Mason

As a little boy Mason had posters of Evel Knievel and Easy Rider on his wall. He was fascinated with their motorcycles. The exposed engine reminded him of a bare ribcage and two great chrome lungs. He admired the men and the bikes for their lawlessness and free spirit, but most of all how they were displayed by the machine. The motorcycle was excitement and liberation, it was a context set apart from the world that Mason wanted to frame himself in.

He learned to ride in his twenties and owned or borrowed bikes sporadically since then. When his children were grown enough and his wife agreed they had saved enough money, he went to the dealership and gave the deposit on his very first brand new Harley Davidson. Having endured years in silent inferiority when his fiends bragged about their bikes, and knowing the remarks they might make if he did any less, Mason took every option and upgrade available. For once he would have the newest and best, untoppable by his riding buddies after the slew of beaters they had ridiculed him for. Delivery on the Harley was made on the first day of spring, and Mason rode it all through the summer.

There was extensive costuming to be done before a ride. First Mason tied a bandanna around his bald head. He pulled on jeans, black boots, thick leather chaps and tucked his t shirt into his narrow waistband. He wore a leather jacket, but felt most transformed when he put on his wrap around sunglasses. He was ready to travel through the tinted world.

He liked to ride on lazy afternoons, the snoozing summer quiet split by the barking of his exhaust. It heralded his arrival. He imagined how he would look to others with a rigid jaw and stoic back, he imagined himself a mystery of kinetic stone. When Mason rode out and straight back he felt slightly guilty, a notion of buyer's remorse that he had overspent and was not getting true value for the black and silver buffalo in his garage. He made small errands on his rides, smoked cigarettes in every park, and got many cups of coffee.

Mason pulled into Starbucks and his usual spot was taken. He parked in the yellow hatched space next to the handicapped spot, directly in front of the patio. He sat in a chair and tipped his head back, slowly smoking a cigarette, imagining the anomaly of his being here, the vague intimidation these soccer moms and business men must feel. Above him a hawk circled, buffeted on the steady breeze, dipping its' straight wings first left, then right; the black kite of its' shadow racing along the concrete. Mason sat admiring the bike.

"Sir, you cant park there, it's for the handicapped spot."

He looked at the kid who had come out in his green apron to sweep cigarette butts. "Well, I'm not moving it in back where I cant keep an eye on it."

"Maybe you could pull it around to the other side?" he offered diplomatically, clearly not understanding why Mason thought anyone would try to touch his motorcycle.

"Okay," Mason said, then got on the Harley and left.