checkered dish towel to wipe his hands before turning his full attention to you. He doesn’t look like he has slept much either. His salt-and-pepper hair is a tad messier than usual. It suddenly strikes you how much lighter it has become since you first met him.

“Hey,” he mumbles, standing in front of you a bit sheepishly. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. “Do you want to have breakfast?”

“Did they bring her letter yet?” You both speak at the same time and then fall quiet.

You can see his shoulders sinking a bit as he takes in your words and his tone sounds careful when he shakes his head. “Not yet. I'm sure they will, in a bit.”

His eyes are trained on your expression and you're close enough that you are certain he is seeing you the same way you saw the person in the mirror. Empty, lifeless. Dead.

“Do you want to go back to bed?” he asks tentatively but you immediately shake your head. 

“No, I won't be able to sleep anyway.”

Joel gives a small grumble at that, deep in his throat. It almost sounds like disappointment. “You didn't sleep?” 

You sigh a little, again shaking your head. “Maybe a bit. I'm not sure.” After a moment, you add, “My brain feels all weird today.”

He nods, slowly taking a step forward and wrapping an arm around you. “Your brain is allowed to feel a bit weird today, all things considered.” For a few moments, you both just stay like that, his hand trailing over your back, rubbing circles into the fabric of your shirt. His eyes fall to your legs, both noticeably banged up from your fall yesterday.

“Does it still hurt?” he mutters, tilting his head to get a better look. 

“It's just a scratch.” When Joel reaches out to touch the small band-aid he insisted on putting onto your knee last night, you take a step back, causing him to freeze in his tracks.

“I’m fine. I'll go and read.”

Joel gives you a few minutes by yourself before he follows you into the living room, placing two mugs of coffee and some crackers on the table before sitting down on the couch. You're curled up on the armchair, only a few steps away from the front door, occasionally casting a glance out of the window to your right. The darkness is slowly fading, dawn ruthlessly drawing closer.

You've picked up a book without really bothering to check what it is. The cover is made of cloth, the color slightly faded, but the texture feels intact. It's a comforting weight in your lap and an even better excuse to keep your eyes off Joel, hyperaware that he is still watching your every move.

You feel like you're back to square one, to the first time you stepped foot into his house. Being taken in and assessed, like a wounded animal. Checking the damage, weighing the options. Deciding whether or not it should be put out of its misery.

Joel leans forward a bit, reaching for a small piece of wood that sits among a few others on the table. Then, he gets out the whittling knife that he keeps in the pocket of his jeans and begins to chip away. 

Even with his eyes focused on the work in front of him, he can tell you're not really reading, your gaze unmoving. You haven't turned the page in at least ten minutes. But he knows not to push. He's content to sit here and wait by your side.

The silence during the next hours is only broken by the small sounds coming from Joel whittling. The small piece of wood he fetched before dawn has turned into the shape of an animal, continuously getting more clear as he works on it. You've put the book down an hour ago, giving up on pretending to read and instead just switching between staring at Joel's hands or into space.

You're certain it's the worst you've ever felt. Sitting and waiting, with the prospect of the letter of a dead girl being delivered today. The impatience drives you out of your seat, makes you pace, first in front of the fireplace, then behind the couch. Back and forth. You try counting the floorboards below you. There are twenty-seven, spanning through the entire room. You step on each one, avoiding the cracks in between. You sit back down. You curl up deeper into your armchair, staring out of the window.

You see him coming down the street before he sees you. When Tommy steps onto the porch, the door is already ajar, your form half hiding behind it. You don't notice the sad smile he sends you. Instead, your eyes are glued to the small paper envelope in his hand.

“Why don’t you come inside?” Joel says quietly from behind you, gently moving you to the side in order to let his brother enter. 

Tommy awkwardly stands in the small hallway for a moment before holding out the envelope. He clears his throat. “Reckon you’ve been waiting for this.” 

