Zeke and His Hog

eke, grow up!" was the advice Sally, his wife of 14 years, gave as she did sit-ups. Then she pushed back the tuft of brown hair that got loose from her pony tail and fell into her bright blue eyes. Sally exercised hard to stay in shape. She was fighting a war with gravity over her 37 year old body. The battleground inside their exercise room was strewn with the weapons of war - free weights, ab cruncher, walking machine, and thigh-master.

"Zeke, you're nuts! It costs as much as a new car!" his best friend, Howard, counseled as they jogged. Howard, at 41, was fighting the same war as Sally, only over different territory. The battlefield was the streets and sidewalks of Lawrence, Long Island. Howard's paunch testified to his losses, and his balding head, a bitter defeat.

"But I'll get one, if you get one," Howard added, smiling his lopsided, three musketeers smile. That was why Howard was his best friend - he always there for him.

Zeke, at 39, was a lucky man, and he knew it. Howard and Sally envied his blase attitude toward aging and fitness. Zeke ate what he wanted and didn't gain an ounce. His full head of brown hair, his unwrinkled skin, and his supple, six foot frame were trophies he carried modestly, the result of genes he inherited, not sweat and hard work. Zeke's luck didn't stop there. He also knew he had a great wife, a wonderful family, a best friend, a good job, and his health.

And then his Uncle Joe died and left him eighteen thousand dollars, creating a world of conflict for Zeke. His family already had their financial needs met. They had a nice roof over their heads, plenty of food on the table, and business was good. Zeke hadn't developed a need for that much money. A thousand or two, sure, he could enjoy with his loved ones, and think nothing of it. But eighteen thousand dollars? Eighteen thousand dollars cried out, not for consumption, but to be fashioned into a lasting, more permanent statement. Zeke didn't know how to make a lasting statement with money, so the $18,000 sat dormant in Zeke's savings account while Zeke contemplated the task at hand.

After a month-long, agonizing self-examination, Zeke arrived at four choices.

One, he could buy an in-ground concrete swimming pool for the kids. While the children splashed about with their friends, they could admire the beauty of the water basin, and the wonderful parents that would make such an addition to their home.

Two, he could purchase an extravagant diamond ring with a matching set of earrings for Sally. While her friends admired the fire and glare of the gems, they would also admire Sally's choice in a husband.

Three. He could place the entire windfall in a mutual fund, to be fashioned by financial wizards over time into a warm blanket for the cold days of retirement. When work was no longer an option, it would provide them with exotic trips, expensive cars, and money to spoil the grandchildren with.

Or four, he could fulfil one of his own lurking, just-below-the-surface, secret desires that was planted in the time of his early adolescence. The seed of this fantasy was blown into his fertile mind from the breeze created by Marlon Brando in the "The Wild Ones". It then grew in the rich nutrients provided by Peter Fonda in "Easy Rider". The fantasy smoldered for 25 years, and was now fanned into flames by the inheritance.

In this fantasy, Zeke was riding a brand-new, jet-black Harley Davidson Low Rider motorcycle. A hog.

"It's an 80 horsepower penis!" Sally concluded after looking at the brochures. She and Zeke were seated at the kitchen table, having coffee together after supper.

"Yes, and don't you think it will look good on me!" he retorted.

"Zeke, do what you want," she said, knowing he was really mixed up inside. "Don't think you have to share it with us. If you want to spend it on yourself, go ahead. Your Uncle would have wanted you to enjoy it."

"Thanks, honey," he said, reaching for her hand under the table.

"But a motorcycle," she added. "I don't know ....." She pulled her hand away unconsciously.

Even with Sally's hesitant approval, Zeke put off making the decision. He forced himself to look away when he drove by the Harley showroom, and the chrome and steel flashed at him through the window. He closed his ears when the macho machines beckoned to him, whispering, "Buy me ... buy me, Zeke ... you want me ... you need me ... you deserve me ... remember Marlon Brando and Peter Fonda... they'll make a movie out of your life, too ... do it, Zeke .... do it ... DO IT!"

