“You haven’t seen my face in twenty-three years.”
“Still the same.”
The biker almost laughed.
“I’m not taking your rent.”
“I wasn’t offering rent.”
“Good.”
“I’m offering work.”
The father stared.
“What?”
“Club owns the garage behind the clubhouse now.”
“Since when?”
“Fourteen years.”
“We restore motorcycles.”
“Do custom fabrication.”
“Storage.”
“Repair.”
“We need somebody handling inventory and parts ordering.”
The father looked at his knee.
“I can’t wrench all day.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
“I can’t stand eight hours.”
“Sit.”
“I need physical therapy twice a week.”
“Go.”
“I can’t lift.”
“Then don’t.”
The father stared.
“You just invented this job.”
The biker smiled.
“No.”
“I fired a twenty-two-year-old last month because he ordered seventeen left brake calipers and zero right ones.”
The father tried not to smile.
Failed slightly.
“You always were bad at hiring.”
“And you always were irritating.”
The girl looked excited.
“You can work with motorcycles.”
The father looked toward her.
Then at the old photograph.
“I don’t ride anymore.”
“Nobody said you had to.”
The biker extended a hand.
“Come see the place Monday.”
The father looked at the hand.
Then away.
The old biker did not lower it.
Finally the father said:
“I’m not taking fake work because you feel guilty.”
“Good.”
“Because it isn’t fake.”
“What does it pay?”
The biker told him.
The father’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s too much.”
“It’s market.”
“For inventory?”
“And vendor management.”
“And customer estimates.”
“And preventing idiots from ordering seventeen left calipers.”
The father considered.
The girl whispered:
“Dad.”
He looked at her.
“Please.”
That one word defeated him.
He reached out.
Shook the old biker’s hand.
The club president’s grip tightened.
Neither man let go immediately.
Twenty-three years sat between their palms.
Anger.
Silence.
Deaths.
Marriages.
Children.
Mistakes.
The father looked into the old biker’s eyes.
“I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.”
“Might stay mad.”
“Fair.”
“Don’t expect a patch.”
“I don’t.”
“Don’t call me brother like nothing happened.”
The biker nodded.
“What should I call you?”
The father gave his name.
The old biker smiled sadly.
“That’ll do.”
The girl looked toward the grocery bag.
“Can we eat now?”
Both men laughed.