You nod automatically, taking the piece of paper from him with a gentle motion and then immediately clutching it to your chest. Tommy’s eyes fly from you to Joel, his eyebrow raising just a tiny bit. 

“Right,” Joel mutters, nodding into the direction of the kitchen. “Why don’t you grab some coffee?” You hear Tommy move further into the house while your fingers are caressing the envelope, staring at the letters on it that form your name.

“Do you want me to stay with you while you—” Joel gestures towards the letter. He watches your face closely as you shake your head. 

“No. I need to do this alone I think.”

“Okay. We’ll be right here if you need anything,” Joel mumbles quietly and reassuringly pats your back before he follows Tommy into the kitchen, leaving you standing in the hallway with a heavy feeling in your chest and the words of a dead girl in your hands.

***

You sit down on the bed, your entire body seemingly numb as you open the envelope and stare at the paper in your hands, filled with the smooth and playful handwriting you've come to recognize so easily.

I know you will not understand this,

You take a deep breath, trying to keep your hands from shaking so much that you can’t make out the words on the page. You already know what's coming and still you dread hearing the words in your head.

but I have decided to end my own life.

You stare at them for a moment. Trying to take them in, weighing them in your mind, trying to understand. But there is no understanding inside of you. Not for this.

I love you so incredibly much. I loved living with you and our time in Jackson was among the best I've had. I’m sorry to be the one to cut it short.

A dull pain throbs in your chest. You ignore it.

You deserve good things. But I know not many have been handed to you so far. I wish I could've been the one to give them to you.

Please do not blame yourself. This was my decision. I promise I’m at peace now.

Her words make you want to scream and cry and curl up into a ball and never speak to anyone ever again and do nothing but wait for Lane to come back. 

Instead, you just quietly hold the letter a little higher to avoid your tears staining the paper.

I know you came to Jackson looking for something. I really do hope you find it.

I wish you the most wonderful life.

I love you, forever.

Lane

***

“I don’t like this,” Joel mutters, his fingers anxiously tapping the counter he’s leaning on. His glance keeps wandering to the doorway, half expecting you to come running in at any moment and bury yourself in his arms. But there is no noise from upstairs, the only sounds in the old house being those of the clock on his kitchen wall and Tommy’s occasional small sighs.

“She shouldn't be alone,” he insists, unsure if he's actually talking to his brother or to himself.

“She's not alone, in a way,” Tommy says quietly. He's staring into his mug, clearly deep in thought as well. “In a way—” He shakes his head. “She's having her last moments with Lane.”

“Oh, gimme a break.” Joel groans, his right hand flying up to pinch his nose. “Do you realize how messed up that is? Leaving her a letter, with no chance to ever reply? The poor girl can’t sleep, she’s not eating—I ain’t trying to talk badly about Lane, god knows she was a sweet girl and I’m sure she had her issues—but she shouldn’t be putting ‘em on someone else just cause she feels like she can.”

At that, Tommy looks up, surveying his brother. All the softness has left his tone, replaced by a harshness that carries a tinge of accusation.

“Are you really the one to judge this?”

“Tommy-” Joel's voice has dropped a good bit too, making him sound like a growling dog. For a split moment, it feels like they’re back to their time before the QZ, back to the fights and the constant tension.

Joel drops his arm, waving his hand slightly. “This ain’t like that.”

“Bullshit.” Tommy gets up so suddenly that Joel startles slightly, but the younger Miller brother just gives a dry laugh and reaches to pour himself more coffee. “Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna hit you, old man.”

The quiet is broken by the small trickle of the coffee. Tommy glances towards Joel's mug to find it empty. “You want another cup?”

“Yes, please,” Joel mumbles, watching as Tommy pours the rest of the brown liquid into his mug. He places the kettle back on the stove before pausing.

“It is exactly like that, Joel. Now I ain’t saying I agree with what she did. But ‘t was her choice. Ain’t nothing we—” He nods towards the ceiling. “—or her can do about that.”

