Tinker stood in the tiny cubicle and relaxed. His reflection finally appeared in the mirror and he combed the tangles out of his silvered black hair , tying it back in an inconspicuous queue. His full beard had been trimmed, even worn a clean shirt and tie. Quick check of the wrist watch, deep breath–Show Time!
Stepping from the confines of the toilet, Tinker scanned his fellow passengers. He’d timed it so most were already seated and the jet leaving half full, as planned. Selecting an aisle seat with no one between him and the window, he stuffed his leather jacket with the small back pack containing helmet and rain gear in the overhead. Before sitting, Tinker made sure the light nylon exercise pants were pulled up over his belt. The solid silver knuckle-duster buckle and star-edged buck knife they hid from sight would never have made it through security–so he hadn’t bothered.
Hadn’t gone through check-in either: no point, no ticket, nor I.D. for that matter. However he did have a sheet of ‘polite’ paper should officialdom choose to intrude en route. It would display only what was proper, exactly as expected, right down to the seat number. Not really cheating, the seat was going to Vancouver empty or full. He’d even brought his own sarnies so he wouldn’t be taking the bread from another’s mouth. Besides, airline grub gave hospital food the runs for its money.
The climate had become unseasonably warm back home, what with his mentor, Magic John, raking over the coals of Hell–again. Cross demons tend to warn-off by leaving the heads of John’s friends on his doormat. Tinker preferred his bonce screwed on straight and distant ‘Cascadia’, the Pacific North-West, seemed particularly appealing for time of year. So what, if he was skint for the fare? As if a competent magician needs money to fly.
Exiting the Gents at Vancouver airport, Tinker felt lots better. Maintaining invisibility all through disembarkation had got to his plumbing. He’d persuaded a gremlin to swipe a couple of junk cards through the crack of its arse. Each brown smear would work only once, so he maxed one of them out at the first ATM. The big banks could go cry him a river. Next stop was at the airport news agent to buy a copy of the current ‘Buy & Sell’ paper. Tinker concentrated his second sight on the motorcycle columns, projecting his needs: cheap, reliable, simple. A phone call later, he was hailing a taxi.
“I only rode it a year, eh” Rose informed him. “Tired of packing on the back… suppose that saved my life.” She’d been following her husband’s bike when the truck creamed him; hadn’t gone near a motorcycle since. Said she needed to be getting on with her life and just wanted rid of the memories.
Maybe not all the memories, Tinker figured, checking out the bike–watching her in the rear mirror, checking him. The tyres needed air, the battery needed a charge, and someone needed an oil change… the price looked to be coming down faster than silk knickers.
The Peace Arch border crossing was a breeze, that being all the guards were aware of as he blew right on through: so much for Homeland Security Gestapo.
Tinker pulled off the I-5 highway at Fairhaven, an old unrestored town where Samuel Clements used to play pool, now the preserve of pensioned-off hippies and young University of Washington students. The ATM machine coughed out thick green and that was about it for gremlin skid marks, fortunately the scenery came beautiful and free.
Spectacular seascapes the sinuous length of Chuckanut Drive tended to distract from falling rock signs and 15 mph max. corners around sheer drops; a unwary rider could get permanently distracted. The nude beach near Larabee State Park came free too, however Tinker had begun noticing a familiar call that ran deeper than skin. He stopped to get a feel of things at one of the viewpoint pull-offs. Only pure, sea-salted air between him and the distant San Juan Islands, the high one being Orcas. You could just make out the stone tower on the summit of Mt. Constitution, built by conscientious objectors of the Civilian Conservation Corps. He’d stood up there on an earlier visit, taking in one of the seven best views in all North America. The amazing, horizon-wide line of volcanic snow-capped cones was now minus Mt. St. Helens; Cascadia had lost a tooth. Tinker wasn’t getting any younger either, yet he could still scent magic on the breeze. He’d the nose for it like a pig for truffles… and it was wafting from the south.
Riding up and down Madrona-twined hairpins, past secluded oyster coves, Tinker felt the magic pulling him towards Edison like an electro-magnet. A tiny community near the rainbow tulip-growing flats of Mount Vernon, its sole attraction appeared to be an ancient Western-type bar. ‘The Buffalo Saloon’ boasted a variety of North West ales and fresh oyster burgers that had already attracted a whole pack of bikes.
