Becoming Zen Ch. 02: Invitation to wake

Harry's Notes:

24 hours after the botched goodbye of their long time President, the Zen Riders try it again. This is a two parter unless there's not enough words in this one.

Becoming Zen: The Wake

They rode unhurriedly, close abreast, through the quiet of early morning disturbed only by the sound of their machines echoing off the few buildings they passed; the two newest members of the Zen Riders, at peace, at large, and looking for breakfast downtown, Backwater; specifically, The Pride Cafe, if the lights are on, we're open.

Fast John idled up beside prospect Billy's scooter parked face out. He walked his idling Pan back beside it, letting the rear tire rest in the gutter. The morning sun made a mirror of the plate glass windows of the diner. Taking a moment to look at the reflection of man and machine he gave a grin, rapped the throttle, leaned the bike over on its kickstand, killed the engine and dismounted.

Lizzie parked just past him, shut down, stretching then getting off to leisurely follow behind, letting lady parts, long unused, stop winging. Her bruised lips smiling with satisfaction at the reason why. John waited for her to catch up then they pushed through the door; a welcoming sound of wind chimes hung above.

Billy sat at the corner booth, mopping egg yolk up with a scrap of toast, scarfing like a starved man. An empty plate, cup, and crumpled napkin to his right. Complicated eye and facial language passed between the two men accompanied by nods and shakes as John crossed the quiet diner, slid in quickly, grinning and slapping the table in front of the outside seat. Old man Hill, the only one at the counter, looked up at the noise and the one waitress on duty started back with menus and coffee. John grinned across the table.

"Have a seat, sis." Billy finished the last of the toast, checked his watch then leaned back, closed his eyes. Lizzy sank into a red vinyl cushion polished by countless asses.

"Did you get any sleep Billy boy?" The waitress placed two menus, filled all four cups, deposited two small ice waters and left with the used plates. He spoke without opening his eyes.

"Some, up and down if you know what I mean." A smile ran across his battle worn face, slipped into an ear. "The last 24 hours have been surreal; my brain keeps flashing pictures, alligators, fighting, bikes rolled into the swamp; how shitty was that? Getting my bottom rocker was great." The club colors consisted of three items: an upward curved patch bearing Nirvana, a downward rocker reading Zen Riders at the top, and a stylized eye in the center of the two. The bathroom door banged shut.

She was maybe 5'5, long black hair hanging free, slim but fit; an expression of thought held her button nosed face, not intense but as if in careful consideration as the twenty foot of linoleum was crossed. A large leather purse, hung from a shoulder, swaying with her loose hipped walk. Stopping at the booth she smiled at the two additions seated there.

"Hi John." She turned to Lizzie; something akin to hero worship I mean those eyes were big. She extended a hand as their gazes took the measure of the other," Hi, we haven't met. I'm Sharron." Lizzie took the hand and pulled her close.

"You can call me Lizzie, Sharron. Where did you come from?" They were face to face now. The scent of minty toothpaste perfumed her answer.

"Over towards Crowley originally, but if you mean why am I here it's because y'all brought us back after..." Her voice trailed off not knowing how to describe the confrontation at the swamp.

"Us?" questioned Lizzie, not realizing that any but Zen returned to the bar, but it had been night then and she, intoxicated by victory and a need to blast back up the highway at the head of the pack in triumph.

"Yeah, there are four of us. We're really grateful not to be left there. All the others are still, or were, at the bar, someplace." Searching Lizzie's face she added, "really grateful." Lizzie closed the last space between them, kissed her full lips.

"You're welcome." She released the hand, gave Billy a kick. "Prospect, move your ass." He stood, allowing Sharron a path to slide past to a spot near the center. Back in place he checked the watch and resumed the closed eye, even breathing as before. The waitress came to take orders, refill coffee before breakfast arrived. Sharron watched John's intent stare into his coffee cup. Her pensive look returned.

Her peripheral vision revealed Lizzie eyes appraising the young woman. She turned full face, smiled openly. This continued long moments; in others, it might be uncomfortable causing a desire to shift gaze or speak to break the silence between the two virtual strangers, but as time passed, broken by only the background sounds of the diner operation and Billy's soft snore, they found a focal point in each other. Their breathing joined.

