A Vignette from the Roadhouse: Azzy The Possum preacher
After Delivering the Sermon to the supplicant at the roadhouse bar, Azzy recalls his own first time out on a bike and finding himself,
Azzy, The Possum preacher, took a long drag on his cigarette.
Watching the younger girl having stood up, sobbed, and rode off on His bike, His thoughts turned to his younger years. Recalling for a moment, what it was like in his first time out on two wheels proper. He waved his fingerless gloved hand overhead, and the Hippo quietly slid him another beer, and pushed an ashtray near him. Azzy didn't notice and ashed onto the floor. He was lost for the moment.
It was a day in early spring. It was a shouting match, A screaming of personalities in conflict with one another, It was the beginning of the divorce. And for Azzy, it was the last straw.
There was a key taken from the key-rack, and a procedure followed:
Petcock on, choke engaged, hand on brake lever, leg up, JUMP!
and then out the driveway, down the laneway, onto the main road straight as an arrow at that flat open line, into town. Whatever was out there to find would be better than another night in a family that felt like a home gutted by fire. Nothing more than burned outlines on a foundation, showing you the painful guide of what should have been there, but never would be again.
Suddenly, young Azzy realized the the black ribbon was bending to the left in a long graceful arc, and tension gripped his chest, beneath the bra he wore his heart began to pound, as he remembered kind words, instruction from what felt like a lifetime ago.
"Push left."
Azzy Pushed. and then?
It was the sensation of falling.
the sway of the bike underneath him, the utter precariousness of the entire situation as the mass of the machine in motion tipped itself onto the rounded profile of it's tires. the utter paradox of it all. Not a simple halting turn like on a bicycle, no, this meant consciously dangling more of yourself over the side of the bike, the bigger the contact patch, the more grip it finds.
Everything about it was designed by the universe to urge you onward. To push yourself, to both figuratively and literally lean in against your discomfort, your unease.
The bike turned, following the bend of the yellow line. and then the road began to straighten and Azzy Twisted the throttle, and the bike slowly stood back up out of the lean. The road snaked again, this time to the right.
and in that moment, that fear, that rush, there was quiet.
The hand of inertia, gently playing over him. as he pushed his right hand forward, and the bike leaned, and this time, he leaned with it, putting his right butt-cheek just a little off the seat. He was going faster now faster than the previous turn would.
and all the chaos, the roar the anger the shouting matches the bitter screaming the thrown dishes, and the slammed doors. The dawning dread from the realization of his utter powerlessness. felt for a moment, so impossibly far away.
when your ass sat in the exact right spot, the whole weight of the machine danced between your thighs, it was like you were seated at the center of the universe, you could go anywhere with just the lightest touch, the barest thought, and the fabric of the world would listen, and move around you in the direction of your desir-
His tail caught the asphalt for a moment, and there was a sharp sting as the road abraded the leathery skin, making him yalp in surprise! He tensed, and the bike swayed in the lean standing back up, and crossing the Double Yellow.
Headlights.
Horn.
"push right."
Azzy Shifted off the line, pulled the clutch in, and swerved at the last minute, his tail moved to counterbalance himself and there was a clanging TWHACK as it struck the car's left fender, a pop and a feeling of agonizing pain as it's tailtip was bent -way- out of shape, Azzy managed to get the bike pointed straight and pressed on both brakes, the rear tire lifting ever so gently as he stopped on the shoulder, fumbled the kickstand into position and the promptly fell off the bike. Swearing and cursing up a storm as he clutched his tail, kicking and hollering and cursing as he picked up a rock and chucked it at the far side of the road, swearing, as the car never slowed.
Sufficiently rattled, Young Azzy threw their shirt off, ripped off their bra and pulling their knife cut the elastics from the shoulders, and set about making a bandage.
The young Possum didn't really know much in the way of first aid, or he would have put something solid in there to make a splint instead,
Younger Azzy sat down and panted for a moment. realizing that...though all of this.
The chaos of home was still farther away. They looked down, at hands still shaking just a little bit, and touched their cheeks, for a moment.
the pain was real, but so was he in this moment.
He handled it.
he handled himself.
Young Azzy got back on the bike and rode into town. There would be hell to pay for this later, but right now, he didn't care. for the first time, He realized he was meeting himself, and that...felt pretty good.
The memory faded, and Azzy slowly awoke back to the present, looked down at his tail which bore the zigzag pattern of his younger Inexperience, and he sighed wistfully as the cigarette in his off hand burned down to his fingertips, causing him to swear and shake his hand, flicking the but onto the floor and stomping on it.
The Hippo Barkeep shot him a death glare, and Azzy smiled as he picked up the stomped out butt and placed it in the ashtray.
The sound of Azzy's bike returning brought a wan smile to his face, The supplicant would probably have a lot to talk about, and his ear, perked listening for the sound of her true name...