Free If Rock and Roll Were a Machine by Terry Davis

behind the counter drying off with a shop rag when Bert looked in from the work area. Scotty waved from the showroom where he stood with two uniformed Spokane cops by the custom Harleys. “Catalog’s on the counter,” he said. “Steve’ll ride with you to buy some boots.”
    Steve tossed Bert an L.L. Bean catalog. It was what Bert had come for.
    *  *  *
    Bert and Steve rumbled down Division like a mobile earthquake, like a volcanic eruption. When they stoppedfor a light on the way back from Sears, Bert felt the pavement vibrating through the soles of his new boots. They rolled down the alley behind the nursery and stopped in back of the shop. Bert hit his kill button, but Steve kept his bike running. He stretched out his arm and Bert saw the shoulder holster under his sleeveless jean jacket. “I’ll see ya, Bootsie,” he said.
    Bert didn’t realize at first that Steve wanted to shake hands. He was holding his forearm upward, and when Bert reached to shake in the traditional way Steve hooked his thumb, turned his palm perpendicular to Bert’s, and held him in the grip that symbolizes fraternity. Steve pumped Bert’s hand twice, then let go. “I want you not only to stay off your head,” Steve said over the roar of the engine, “I want none of your body parts except your feet in those new boots to touch the pavement.”
    â€œThanks for riding with me,” Bert replied.
    â€œWe’ll do ’er again,” Steve said. Then he was off down the alley.
    Bert turned and saw Scotty standing in the doorway. “Come in and have a sit,” he said.
    Bert settled into the old chair next to the wood stove. This back corner with the old Coke machine, stove, couch, chair, floor lamp, and the old console radio was like a living room from the World War II era. The only modern thing here was the big Ektelon gym bag sitting beside the chair. Racquetball gloves hung from the carrying straps. Some were new and soft-looking, but most were old,sweat-stained and brittle like animal skins run over and rained on so many times the fur is gone. Through the open zipper Bert saw a blue ball lying against a white weave of racquet strings. Bert had never played racquetball. He wondered how Scotty could play with such bad knees.
    â€œThe restoration business requires some research,” Scotty said. “Even guys like Dave and I who’ve been working on these bikes most of our lives have to do a lot of reading. So we’ve got the couch and chair and the lamp. This stuff came from the house Steve and I grew up in.”
    Bert wondered what kind of kids became men like Scott and Steve Shepard.
    â€œYou play a winter sport?” Scotty asked.
    â€œI played basketball in grade school,” Bert replied. “I don’t play anything anymore.”
    â€œThere’s a job open here after school and Saturdays,” Scotty said. “It runs from now till the end of basketball season. I was saving it for my boy, but he surprised us and made the football team. It’s dirty work mostly—cleaning bikes and parts. After a while, if you decide you like being around a shop, we’ll teach you how to tune and service.”
    â€œI’ll take it,” Bert said.
    â€œThink about it,” Scotty said. “Talk it over with your folks and let me know tomorrow.”
    Bert didn’t need to think about it, and he didn’t want to talk it over with his folks. But “Okay” was what he said.
    Shepard stood and Bert stood. Bert extended his hand and they shook in the traditional way.
    Bert was about to bring his weight down on the kick pedal when the growl of an engine made him stop and turn. It had sounded like a bike, but it was a sports car with a blond woman at the wheel. Bert turned back to his business, wound up, and came down on the pedal. In the mirror he saw Scotty walk to the car with the can of flowers. Bert was curious to see