A small groan escapes Tommy’s lips as he sits back down at the kitchen table, stretching his legs. “Talking about it. How’s she been?”

Joel considers his words for a moment. “Bad. I don't know.” His gaze flies to the doorway again, each minute ticking by making him more restless.

“I talked to Maria this morning. Word should’ve reached everyone by now. The whole town is- they're in shock. Everyone’s devastated.” Tommy keeps his eyes on Joel as he takes a sip of his coffee, taking in his brother's silence.

“D’you think she knew? That Lane was gonna—” 

“No.” The answer shoots out of Joel's mouth before he can even consider it. Did you know? Or at least had an idea that something was happening under the surface? He hasn't even thought to ask, not with everything that's been going on.

“It’s just that, with this sort of thing, folks will ask questions—”

“Yeah, well, they won't be asking her any.” Joel suddenly feels like the room is much too small for him and Tommy. He’s dimly aware that this is technically not his job—that you're an adult and not his responsibility, that he should leave the decisions to you—but then he remembers the way you looked on his bathroom floor last night, dry heaving and sobbing so hard he was sure you were gonna pass out from the lack of oxygen.

“She ain’t ready for that.”

Tommy nods, finally averting his gaze. He knows this tone, the slight edge in it. It means there will be no further discussion and he's not keen to push for a fight in the current situation. He finishes his mug, draining it of the last drops.

“There's one more thing. Lane’s mother wants a proper burial. We've been talking to Eugene about it and—” He clicks his tongue a little as he shakes his head. “With the ground frozen over like that, there's no way to dig a grave.”

It's something Joel already should’ve considered. He's been around long enough to know these things, having dug more than enough graves himself. It was hard labor under the best of conditions. But plainy impossible during the Wyoming winter. 

He's not sure why, when he knows all this, Tommy’s words strike him so hard. The girl who hasn’t made it to twenty-six is not even gonna get a grave.

***

You probably should be breaking down. Screaming or sobbing, hell, maybe throwing up again. Surely your body shouldn’t be so still, quiet, small breaths entering your lungs. Surely you should've stopped breathing by now.

But the body is relentless. It will keep you alive as long as it can, despite the thoughts in your head and the grief that seems to spin a cocoon around you, cutting you off from the things that are right in front of you, making them seem miles and miles away.

You have no idea how long you’ve been sitting there when you stand up abruptly. You avoid reading the words again as you slip the letter back into its envelope and place it in the drawer of the nightstand Joel doesn't use.

You don't remember leaving the bedroom or walking down the wooden stairs. But somehow you're standing in the kitchen, with Joel kneeling in front of you. His right hand is intertwined with yours, his calloused fingers brushing past your knuckles and over the soft skin on the back of your hand. His thumb is gently massaging your palm, rubbing small circles into it.

You flinch a bit and, immediately, his features soften. “There you are. Can you hear me?” You manage a shaky nod.

“Good,” Joel praises quietly, still keeping up the circular motions on your skin. “You doin’ real good, darlin’. Now, do you know where you are?”

Your eyes leave him and fly around the room. Joel's kitchen looks exactly how you remember it, with the addition of two empty mugs standing next to the sink. You recognize the one with the owl painted on it as his. Maybe the other is yours, but you can’t recall drinking anything.

“Hm?” Joel hums quietly.

“We’re in your kitchen.” Relief floods Joel's face at that and he nods a little more eagerly. “That’s right. Think you can help me and sit down right there?” He jerks his head into the direction of the small table below the window and begins to move, very slowly pulling you along by your hand.

You pause just as you reach the table. “What time is it?”

Joel turns his head, squinting at the clock at the opposite wall. “Half past ten.” He tugs on your hand again. “Come on, sit down.”

But you are moving in the opposite direction, taking a step back. “I have to go and teach.”

