What Money.

So Bobby, Hank, Mike and me. We followed Jinks across the alley behind the bar. We followed him into his two car garage, entering through the walk in door at the side. Jinks turned the lights on and my jaw dropped. The others were caught off guard too. I heard somebody whistle low.


Standing in the middle of the garage was a chopped out custom 1941 Harley Davidson. A real old school knuckle. No big rake. Just chopped, the way the old guys did it back in the day. The whole bike was black and chrome. Screaming Eagle intake and straight pipes riding low under the frame down the right hand side.

The handle bars were not stock. They swung a little higher. Not ape hangers for sure, just higher than the original.. The bike didn't sport any fancy gauges, none of that crap. Just a speedometer sitting on top of the tree between the handle bars. Yeah, we were looking at some real nice work here. I couldn't help but wonder how Jinks had done it without any of us knowing anything. We were the only shop in the area who did that type of custom work. Then it hit me. My father.

Jinks smiled at me. He winked and that answered my question. The old man had helped him build this ride. Jinks walked over to the fridge that stood against the back wall next to the stairs that went up to the room above the garage. He opened the fridge and grabbed a six-pack of Rolling Rock beer. He tossed a can to each of us and retrieved something from the top drawer of his big red tool chest. Whatever it was that he took out of there was slid into his shirt pocket.

I was thinking about the money. Whatever that meant. I was thinking maybe Jinks had hit the numbers and built himself this bike. When I asked him he said no. That's when things got a little weird.

Jinks turns on a small work light. A trouble light. You know, a bare bulb in an orange plastic case that hangs from the ceiling on a cord. He turns off the big overhead fluorescent shop lights and makes sure the old shades are all pulled down on the three windows in that garage. He turns on the old stereo that sits on a shelf made of plywood hanging over the workbench. It was the oldies station. Dion was singing The Wonderer. Jinks turned the volume down a little. He grabbed a folding lawn chair and motioned us all to do the same. We did.

Once we were all sitting in a half assed circle, smoking cigarettes and sipping our beers, that's when Jinks reached into his shirt pocket. He tossed it to me. It was a key. Jinks got up and checked the garage doors. He then walked over and locked the walk in door we had used when we got there. Mike had enough.

Jinks. What the fuck is going on here old man? We all laughed, including Jinks. Leave it to Mike to bust the tension. Jinks sat down and said he wanted to tell us a story. He said we all had to promise to listen until he was done. No interupting and no questions. He looked at Mike when said that. Jinks then asked Bobby if he had a joint. Bobby got a little red in the face and said no. Bobby said he knew that Jinks didn't want that shit in his bar. Jinks told him to knock it off, light a joint and pass it around.

Bobby lit up and passed it to his left. Mike took a hit and held it tight while he passed on to Hank. Hank said he couldn't. Hank said he couldn't risk losing his county job. Jinks told Hank not to worry. Jinks said that before we all knew it, we would never have to worry about money again. Hank took a hit and coughed a little. He said it had been years since he'd smoked. Hank passed it to me and I took one quit hit before handing to my left. Jinks took it and said he hadn't smoked since 1967 in Vietnam. The joint went around two more times before Jinks stubbed it out on the garage floor. I kept looking at that key. You could tell that something was stamped in it. It was so old and worn out you couldn't tell if it was letters or numbers. I slid it into my own shirt pocket because it started to drive me nuts. Bobby grabbed another six-pack from the fridge and Jinks told us his story while the oldies cut through the smoke in that old garage.