Howard made up Zeke's mind for him.

"My legs have been bothering me lately," Howard said, massaging his calves and thigh muscles while they were driving together, looking at swimming pools. "Probably from jogging," he added.

"Yeah, I'll have to slow down so you can keep up, grampa. You're not getting any younger, you know," Zeke joked.

"I'll whip your ass tomorrow in the last quarter mile!" Howard retorted, punching Zeke on the arm.

There was no tomorrow. Howard had a heart attack that night and died. He was 41, and he was dead before the paramedics could get to him.

Zeke's emotions ran through a range and intensity he had never known.

First, there was shock. "I can't believe it," Zeke said to himself, over and over. During the funeral, when he looked down at Howard in the coffin, he expected Howard to wink back at him, and give him that lop-sided three musketeers grin.

Then he felt sadness. "I'll never find a best friend like Howard again," he thought. Sally cried along with him, but he needed a best friend, too, to share this with. For the first time, Howard wasn't there for him.

Fear was next. Zeke was forced to consider that if it could happen to Howard, it could happen to him. And at any minute. He was mortal. He could die. Snap your fingers and he might be gone. Just like that.

That fear pushed Zeke over the edge. He was not going to turn 40 without getting his life-long fantasy fulfilled. No how, no way. The day after Howard's funeral, Zeke marched into the Harley dealership, determined to give the salesman the worst negotiating session of his life.

"I'll buy a Japanese bike if the deal isn't right," Zeke started belligerently.

"You can do that," the salesman, James Ricky, known to all as Fat Jack, agreed. The fact that Fat Jack was 6 feet 3 and maybe 145 pounds after gorging at MacDonalds all day only added to his mystique.

"They're much cheaper," Zeke threw in.

"That's true," Fat Jack agreed again, stroking his red handlebar mustache and straightening his ponytail. "But let me tell you the facts of life."

"I already know the facts of life," Zeke said, cutting him short. "Let's talk money."

"Oh, we'll talk money soon enough, partner. Here, have a seat."

Zeke sat down reluctantly in front of Fat Jack's desk.

"Want a beer?" Fat Jack offered, opening the little frig behind the desk and taking out two Buds.

"Sure," Zeke said, taking one.

Fat Jack settled into his chair and popped open the can. "The facts of life are this. When you own a Harley, sooner or later, you will be sitting at a traffic light, and Darth Vader on a space age Kawi or Honda is going to pull up next to you. Now, the driver of that rice grinder is going to torment you. He's going to rev his engine, until it sounds like the buzz saw in Hell has just been cranked up to High. He's going to blow out your eardrums if it's one of those ballistic, turbocharged to the nines, racing machines where you lean over and ride like you're screwing."

Zeke nodded. He knew the kind.

"Then the light is going to change," Fat Jack continued, taking out a sales contract, "and Darth Vader is going to do wheelies in all five gears. He going to race to the next light like he's shot from Dirty Harry's 44 magnum Smith & Wesson."

Zeke nodded again.

"But you're not going to race him," Fat Jack said, filling in blanks on the form.

"Why not?" Zeke asked, confused.

"Because he's going be beat the piss out of you if you do! No, you're going to cruise up to the next light, like he wasn't even there, and you didn't inhale his smelly exhaust and burnt rubber for a quarter mile."

"I am?"

Yes, you are. Because you know."

"I know what?" Zeke asked, growing excited.

"You know that when you stop at the next light, and he's waiting, and smiling, sneering even, you know what he's really thinking."

"And that is?" Zeke asked, wanting to be convinced.

"He's thinking 'I wish I had the Harley'," Fat Jack said as he handed the contract and the pen over to Zeke.

"Why is he thinking that?" Zeke asked, unable to make the connection.