Breakfast arrived with clatters, the waitress' cheery chatter and the smell of fresh baked biscuits, breaking the spell that held the table. Billy woke, checked his watch and surroundings then leaned back again. Liz and John tucked into the food without pause, soon reducing all to empty plates and coffee dregs.

The sleepy berg of Backwater came awake with the restrained early morning light becoming a ball scorching summer day. Traffic on the road began moving to regular Saturday destinations, grocery, liquor store, as merchants began opening.

"Billy," John called, "time to get moving. Make sure the other prospects are awake then try to beat them back to the club house." He sat up, stretched, bringing watch to face, then left swiftly without a word. The door tinkled hello/goodbye; the B.S.A. fired up, buzzed away to complete the tasks assigned.

John laid a hand across Sharron's shoulders, gently pressed her down beside him. Lizzie grinned, swiveled to the booth end, facing the counter where Mr. Hill sat on a stool, bent over his coffee.

Sticks n Tricks:

"Play you a game Mr. Harry?" Lizzie hid a grin as he sat up hurriedly, smiling, setting aside his cup and spinning the stool around.

"Dollar a game?" He asked gleefully dismounting, already a step toward the table. Suddenly his Saturday morning held promise of entertainment and a chance to catch up with Daniels only kin to boot.

"You're too good for me Mr. Harry. Besides, money is tight right now with Unk gone." Money was not tight, but she wasn't going to share that with the public or Mr. Hill, who was a very good stick. Besides, there was tender of another kind that might just cinch her plan, win or lose. Fast John moaned behind her. "Sharron, would you like to see Mr. Carl play with his stick?" His eyes moved to the empty spot and the voice there.

"Oh, I sure would." Sitting up, taking a sip of water, wiping lips with a paper napkin; a pat below the tabletop that caused John to jump, then slipping out of the booth across to duck under Mr. Hill's arm holding back the beaded curtain leading to the pride and joy of the crossroad settlement of Backwater. A battered old billiard table: a brass plate read, Deadlevel Goods.

Lizzie watched Mr. Hill's eyes as the young woman left the booth, walked unhurriedly toward him. He followed through the game room door, letting the beads fall behind them. The click of disturbed strings and a view of his back left her drinking the rest of her coffee and explaining to John her plan for relocating the wake; he had a few ideas also.

The friendly voice of a chattering Sharron launched immediately into conversation with the cook. The room was dominated by the solid presence of the old pool table. There was a long bench the length of the back wall with a window for beer or snacks on the kitchen side. Sharron paid her respects adequately.

"Hey! This is nice." The cook smiled from the service window and nodded agreement; leaning in he remarked on the Pride while admiring her bent over the table. The waitress looked in.

"Its the only table in forty miles, weekends there's a room full sometimes. The Missus polishes it every Sunday. What can we get for you folks?"

Negotiation:

Lizzie walked in with a rattle of beads and a moments grin for the sound of comfortable talk of three different conversations, oblivious of her arrival or the sound of John's bike firing up and moving away noisily. She turned to where two racks were secured to the middle of the long wall; one had locks for local players who wanted to keep a good stick there, the other house cues. Lizzie took one and began banking the cue ball around the table, letting hands and eyes find the mathematics of the cushions. Beer appeared at the service window.

Mr. Hill took two, leaving Sharron talking in the window to the cook. The soft bumps coming from the table brought his smile immediately shared with Lizzie. He handed her a bottle then raised his in salute. She set her bottle under the table after a sip, returning to the solid geometry of the table and the study of force.

"We sure were sorry to hear Daniel passed. Ku would have brought something over if she could have found you." He drank half of his first beer at 8:00 on Saturday morning.

"It's been all so fast. Unk had it set up that way. There was going to be a wake but there was trouble where we had planned to have it. What's the chances of moving our goodbye party out by your place, Mr Harry? She put her drink on a table against the wall, returned to the faded blue felt, the cue, the stick, billiard harmony.