Joel sighs but his voice stays patient. “Honey, you’re on leave, okay? You’re in no state to be teaching. Now come here.”

It’s the quiet, added “Please.” that makes you do as told.

A steaming mug is placed in front of you shortly after. “Made you some tea. Just be careful, ‘t’s still hot.” Your hands are close enough to feel the heat radiating off it and, slowly, you think you are coming back to yourself. Or rather, to the house you’re sitting in.

The cocoon is still there, so is the faulty wire. But they seem to hit you in waves rather than a constant state of anxiety. Somehow, that is worse. You could get used to a metaphorical limp, one that is a constant. But the waves make you feel like you’re drowning in them. If you could only take a deep breath before they come, fill your lungs with the air you need so urgently. But they hit you out of nowhere. You never see them coming.

Joel sighs a little, nudging the mug towards you. “Come on, at least try it.”

“I still have a mug of coffee in the living room,” you suddenly remember. You can’t recall whether or not you drank any of it.

“Honey, that was cold hours ago,” Joel says carefully. “The tea is still warm. Much better, right?”

You find that you can’t argue with that so you take a few, hesitant sips. The heat settles in your stomach. The tide is retreating. Breathing comes a little easier.

Maybe Joel feels the same or maybe he can just tell, somehow. But he too seems to relax a bit more as he watches you drink.

“It’s good,” you press out, craving words to fill the silence.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Not those words.

You shake your head and are incredibly thankful when Joel doesn’t push it this time. Still, you can tell that he looks troubled. “Want me to do some talking instead?”

“Okay,” you mumble, carefully taking another sip of your tea as you wait for him to speak.

“I talked to Tommy earlier, ‘bout some stuff regarding her—‘nd the next few days. Everyone’s been real sad. We thought it may be—” He cringes at the next word. “Nice to have a wake. Give people a chance to say goodbye and grieve before we bury her.” “Okay.”

He sighs, his eyes searching yours. He considers for a moment whether or not he should go on, explain that the burial can’t happen for a while, at least not with a body being put into the ground. Joel opens his mouth—and sees how much you seem to have aged in just a day.

He stays quiet.

Somehow, he gets you through the day. It’s late afternoon when a groan escapes Joel as he sits down on the couch. His back hurts and his head hurts and he is so goddamn tired. He hasn’t slept a second, having been too worried that you could wake up before him and sneak off.

He leans back into the soft fabric, stretching his legs slightly. You’re upstairs, taking a shower. Surely, it won’t hurt if he closes his eyes for just a minute.

***

It’s dark in the living room when Joel wakes again. The light that was streaming in through the windows earlier is gone and his heart rate instantly shoots up, the organ pumping wildly in his chest. He’s on his feet before his brain fully registers the situation. He moves quietly through the dark house, finding the kitchen and dining room empty.

He’s lucky that his left ear is turned towards the hallway when a small noise travels down the stairs. Joel reaches the landing of the upper floor with his revolver drawn. A trail of dim light falls through a crack in the door to his workshop.

Without making a noise, he pushes it open—and all tension immediately leaves his body. You’re perched on the stool he usually occupies, on the far corner of the tables that are arranged below the windows in an L-shape. The typewriter he’s been meaning to fix sits in front of you.

Joel tucks the gun back into his jeans as he opens the door further. The small creak, combined with the noise of footsteps, catches your attention and suddenly, Joel finds you turning towards him. He raises his hands slightly as he crosses the room. “Sorry. I fell asleep.”

“I know. I didn't want to wake you. You seemed really tired.” Joel stops right behind you, a small grumble escaping his throat as he strains his neck to see what you’re working on.

“You should wake me up,” he says quietly, his eyes wandering over the stack of paper and the tools scattered around the typewriter. “What are you doing?”

It's your turn to sigh, raising your shoulders a bit and letting them fall again after a moment. “I wanted to write a speech. For the service.” You can hear Joel swallow behind you.

