How did I let myself get talked into this? Dressing up for fancy parties is not me. Life hasn’t afforded me opportunities to be care free.
Mom worked hard to provide for me, but when it came to college, she didn’t have the money. Therefore, I did what I had to and got the necessary loans. Yeah, how easy the admissions office gets you signed up, but how little they tell you of the monkey on your back after graduation. I couldn’t afford to mess up in college and take longer to graduate. There was no money left for me to afford an additional semester or two like some of my schoolmates. No, I had one shot to succeed.
Even now, I don’t have room to mess up. Failure is not an option. I can’t miss work, because I get paid by the hour. One hour of not working equals a week of peanut butter sandwiches, no jelly. Those cup of noodles are a damn luxury if I miss any of my schedule.
As a kid, I couldn’t wait to grow up, get a job, live in the real world, and all that. Yeah, funny how now I wish I was a kid again.
Chapter Three
Hendrix
Mondays are no longer a day to relax; they are a day to renovate. With the bar closed, I can tear shit up and put this plan into motion.
Jagger, Morrison, and I have agreed for the shit-hole apartment we were raised in to be torn the fuck up. I didn’t have to have their input, but it’s kind of emotional, so I wanted to make sure they were ready to move on, too.
None of us have heard one word from our dad since he left with Lola, and that is just fine by me.
We made the collaborative decision that the far corner, which was once our bedroom—our retreat when shit got bad, a place Momma read to us, the one fucking place we felt safe—would be a VIP lounge area of sorts. No entry unless we are down with it.
A week ago, we emptied the place. Last night, we gutted it and threw up supports. Today, I have already cut the floor out, and I am now looking up from the first floor at the ceiling of our old apartment that we added tin tile to. It looks amazing. I can’t wait until I have time to finish the railing around the perimeter of the hole so you can look down onto the stage and dance floor area.
Not that I’m trying to turn this place into a dance club, fuck that. What I want is a rocking, biker bar. Local talent and local people filling the place up on nights we have entertainment. No fucking cover, no drink price increase, no bullshit. Just a good fucking time to be had by some people who love music like Momma did.
In only two more weeks, this place should look a little less like a dive—on the inside, anyway. I like the outside as is. Nothing over-the-top, nothing fancy, no more lights hanging on the windows than the joints down the road. Nothing saying we are something we aren’t.
...
Sally, the new girl, is doing okay. Lola got her trained well enough so I can at least focus on hiring someone else without having all new employees at the same time. She is a little rough around the edges, though. Hell, you have to be in order to survive here. She is in her mid-thirties, a single mom with a sixteen-year-old daughter who watches the younger two while she works. She has been on time every day, which is a plus.
While she works, I spend my time making the custom railings in my garage, my place, my heaven in the midst of the hell I am sometimes surrounded in. The space is not overly large, but it is more than adequate to hold my tools, my rides, my toys, and give me room to work.
I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. Besides, there is nothing better than a few splinters along the way to creating something beautiful. Take a tree covered in hardened bark, shave it down to the inner lumber, and you find something beautiful. Cutting, sawing, sanding, priming, staining, and molding into a new creation, all done by my hands. There is a pride in that creation, in the final product. The rails are coming along nicely. Shouldn’t be long before they are finished.
I look up when the door swings open and Jagger strolls in.
“Looks good, man.” He rubs up the wooden handrail I just applied a coat of poly to. “Looks real fucking good.”
I wipe my hand off on the rag and then set it down. “Beer?”
“Of course.”
As I walk to the fridge, I ask, “What brings you here?”
“You know that fundraiser, the one for HPV—”
“The one I said I wouldn’t attend, yes.” I walk over to hand him his beer.
“Three local bands are playing. I bought two tickets and called them, letting them know I wanted to see them, that my big shot brother may want to book them.”
“Cool, I appreciate it.” I reach forward and tap my bottle to his. Guess I am going to the fundraiser after all. Not my thing, but local bands are good for business.
“But here’s the thing—”
“Jagger, I don’t wanna hear it.”