"Yeah, I might have heard of something like that, sorry you haven't got the chance to grieve yet. Me either, there was no memorial, just a quick dash to covers; the old sweet bastard." Mr Hill got a stick from the locked side and fussed with it while Lizzie set up her lag shot.

The click of her strike toward the long rail and the measured bump of return brought the ball back in no great hurry, stopping two inches shy of the rail. Sharron took a seat by the wall. Lizzie retrieved her beer and joined her in watching him set up his lag shot with a second ball striking it smoothly down table to rebound back in a leisurely return to well inside of her ball. Sharron applauded.

"I'm not old, just rode hard. I get to choose; we'll play straight eight. All balls except the eight open, any combination that sinks it wins, call your pockets. Scratch is table spot. One ball in the side." It was just slowing to stop when it dropped over the lip of the pocket.

They played fast, calling the action around the table; game after quick game, until the duties of the day pulled both away. Sharron joined them at the head of the table with a wink for Lizzie and and pats for the victor.

"Miss Elizabeth, you're welcome to use my lakeside for your goodbyes In fact, I would be honored to share and say my own goodbyes with you." A smile ran across her battered face and a sigh of relief for the perfect beginning of the last two days weekend.

"Thanks for the game, offer, and a chance to visit. I'll send someone to set up the campsite and work with you." Mr., Hill left after locking away his stick once again; they followed behind, settling tabs before riding away in the opposite direction on Lizzie's bike.

Zen Garden:

Lizzie cut the engine well before the bar, coasting to the small workshop behind. Only a metallic whine of the drive chain as it traveled around the sprockets disturbed the day. The door was open; she rolled right in surprising Liam entering the far door with full arms. He stepped back hurriedly as she stopped a foot away.

"Damn Little Bitch, slow down!" To his credit there was no anger only concern and a lopsided smile/glare.

"Watch where you're going, Dog! My Hog-let has the right of way back here." Her toothy smile replaced the usual frown preceding their vocal confrontations, but then that was before a lot of bumping and slurping the night before. Liam moved closer, bent down and gave her a hungry kiss. She stroked the length of him in jeans that grew just a little bit tighter.

He stood, arrested by her hand; a bag of charcoal under one arm, lighter fluid held tightly, an ax dangling from the other. Eyes locked with hers, pre-nuclear, torn away when Sharron slid off, pressed by for the stairs and shower.

"There's still plenty of 'gator left and no prospects to start the fire." His eyes were for the ass leaving the shop; She laughed with no explanation. "Everyone else left right after the juke cut loose; thanks for that by the way."

Lowered brows to her. "Bar's empty, front door locked."

"Fast John has them all busy, especially Billy. I've got us a place to hold Monk's goodbye." His face lit up. "Do you need some help before we get busy too?" She ran fingers softly over the length of him. He desperately needed 'help'. He nodded with a leer, adjusting the bag as it slipped but obviously the fuckers mind was set on food.

"Park your shit and come on back. I'll chop some wood for smoke while you start the coals." Stopping at the shop door he looked back at her and added, "If that's alright with you, Prez."

Well, it wasn't because she was straight to the bar, leaving him holding his BBQ stuff, torn between the sight of her exit and the thought of the marinating gator meat behind the bar. Lizzie came back with two beers and the vision of her return, exchanging drinks for the bag as she passed.

Dumping a mound of coals in the corner of a concrete pit that would accommodate a large pig or small cow, she doused it with lighter fluid and set it afire. Wandering away to a set of heavy garden forks used for not only breaking up the earth but also for the kata like exercises Monk had taught her and his brothers.

Thrust, bend, ground, recover to the sound of Liam chopping hickory. Her abdomen pleasantly proclaiming this is exercise, not work, sweat merely grease lubricating mind and body; breathe. Each move displacing earth while increasing muscle memory. The mindless repetition she'd used one summer working with Mr. Hill's interns soothing. The sound of her old BSA as Billy returned for duty broke the spell. Lizzie parked the fork and walked toward Liam, the wonderful smell of roasting gator, and to see if Sandra left any hot water.

Less than an hour later the bar was locked; only smoke from the grill and the sound of bikes in the distance broke the still.