Joy Ride

by J.M. Snyder

This story appeared online at Ruthie's Club in 2005 and is included in my short story collection, Shorts, published in 2006 by Lulu Press.


A light-weight Kawasaki Streetbike buzzed around the curve, taking the turn wide as it shot through the red light and into the parking lot of Sylvia’s Bar and Grill. Gravel sprayed up from the bike’s wheels in a flourish. From where he leaned against his black Harley-Davidson Electra Glide, Mack Thomas shook his head in disgust. Over the engine’s drone, he hollered, “Get a real bike!”

Beside him on a Harley Softail Deuce, Stan Freeman laughed. Mack crossed his thick arms in front of his broad chest and nodded at the newcomer. To no one in particular, he muttered, “Nice moped.” Stan laughed again.

“Yeah yeah,” the rider said, cutting off his engine. He shook a mess of blonde hair free from his helmet. “Laugh it up, Pops. I can out-ride you with my eyes closed.” Barely in his twenties, Brad Anderson had a wide grin, bright eyes, and tousled hair so damn perfect that Mack clenched his hands into fists to keep his fingers to himself. In the suddenly quiet afternoon, the sound of his popping knuckles seemed menacing. “Is that supposed to scare me?” Brad asked. He flashed Mack a quick smile, then winked. “Because it’s not working.”

With a shake of his head, Mack grunted. “Don’t you have anyone else to bother?” he wanted to know.

Brightly, Brad said, “Nope. Today’s your lucky day, old man.”

Old man didn’t quite fit Mack, and he wasn’t sure if the kid was as fearless as he played at or just plain stupid. At thirty-five, Mack was a stolid man, well built and in shape, muscles bulging from the torn holes in his shirt where sleeves used to be. The bandanna tied down over his hair, the black wraparound sunglasses he favored, the leather chaps and length of chain he wore looped through his belt only added to the effect. He was the type of guy most people went out of their way to avoid, ducking their heads or turning away as they passed by him, silently praying to slip into Sylvia’s unnoticed. The huge touring motorcycle that crouched behind him, with its built-in hard bags and luggage box on the back, looked as if it ate bikes like Brad’s for breakfast. And yet the kid puttered down daily to the little truck-stop bar where Mack and Stan hung out, messing with them and egging them on, trying to … what, exactly? Mack wasn’t sure. If he wanted to fit in, the best thing he could’ve done would be to turn that Streetbike in for a Sportster — bottom of the line, true, but at least it had the HD logo on the back and not some foreign name. Maybe he wanted to goad them into a race, show off what his little bike could do against their choppers, but if that was the case, Mack wasn’t going to buy it. Brad’s father was chief of police