"The Doom Statues" - Chapter 13

Smiling as he climbs aboard his two decades old, powder blue Honda Goldwing motorcycle, Lenny rolls down the short gravel drive, and waits until he’s on the street before firing up the engine. The roommates at this house where he’s been staying – unofficially, though chipping in for food, beer, utilities and rent in exchange for a couch – were not exactly thrilled that he was bailing on such short notice, and he doesn’t want to further rile them up this early on a Sunday morning. Although with the state of this muffler, it’s debatable how much noise he is cutting between here and their bedrooms.

This has been his primary mode of transportation for six months now, a situation which has worked out surprisingly well. All the more so in that he paid cash, and is currently jobless, therefore couldn't afford car payments even if he wanted to. Of course, that outlook is on the upswing, too, with this sweet sounding gig Jeremy lined up for him. Who knows, he might even be able to slip in a drink here and there on the job – or make that, it should be a lot less dangerous when he inevitably does so.

Still, though everyone tends to scoff at this notion, occasional unfortunate setbacks aside, Lenny does know his limits. On this point he is confident. While it’s debatable how many people in a town like Jenson could possibly not know he is the operator of this sweet beast, Lenny prefers to go helmetless, in this state which still allows one to do so, just in case some fine young lady happens to pass him one of these days, one who is unaware of his identity. Why take chances? But despite the statistical danger of this move, he is a careful rider, not some wheelie popping asshole, and furthermore, technically an alcoholic or not, limits himself to exactly one drink wherever he happens to be if arriving via Goldwing. The only exception, well, yes, was work, though he had hours to burn off the effects of that, and was meticulous about doing so, given the ticket happy boredom of these cops around here. If home, he parks it for the night, and if at the bar, makes a point of moving somewhere else before enjoying another adult beverage. And again, and again, and again, if the case may be. Should this well-crafted strategy ever collapse, meanwhile, as even the best ones do on occasion, then he would just walk or catch a ride by other means.

These thoughts occupy him for the first handful of blocks, shooting across town to Lois’s place. He can’t remember the last time he was awake this early on a weekend, early enough that the bottoms of his pant legs are still wet with dew, as are the lawns he’s passing. And to top it off he’s not even hungover, is actually in great shape this fine a.m. and feeling pretty damn optimistic about the whole enterprise.

Turning right onto the main north-south road through town, Central, his thoughts shift instead, as they have countless times, to how he really needs to install some sort of music listening device in this puppy. He’s tried the whole earbuds in his phone business but that didn’t cut it, not with tinny headphones and this loud ass muffler. Of course nothing might work if he doesn’t address that, and continues riding sans helmet, but still – it's something to consider. Which he does, rolling north along Central, whistling a constantly changing classic rock medley to keep himself entertained.

One of his dipshit buddies, Robby Messner, passes in his eyesore distinct red Pinto, with a honk and a wave. It’s hard to imagine what that goofball would be doing out at this hour, although he did have two only vaguely familiar looking women in the car with him, which means last night must have been real interesting, or today would be, or both. Lenny entertains the thought of turning around right now to follow and catch up with them, though grudgingly staying course and shooting down this notion. No, he has something real solid lined up, here, and can’t keep Ben and Lois waiting. Not to mention he sorely needs the cash, already, considering how far he is behind on everything.

Upon reaching Oakmont, which slants diagonally to the left where Central vaguely curves right, near the edge of town, he puts on his blinker and slips into that road, cruising along at a steady 35. About three quarters of a block ahead, he spots this rusted out, dark blue-grey pickup truck puttering along, and is chuckling to himself, wondering what distant vintage this monstrosity must be. As he slowly gains on it, he can see it’s a Chevy, and while people might constantly rip on him about the age of his motorcycle, this rustbucket ahead of him is positively ancient by comparison.

He’s keeping a respectable distance, even though this truck coughs its way up the street at a speed slightly below the limit. Except without signaling to do so, this idiot slams on his brakes. Makes to turn left, but doesn’t quite do so, as this morphs more into a situation where he is attempting a U-turn in too tight a space, and so just momentarily stops instead.

With a line of parked cars on both sides, Lenny’s options are limited, and he feels frozen even while watching this in what will later seem an impossibly slow, frame by frame projection of this horror, as if a slide show. Just past the front bumper of the last possible car, he attempts swerving out to the right, except there’s a fucking mailbox, a sturdy brick based job no less, in the only realistic lane he has if wishing to avoid disaster. Which means he is hitting the unexpectedly high curb at a funky, nearly sideways angle, which means this machine soon checks its progress even as he is in motion, flying over its handlebars.

Lenny hasn’t quite fully abandoned his seated form, however, and almost manages to land feet first in whoever's dewy lawn this happens to be. Almost being the operative word here, naturally. And while he will later have opportunity to even manage a smirk and a chuckle to think about this giant white snowball of a cat whose eyes go wide as it scampers like a lightning bolt out of his way, Lenny doesn’t have a whole lot to find humor in at the moment. He can feel a snapping motion in both of his legs upon impact, and to top it off even manages to drill his head into the sod real good, though telling himself to avoid this, before he rolls a handful of times, up over their front walk and into this flower bed, resting finally in crooked fashion against some bushes with a brick barrier jabbing into his side. And as if this weren’t bad enough, the would be U-turner, though driving a highly distinctive vehicle that any witnesses should be able to easily remember and track, he slowly straightens out, then creeps down the road without bothering to stop or check on Lenny’s progress. Even in this busted up, half delirious state, Lenny can see the guy, some beard stubbled male with long hair under a red and white trucker’s cap, and believes he will never forget this face. If he lives through this, it goes without saying. First things first. At the moment, he’s got much more serious problems.

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