"Because a Harley looks and sounds and FEELS the way a real bike is supposed to look and sound and feel. It's American, man. It's John Wayne and John Dillinger, Elliot Ness and Al Capone, it's Marlon Brando and Lee Marvin, it's Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper. You can't import that, man! It has to be made right here, in the good old U- S- of -A. And you have to pay heavy for that feeling. That's the way it is. That's the facts of life. Darth Vader doesn't want to pay. But you do. Because you know. Period. End of discussion."

Having gotten the facts of life out of the way, the path was now cleared to discuss price.

The list price was $16,848. After repeated threats of walking out the door and never coming back, and asserting he was going to go to the other Harley dealer who was 115 miles away, Zeke got his hog for $16,800, plus a free helmet, and a leather jacket.

The leather jacket is what sealed the deal. It was not one of those light, thin-as-paper, brown fashionable things worn to a restaurant. No. It was a rich, thick, heavy, black leather with the necessary amount of chrome studs. It was a jacket that would protect a rider and keep him safe in case he had a once-in-a-billion-light-years accident, and it looked so damn macho that even if Zeke had to pay the $579 price, it would have been worth it. Of course, Zeke needed matching black leather gloves, for only $129 extra, genuine Harley sunglasses, $89, and Harley motorcycle boots, only $249.

After sales tax, the problem of how to spend the $18,000 was solved, and then some. The statement Zeke made was bold and ballsy, bitchin' and brave. All the great "b" words.

Zeke didn't drive the Harley out of the showroom after he signed the contract and wrote the check. He wanted to, very badly, but he didn't, for the simple reason he didn't know how to drive it. Fat Jack had to deliver it to his house that night. Zeke moved his Toyota Camry out of the garage, and put the Harley in its place. Then he cleaned and waxed his new hog until 2 o'clock in the morning.

The following day after work, Fat Jack showed up at Zeke's house on his Harley Sportster. Zeke was waiting impatiently in the driveway, sitting on his Low Rider, revving the engine. Zeke waved goodbye to the family and neighbors, and away they went for motorcycle lessons. Aside from the birth of his children, his marriage to Sally, and the first time he had an orgasm, it was the greatest experience in Zeke's life. The perfect day was capped off at Skuzzy Larry's, The Harley biker bar, where they threw down a few cold ones, and imported beer was not an option. There was a easy comraderie among those who knew the facts of life and owned a Harley to prove it.

After two weeks, Zeke was ready for his solo.

The weather was on Zeke's side. It was a wondrous breezy Saturday morning in mid-spring. Zeke's destination - the hills of the North Shore. There, the road was surrounded by tall pines and oaks on the right, and the blue expanse of the Long Island Sound on the left. The turns were sculpted S's, banked and engineered magnificently, and all you had to do was lean into them, and not bother to turn the handlebars. There would be little traffic. It was man and nature in harmony, with a growling hog along for the ride.

Zeke drove by the Harley showroom on his way to the North Shore. Fat Jack was getting off his Sportster, readying his key to unlock the front door. Zeke honked his horn, and raised his right thumb, indicating all was well in the universe.

As Zeke lowered his thumb, the little old lady on the left side of him in a 1972 Cadillac Eldorado with only 12,000 miles on it, decided to change lanes. Zeke was in the right lane, in her blind spot, so she never saw Zeke, or his hog. He was squeezed between the Cadillac and the cars parked along the right side of the road, in a closing vise, going 50 miles per hour.

Zeke saw the huge 1972 Cadillac Eldorado heading straight for his brand new hog, and more importantly, his 39 year old body, and he quickly assessed four options.

One. He could jam on the brakes, and probably go down, because the street was still slick from the morning dew. This would result in a messed up Harley, and a bruised and bleeding Zeke. A messed up Harley? The bike was brand new, God damn it! There had to be better alternatives.

Two. He could slowly apply the brakes, until the Cadillac hit him, and then he would careen, like a ping pong ball, into the cars parked along the side the road. This would probably result in Zeke being processed into melted strawberry ice cream with Harley sprinkles.