Tinker pulled over and stared. They were all ol’ skool customs: a ‘Captain America’ replica pan head, twin-carb knuckle in a VL chassis, JDH Long Beach cut-down from the dirty Thirties. He couldn’t see a ride later than the fifty years old: there were white Cleveland Fours and green Super Xs, red ‘101’Scouts and bright yellow Cyclones–every single one made in the good ol’ U.S. of A.
Embarrassingly out of his class, Tinker steered the little import down an alley before parking up. No wonder he’d felt a tug, these old bikes positively radiated decades of magic and history. They were iron ponies of the endless prairies, rough and ready as the men who rode them. What tales writ in blood could they tell? Being part gypsy and all biker, Tinker just had to know, and who to tell him but the men who rode them?
Inside, Sierra Nevada’s ‘Big Foot’ pump handle snared his eye. Wise in the ways of local liquor laws, Tinker ordered two. They came in half pints, the maximum permitted serving for potent ‘barley wines’, however that illogicality was resolved by an empty pint glass. Alas, still not a full Imperial 20 oz. pint; the American gallon is short-measure too–typical.
A tall, white-haired biker down the bar smiled at his maneuver, revealing the worst false teeth Tinker had ever seen, and he’d seen some early National Health beauties. A reminder most Americans can’t afford medical insurance, never mind dental.
“Way to go, cheese-head, you Canucks know your beer,” said the stranger. “I always make sure my boys have good ale and plenty of it.” He came up the bar and held out his hand. “Saw you ride in. I’m George, c’mon round the back and meet them.”
Tinker shook, noticing a strong, work-callused grip. “Hiya, George. Tinker’s the handle. I’m not Canadian though, that’s just the bike plate.”
George’s eyes narrowed. “Limey, huh? We fought you guys once.”
Tinker laughed. “No way, I’m a Jock. We fought the bloody English for our independence too, unfortunately with less success. That’s the problem with bigger neighbours.” He politely didn’t mention the young Republic’s failed invasion of Canada.
Reassured, George led him to the beer garden at the rear, which apparently had been commandeered by the club. Tinker’s eyes were drawn to the sun-faded colors on George’s back: ‘Rebels’ top rocker, ‘Virginia’ bottom, a circle of stars between. Old George was about as far from his home as he could go without swimming. Looking round at the other riders, Tinker noticed bottom rockers from every state. Some were old, some bright new like Hawaii and Alaska. Shit, he figured. These are just the state reps, must be one king-hell of a club.
George sat down at a trestle table and motioned for Tinker to join him.
“Tinker, meet the executive,” he said. “That long streak o’ misery is Abby,” indicating a lean, beatnik-bearded man occupied with trying to comfort a distraught woman. “Off her meds,” George confided. “Not a good time.”
Tinker smiled and nodded around the table. A beefy sort with John Lennon glasses grinned toothily back, then resumed cleaning a large handgun.
“Terrible Ted,” George continued his introductions. “Tarbrush Tom.”
Tom appeared too busy playing suck-face with a young black girl, but managed a wave.
“Hello there lads,” Tinker said, emphasizing his accent. “Lassies too. Hope you don’t be minding strangers.”
“Well,” said Ted, in a squeaky, asthmatic voice at odds with his physique. “We’re a pretty strange posse ourselves.”
Tinker took another look around. A couple of steroid freaks, one pure Aryan with a star tattooed on his surfer forehead, the other black as ace of spades, hammer branded on a work-hardened bicep, were stalemated in a grunting, sweaty arm wrestle. Strains of ‘This land is your land…’ from a skinny club hobo keeping a few couples dancing to the strings of his battered guitar. An ancient, poker-faced Indian stood tending the barbeque while telling tall tales to the newer patches and old ladies, his hat handy for tips. Guns ‘n gurls, bikes ‘n beer–only in America.
“All looks pretty normal to me,” said Tinker. “For damn colonials, that is.”
That got him a chuckle and the offer of a good cigar from an open box on the table. Tinker looked at the wrapper and whistled. “Cohibas? Thought Cuban smokes were illegal here.”
“Screw all unnecessary laws.” George produced a couple of fat joints from his vest pocket, offering Tinker one. “Grew the weed myself, always have. Did you know Americans used to be able to pay taxes with it in the good old days?”
Tinker also knew the U.S. government pushed farmers to grow hemp after the Japanese booted ‘dug-out’ Doug from Manila. Even kids’ clubs were given grain-sacks full and told it was their patriotic duty to make like Johnny Appleseed.