“That's a nice idea. You sure you're up for it though?”

“Yeah, I’m—It’s okay. Or it would be, if this thing worked,” you groan, reaching for the screwdriver you’d put down when he joined you.

“Been meaning to fix it for a while. I can do it tomorrow if you like. Or now, if it’s urgent,” Joel mutters, taking another small step towards you, one hand placed on your back. He’s close enough that you can smell his body wash. His free hand, the one that had been closed around a gun less than a minute ago, moves over your shoulder and carefully pries the tool out of your hand.

“It’s late. You should get some sleep, at least.” It’s so caring that, again, you don’t find it in you to protest.

“Okay.”

A small, sad smile plays around Joel’s lips at that. He puts the screwdriver down, his form hovering above yours a split moment longer than necessary. Then, he leans forward and places a small kiss on the crown of your head.

“Come on. Off to bed.”

“Can I have a drink before we go?” If the question startles him, he doesn’t let it show.

“Yeah. Sure,” he says quietly. “Believe it or not, I was about to suggest that myself. You like whiskey, right?”

You’re content to find, half an hour later, that with your throat and belly warmed by the alcohol and the rest of your body warmed by Joel's form next to you, an arm draped around your shoulder as he pulls you into his chest, the waves that you could feel crashing in on you earlier seem to stay away. At least for the night.

if you enjoyed the chapter, please consider reblogging/sharing or commenting, i promise it will be the highlight of my day <3

[chiefbeck]

Chapter 19: A Ride to the Smoke Out

Note to the faint hearted: if you don’t dig these biker stories, feel free to jump a couple of chapters. I am going to tell them as I saw them from my perspective and then catch up to you later.

The Smoke Out is a huge event with half a million motorcycles put on once a year by The Horse, an old school chopper magazine. This is a typical ride that I was part of back in the mid two-thousands and the wording and type of writing style is from when I was called “caveman.” The style of writing is choppy and full of jargon; if you don’t dig it, then skip the chapter and miss out on the story that you will never live. Up to you; I’m still sitting here at the fire telling stories.

OoO

Cast of characters for this ride are as follows:

*Caveman, known as Kristin many years and a “life” later, grew up on a motorcycle. He actually left home in high school to live in the woods to keep a bike against his mother’s wishes. He was the old school biker, big beard and always the one who knew what was up with what – building his motorcycles from the ground up, balancing the flywheels with 2x4s and a hammer, checking the lapping of the valves with a can of beer; yup, this is how it’s done. Growing up a biker is different than going to a Harley shop and just buying one.

*Sanchez, was number two and just starting to ride in this group of roughnecks. He has been riding for years, and was one of the only bikers that could ride with caveman at 80mph a foot away, high fiving or passing the whiskey flask.

*Bear, his name says it all. His first bike was a frame that Caveman gave him to start building a bike. That frame is still engineless in the back yard. But that’s another story.

*Trapper, was the quiet dude. Not sure if he said 8 words in 3 days.

*Wrencher, he was a Wildman, born biker and kind of crazy. His name, well if you are of female persuasion then you can ask. I am not...

*Speedster was only with us for the ride south then went off with some chicks never to be seen again.

The rest of the crew you will figure. Any terminology that is out of whack you can look up on a fancy adding machine, Google or some such contraption. Dang, I still like to kick-start my bike... not going to look up words.

THE RIDE TO SMOKE OUT was back in 2006. It was a couple of states ride for us; no problem.

The Ride was planned to start at 5pm, not the best time to start a 7- hour ride, especially with dumping rain and hurricane warnings playing on the news. We delay even more and order 36 pounds of Chinese food. Bear eats 12 pounds of it in about 8 minutes. Caveman gets the shits and takes 2 Imodium; his guts are still messed up from the gulf war. Not always the best way to start a ride, but we are off at 930pm, its dark and cloudy and only drizzling.