Three. He could speed up and veer right and then quickly left, hoping to avoid contact. If he miscalculated, and could not veer back left fast enough, then he would crash into the cars parked along side of the road at roughly 70 miles per hour. This would probably result in death, or in a physical condition that would make him wish for it.

Zeke returned to the first option, realizing that keeping a bike looking brand new was not the most important thing in the world. Breathing was. Being able to sit up and take nourishment was a close second.

Zeke jammed on the brakes. The bike skidded, and then started swerving, almost out of control. Now that his fears were confirmed about going down, Zeke had only two options.

One, he could let off the brakes, and stop swerving. Then he would slam into the Eldorado and it was ping pong ball and strawberry ice cream time again.

Two. He could continue applying the brakes and go down.

Zeke continued applying the brakes. Zeke remembered, as a result of his new-found heightened state of awareness, what Fat Jack taught him during motorcycle lessons. "When you're going down, don't fight it, man. Ride it like a sled." Zeke lifted his right leg, the down side leg, up and over the frame, and then rode the bike side-saddle as it scraped and slid on the ground.

The Harley showered sparks like an oxy-acetylene torch cutting through red hot metal, as the steel frame of the Harley grinded against road. Zeke hung on, his legs banging on the engine, and getting burned by it.

While he was riding in the valley of death, the tape of Zeke's life played on the VCR inside his head. He was watching Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper, Marlon Brando and Lee Marvin, John Wayne and all the other American icons. Then he realized, as he careened over the blacktop the threatened to flay the skin off his body and frappe his brains into chicken noodle soup, that they were myths, imaginary figures on celluloid. Zeke was the real American riding the 80 horsepower death sled, not them.

Zeke's VCR now fast forwarded, and he saw Sally without her husband, his kids without their father, his parents without their son.

Zeke slid 150 feet before he came to a stop in the middle of the highway. The little old lady in the '72 Cadillac Eldorado with 12,000 miles on it continued down the road, oblivious to the mess she made in Zeke's life.

"Thank you, God! Thank you, God!" Zeke said, out loud.

While Zeke was counting himself the luckiest son of a bitch alive, and thanking God, he was interrupted by an air horn blowing furiously behind him. He glanced back, and there was a U.S. Postal Service tractor trailer, with an extra trailer attached, carrying thousands upon thousands of pounds of bills and junk mail, skidding and sliding towards him, as it jackknifed across the highway. Zeke rolled off the bike and underneath the four wheel drive pickup truck parked along the road. He continued rolling, into the mud puddle in front of the curb, and then up the curb onto the sidewalk, into the waiting arms of Fat Jack, who ran over when he saw what was happening.

They both stood there, transfixed, as the tractor trailer crashed into Zeke's hog, dragged it for 300 feet, and then crushed it under its tires.

"Holy Shit!" Fat Jack said when it was safe to examine Zeke's motorcycle. The brand-new eighteen-thousand-dollar-and-then-some jet-black full-dress Harley Davidson Low Rider was now a 600 pound pile of chrome and steel puree worth approximately $36.84 at the scrap yard.

After the wrecker came and removed the carcass, Fat Jack offered to ride Zeke home on his Sportster. Zeke took a cab.

By the time Zeke received the check from the insurance company, the bruises and burns on his legs had healed. He then went out and bought a $5,000 above ground pool for the kids, a beautiful diamond ring and matching set of earrings for Sally for around the same money, and a $3,000 nine foot regulation pool table that he put in the basement for himself. He invested the remaining $5,000 or so dollars in a growth mutual fund.

Zeke hung the Harley leather jacket in his closet, right up front. He put the Harley leather gloves in the side pocket, the Harley sunglasses in the top pocket, placed the Harley boots on the floor directly underneath it, and the Harley helmet on the shelf above it.

Every morning of his life, from then on, Zeke woke up and looked at that Harley outfit, smiled, said a silent prayer of thanks, and then began another day without his hog.

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