Post by EZEKIEL PATRICK GREER on Dec 5, 2011 14:14:55 GMT -5
HEY HEY, MY MY. ROCK 'N ROLL CAN NEVER DIE.
The sun had finally given up the fight and sunk behind the horizon but work did not stop, not until Ezekiel was satisfied. The 1952 Harley-Davidson FL was slowly starting to resemble how it had appeared in its glory days. The find had come as a surprise during a day spent tearing apart the sheds on one of the properties within the boundaries of Mater. As soon as he set eyes on it he knew that he had to fix it and had spent all day ripping it apart only to put it back together again. It was a therapeutic experience and it only added to the growing collection that took up the first garage in the renovated shop. The amount of tools that had been arranged in meticulous patterns on the walls and drawers thanks to numerous raids of Ace Hardware and other abandoned garages on the way.
A bottle of Jack Daniels balanced precariously on his jean clad thighs and a cigarette dangling haphazardly from his lips as he stared at the bike that would be a masterpiece as soon as a fresh coat of paint was applied. Truth was he had been hiding in here the whole damn day to avoid speaking to anyone, any time something needed fixing that had an engine he was usually called upon to fix it. That was not the problem today...today was the anniversary of his unborn son's death. The tattoo scrawled across his heart seemed to burn and a calloused hand rose to the oil-stained wife beater as if holding his hand to it could stop the dull hurt.
Most people had seemed to sense that something was up with the usually gregarious Irish-Californian. The silence that pervaded the shop was beginning to annoy him and he glanced out at the night swimming in from the half-raised garage door. Scooting backward in the swivel chair a hand reached behind him for the guitar that had been resting on the work bench. Feeling the neck and strings slide over his fingers he brought the guitar in front of him, setting the J.D. down on the floor and ditching the cigarette in one last exhale of smoke. His finger tips slid over the guitar strings, until a melody sprung up from the mess.
"Hey hey, my my..."
A bottle of Jack Daniels balanced precariously on his jean clad thighs and a cigarette dangling haphazardly from his lips as he stared at the bike that would be a masterpiece as soon as a fresh coat of paint was applied. Truth was he had been hiding in here the whole damn day to avoid speaking to anyone, any time something needed fixing that had an engine he was usually called upon to fix it. That was not the problem today...today was the anniversary of his unborn son's death. The tattoo scrawled across his heart seemed to burn and a calloused hand rose to the oil-stained wife beater as if holding his hand to it could stop the dull hurt.
Most people had seemed to sense that something was up with the usually gregarious Irish-Californian. The silence that pervaded the shop was beginning to annoy him and he glanced out at the night swimming in from the half-raised garage door. Scooting backward in the swivel chair a hand reached behind him for the guitar that had been resting on the work bench. Feeling the neck and strings slide over his fingers he brought the guitar in front of him, setting the J.D. down on the floor and ditching the cigarette in one last exhale of smoke. His finger tips slid over the guitar strings, until a melody sprung up from the mess.
"Hey hey, my my..."
THERE'S MORE TO THE PICTURE THAN MEETS THE EYE.
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