Caveman’s Panhead won’t start. After about 40 kicks, he’s sweating buckets. Freaking old school bikers don’t believe in electric starters. Bull pulls the air cleaner cover off and shows the black K&N air filter. Seems the air filter was clogged worse than a grease trap at the all night diner. Caveman stated “Hell, haven’t needed to clean it; the Pan always starts.”

Add a shiny bright air cleaner and the old bike starts on two kicks.

Now we are rolling.

Caveman on the PAN was leading, Wrencher to his right up front, then Bull, Sanchez and Trapper taking up the last of the pack. We keep the pack tight about five feet, sometimes closer, between the bikes riding side by side. That’s how we rolled to North Carolina.

Five minutes into the trip... hitting an S turn onramp Caveman rides his kickstand on the left part of the S sliding 20 feet with sparks flying, then flips his bike over to turn in the other direction and rides his pipes for the rest of the turn. Sanchez who keeps his three-foot spread directly on Caveman’s tail rides both floorboards up the onramp and onto the

highway. YEAH! The ride started like the 4th of JULY with sparks flying and crazy bikers yelling at the world to stay the fuck out of our way!

The four rode all night through wind, rain and cold to Salisbury, North Carolina; at one point, the rain was coming in sideways and we had to slow to 30MPH and ride by brail. We also had a good time telling Sanchez we were going to kick his ass for telling us, “Don’t worry, it’s not gonna rain.” His retort was about not being a weatherman or some shit.

We couldn’t stop! Caveman had a plan and we were not going to fail. At the last fuel stop, Caveman said “Suck it up; we are riding all night. If I have to push this bike the rest of the way, I am gonna make it to the Smoke Out.”

Arrived at the campgrounds at around 0330, we ride on into town looking for the campsite and the thousands of crazy bikers partying till the sun comes up. Tired and cold we arrived at the Rock Harley Saloon campsite about 0430. The Rock Harley Saloon is a good biker bar with beer cans and broken bottles littering every corner, but everyone’s passed out, damn. The Campground was wet and muddy and with no apparent place to park the bikes or catch some shut eye. We pulled the bikes up into the parking lot out front. Making a square like old west wagons and bedded down and made camp. Bull, Sanchez and Trapper all slept in the middle of the square on the asphalt with Caveman sleeping just outside the square but next to his bike on a small strip of grass. Something about him being the smart one. We all thought so until caveman says “You guys smell Dog shit?”.... “I smell dog shit.” ... “Dang, its right here under my poncho.” Too tired to move everything. Fuck-it, it’s not touching me, it’s under my poncho. “ga-nite Bro’s”. Sanchez says “Damn, I thought I was done sleeping in ‘the shit’ when I left Iraq,” and starting laughing.

I Awoke when the alarm went off, the sun. Some RUBS (rich urban bikers) are amused at our asphalt campsite, but on this night even a few bikers realize what living on the edge is and pay respect to the four bedded down in the parking lot. We are dreaming of the party that lay only a few hours of sleep away.

We awaken and are packing out for the ride to the show; then some fucking inconsiderate rich dude parks right on top of our makeshift campsite while he lets his bike sit there and idle, it’s around 630am. Not

thinking that no one wants to hear a baffled Honda idle first thing in the morning, finally after 10 minutes they ride away toward the show.

We break camp at 0730 and pack up our wet gear. On the road riding to the show, Caveman is so fired up he stands up on his seat as we’re rolling down the road at 50 mph. Sanchez lets out a war whoop; Bull is pumping his fist, and the mellow Trapper is just smiling. Good ole Wrencher is still in a warm bed at some girlfriend’s house down the road.

Pulling up to the Smoke Out, we noticed no other bikes around just some venders and some folks working the gate...wtf, we’re early ...well at least first in line.

