Prologue #2
Since then: a flat tire on my first group ride, twenty miles from the compound, in the rain.
A bee sting during a charity poker run that swelled my left eye shut and made me look like a pirate at the photo op, which the local paper printed on page two.
A bar stool incident at the Black Anchor that I won't describe in detail except to say that the stool, the table, the jukebox, and a framed photograph of someone's grandfather all required replacement, and the club fronted the bill while Diesel stared at me with the patient exhaustion of a man watching a slow-motion train derailment in his own living room.
A grease fire in the compound kitchen during a fundraiser breakfast. A dropped wrench that broke a window I was not anywhere near, through a chain of physics I am still trying to understand.
An accidentally dialed butt-call to the mayor's office during a tense vote about a zoning ordinance.
The stories accumulate. The brothers tell them at parties.
They tell them with affection now, mostly, but affection isn't a patch.
Here's what they don't tell at parties. They don't tell about the fact that I am the first prospect in the door every morning and the last one out every night.
They don't tell about the fact that I have read every back issue of the club's official record going back to 1987, because I asked Razor for permission to look at the archive and he said yes and I worked through it on weekends.
They don't tell about the time I rebuilt the carburetor on Havoc's wife's bike for free because she mentioned at dinner that it was running rough, and I stayed in the garage until two in the morning to make sure I got it right.
They don't tell about how I drive Diesel's grandmother to the dialysis center on Wednesdays because somebody has to and I'm the youngest one with a flexible schedule.
They don't tell about it because none of that is what makes a story.
The disasters are the stories. The work is just the work.
But the work is the truth. That's what I want them to see.
The work is the part that's mine. The part I chose.
The part I do whether or not anyone is watching, because somewhere inside me a man named Sean Brennan is still sitting on a kitchen floor tying his boot, and I made a promise to him that I never said out loud, which is that I would be the kind of son who shows up.
Who keeps the promises. Who pours the concrete and builds the deck and replaces the furnace, and on Friday goes home with a paycheck and a story and a kiss for whoever is waiting.
There is, currently, nobody waiting. That's a thing I'm trying not to think about today.
Today is the day I run a clean shift. The list in my pocket has seven items on it, written out in pencil on the back of a receipt from the gas station on Route 9.
Don't be late. Don't drop anything. Don't volunteer for anything outside your assignment.
Don't talk unless asked a direct question.
Don't drink anything but water. Don't make eye contact with the espresso machine.
Don't, under any circumstances, attempt to be helpful in a way that has not been pre-approved.
The espresso machine is a separate story. We don't have time for it.
My patch vote is supposed to happen at the next church.
Diesel hasn't said it out loud, but I can read the air in a room, and the air in this particular room has been getting heavy for weeks.
The brothers are tired of my disasters. They love me — I think they love me; I'm pretty sure — but love is not enough.
Love gets you dinner. A patch gets you a chair at the table.
I want the chair. I want it the way I wanted to know what it felt like to be chosen, back when I was pouring their beers and watching their nods, and I have decided that today is the day I start earning it for real.
The compound door opens behind me. Footsteps. Diesel. I can tell by the weight, the rhythm, the slight drag on the left from a bad knee he won't admit to.
"Kid."
I stand up. My boots are laced. My list is in my pocket. My tire is flat, and we both know it.
"Diesel."
He looks at the bike. He looks at me. He sighs the way my mother sighs when she finds the milk left out on the counter — exhausted, fond, resigned.
"Get the pump from the shed."
"Yes, sir."
"And Jinx."
"Yes, sir."
"You're on rally logistics this month. The event planner needs help. Don't break her, kid."
"No, sir. I won't."
He doesn't smile, but his mouth does that thing again.
He goes back inside. I go to the shed for the pump.
I am twenty-four years old and I have lost my father and found a brotherhood and earned a road name I am trying very hard to retire, and somewhere across town a woman whose name I do not yet know is unlocking the door to her office and pouring herself a cup of coffee and sitting down at a desk and pulling up a spreadsheet.
She does not know about me yet. I do not know about her.
The universe, as my mother would say, is busy clearing the path.