Sitting around until the gate opens, Caveman thinks he has not touched his Pan in at least 6 hours and feels the need to mess with it now, checks for parts that are loose or fell off on the ride. Looking the Pan over, he notices that he needs to readjust his pipe that got a good scrapping sliding through the on ramp a half a day ago. It is the old spigot clamp that never stays on anyway. It’s bent at a funny angle and not lining up. We pull his pipe off and have to bend it back in shape. What better way to do this than to have two guys stand on his bike as counter weight while Caveman puts the pipe under his bike and using the bike as leverage he straightens the pipe to the surprise of all the onlookers passing by.

Putting it back together Caveman says we can all ride into the event.

It takes about 12 kicks to get the pan going.

We all Notice how many bikers there were pulling their bikes off trailers to enter the chop-off. They have it all wrong. “If you can’t ride it to the Smoke-Out, keep your chrome bucket at home”.

We are all inside, and Caveman is busy registering his Harley for the bike competition for the best bike of the show called “the Chop-off.” Everyone else was buying water and coffee.

We run into a friend who is the Master of Ceremony for the event. He has the gift of gab and got that gig; He asks for our help for some of the events. Events like the naked anvil toss, backstage security for the band, personal security for the horse maiden (very beautiful girl that was in the

magazine), personal security for this month’s cover girl and then, finally, the hospitality RV packed with food and air-conditioning that was supposed to be for the rock band.

This was cool, because all of us are young bucks in the military and have barely any money, so the food and a few beers for standing around as security were a great deal. In the process we met tons of cool people, kicked a few wanna-be’s from behind the stage and ate and drank most of the bands food and wine. We even got a few t-shirts and did a few other things that will never get written down.

Bull even got a picture and a book signed by Billy Lane before Billy was “detained” later that evening by the local fuzz. We were rock and rollers cruising around looking at bikes and drinking beer.

The Smoke Out event started closing around 11pm.

We rode out to the after hour’s party expecting to see a few rooms with some bikers and a few beers. Damn if that was a wrong picture to paint.

The cops set up barricades and patrols around the entire Holiday Inn to keep the public away... we had free reign in that place. There were campers; hundreds of bikes, two burn-out pits and a hole shot area, naked girls and debauchery, everything a biker could ask for. It was like Disneyland.

The cops were patrolling around just enough to keep anyone from killing each other or doing anything extra stupid.

Billy Lane was the only one to get arrested; He was riding up on one of his chops with no helmet; the cops pulled him over; Billy says some shit the cops didn’t like; Billy has his hands on the hood and his legs spread; they put him in cuffs in the paddy wagon and haul him downtown. He was the only one in the pen. The saying is sometimes true, “If you’re going to be stupid, you better be tough.” We need to add being rich on that saying for dumb asses like Billy.

Meanwhile at the Holiday Inn, Caveman was making new friends. The infamous Painter George pulls up on his beater bike that he rides around the country. He paints motorcycles or baked potatoes to make

money to fix his bike so he can ride some more. His saying should be “Paint to ride, Paint to ride, Paint to ride.” Caveman says to George, “The coolest thing I ever saw was when you had the bozos at Orange County Choppers sign that piece of rotten bologna. That was some good lampoon. OCC are dumbasses.”

Painter George as we found out later from other builders was sick of hearing about the damn bologna and wanted people to know about his paint jobs not the damn bologna.

Around 0430 right in the parking lot, Caveman pulls out his poncho, hooks it onto the Panhead’s spokes making a makeshift biker tent. Gotta sleep and get ready for another day of partying and riding.

He does this with people still partying 10 feet away; they look on and wonder what the fuck? They see him crawl in beside his leaking old Panhead; a few of them are still wondering, a few others are looking on, knowing. There isn’t anything like sleeping on asphalt after a good night of partying... The others party for a couple more hours and finally make their tents near Caveman and crash out.

We wake at 0700 getting ready for the trip back home and the grind of ordinary life.

Caveman’s seat was not so comfy; it has a rigid frame and no shocks that was chopped in 1973 by a SEAL team guy returning from the War. This Harley, a 1960 old school bike is a hand me down from three other SEALs who spent time in Viet fuckin’ Nam. It was chopped up in Rocky’s living room, and then welded together with coat hangers and a torch. It had many other nice little additions only done in the 60s and 70s. Caveman learned all the tricks from these guys and could build a heck of a bike himself. The seat is hurting bad so Caveman takes a few biker magazines and a towel and wraps it up with electrical tape making a bigger seat, a bit more comfy for the 7 hour ride.

The seat fixed we head to the IHOP for breakfast.

We were sittin’ there talkin’ about all the bikes being loaded up on trailers going to and from the Smoke Out. Shit man you can’t trailer a bike to the smoke out that is the uncoolest thing ever. That’s when we had to resort to the Wookie Defense, which makes all of us start laughing our guts

out. Anyone that doesn’t know the Wookie Defense, here is a snippet. You see, Chewbacca is from Endor and he’s a 9 foot tall Wookie. The rest of the planet is a bunch of 2 foot tall Ewoks. Now that just does not make any sense. Why would a 9 foot tall Wookie be living with a bunch of Ewoks? Fuckin’ poser fake bikers with bikes on trailers down to the smoke out? That does not make sense. It was funny to us in our half-drunk IHOP delusion, maybe not so much now?

We finish the breakfast and get riding; the pan magically starts in 3 kicks. It’s going to be a good ride home.

Meanwhile 50 minutes later as Stan Lee would say... ahhh, never mind.

Riding home on the 85 within view of another huge RV that was towing a trailer with 10 bikes on it; Yeah we gave them the finger riding by their huge RV.

...shit giving them the finger was the wrong thing to do! Dang karma.

About 5 minutes later, Caveman’s rear fender bolt fails, and the fender digs a deep gash in his tire, spewing rubber and smoke down the highway.

Caveman starts grabbing gears, brakes or whatever was humanly possible, sliding sideways for a bit then straight, then sliding sideways again, slowing from 80mph to 30mph in mere seconds, smoking and throwing rubber. The rest of the pack around Caveman react and slow and pull over, luckily without mishap. Thanks to the Biker gods.

After everyone gets to the side of the road and Caveman is looking pissed at having his bike down hard and kicks the guardrail, smoke is still rolling off his bike, almost on fire. Sanchez is standing there smiling and almost laughing; the others don’t know how to act. Caveman asks in a bewildered and kind of pissed way, “What the fuck is so funny?”

Sanchez says, “Dude that was some bad ass riding, your bike fucking blows up, smoking and throwing shit all over the place. We all just rode to hell with you, and somehow make it to the side of the road.”

Just as Sanchez finishes what he is saying, that fucking RV with all the bikes on the trailer rode right past; they were flipping us off, heads sticking out of the windows yelling at us.” Damn this is kind of funny.

Bull and Trapper are laughing now; finally, Caveman starts laughing. “Yeah, I guess that was some good humor; let’s see if we can ride this thing home.”

Looking over the pan we see a deep gash down the middle of the rear tire. The gash is bad but it’s still holding air, let’s see how far we can go... So the fender gets fixed with a hanger from the bag of tools and other stuff caveman always has hanging off his bike, and then the ride starts again.

We have great weather with rain for only 50 miles...It’s a kick ass ride home, fast and good spirits. The Bear was close and keeping an eye on the Pan’s rear tire.

By the time we hit Portsmouth, Virginia we are all literally hallucinating from lack of sleep, food and water... what a ride!

OoO

Yup, those were the ridding days. We would ride 400 miles sometimes just to get into Georgia to eat some peaches. Any excuse to jump on the Harley and go for a ride, wind in the hair and flying down the highway. I miss my old 1960 Panhead Harley.

Ok, one more biker story... I miss these days and thinking about building another Harley from scratch. This time without the grenade launcher for a tail pipe. That bike was in Easy Rider, I can do better...