“Can you imagine the killjoys even made beer illegal for thirteen unlucky years,” George continued, raising his brimming glass. “A virtual invite to organized crime.”
Tom unstuck lips long enough to hoist his own pint and mutter. “Dam’ insult to liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”
The dusky girl on his lap sighed, and got up. “Not to mention miscegenation, boss. Still, what can we expect when it’s men running the minstrel show?” She went over and put a comforting arm around the other woman. “C’mon, Mary honey, time to leave when the boys get to talkin’ politics. You know how it only upsets you.”
Abby flashed a grateful smile before reverting to his ingrained lugubrious expression. “We should all be upset. Big Agriculture is reinventing seasonal slavery in California’s pastures of plenty while governance looks on.” He shook his head like it hurt. “America is going to the devil.”
Ted thumped a meaty fist on the table. “Bloody peonage of illegals,”he shrilled. “Combines hiding behind sharecropping, forcing out small farmers and unions, exploiting the wretched wetbacks.”
Tinker wisely kept his face in the beer and yap a-lapping suds. When sex, money, politics or religion enter the conversation it’s best not to be the only non-patch at the party.
“Well I never, Ted,” said Tommy, baiting him. “So now you’re the champion of Hispanics?” Ted harrumphed, and waved away cigar smoke.
Thinking to have caught the flavour, Tinker risked a word. “I suppose you’ll all be Democrats, then?” Safe ground, he figured, not many voted Republican on the West or East Coasts.
Wrong! Their faces turned stony–quick recovery required. “Oops. Well then, guess I should offer congratulations seeing as your guy’s in the White House for a second term.”
Ice froze over the stone.
“Our guy?” said George stiffly. “Club elections aren’t rigged, and we don’t think it’s American for cowards, coke-heads, and cheats to prosper. Dubya won’t be waving his ‘robust penetrator’ around my boys.”
“Thought it was his dangling little chad?” muttered Tinker, who figured to be himself and fuck diplomacy. “Seems Bro Jeb pulled everything but that and poll tax.”
They liked that; nothing like a shared laugh to break the ice between strangers.
Tinker relaxed, taking another rich, hoppy swallow. That Bigfoot winter ale had quite the stomp, and soon the insults flew as they will when Yank and Brit cross cultures. Over-sexed, over-paid, and over here, went the jealous Brit WWII joke. Separated by a common language, jibed Bernard Shaw. Actually it was a family thing; postulant young America wanted his old-world folks to approve–Britannia trying not to wince at her offspring’s adolescent excesses.
Another laugh, another hearty swig. Tinker had passed on the cigars, now he remembered the joint. He picked it up and fired the fattie to life. Unfortunately he forgot to employ either match or lighter. Bollocks, shouldn’t a done that, he cursed himself. Now the cat’s outta the bag.
The merriment died faster than the flame between his finger and thumb, and George shifted to the other side of the bench. The fighting pack, ever sensitive to the mood of its alpha males, stopped whatever they were doing. Silence coiled like a spring–the kind attached to triggers.
Tinker froze, this was the Excited States of Hysterica, these crazy fuckers never really stopped witch hunts and burnings. Casual magic might prove more than a social faux pas. Craggier members of the club came over and loomed up behind their executive like a range of mountains. Nobody was smiling. Nobody moved.
Tinker stared, sweating, at four faces implacable as if carved from a common mass of stone… then suddenly burst out laughing.
“You guys, I dunno. You had me going there for a minute. Okay, so you’re the wizards’ presidential welcome wagon. Dig the Mount Rushmore tableaux incidentally, caught the original riding to Sturgis in ’84. You had a spread in the Badlands, didn’t you, Teddy?”
A big hit on the jay followed by a perfect smoke ring, Tinker bent it with his will into a Moebius band, symbol of the infinite. “Come on, the whole world knows America has a magic all of its own, and sure doesn’t everybody want a piece of it for themselves?”
George nodded. “Okay, cards on table. Ever since fuckin’ 9/11 we’ve been spooked; popped our cherry worse than Pearl. Immigration can’t handle the ‘special’ cases.” He looked steadily at Tinker from gray-blue eyes. “We can.”
“Psychic profiling?” Tinker bristled. “Something against the old ways or is it the old country?”
“Calm down,” George rumbled. “Why, Tom and I are related to Edward the First.”
Edward Longshanks, Malleus Scottorum, Hammer of the Scots; this revelation failed to calm Tinker in the slightest. Eddie bastard gutted Wallace alive, and in public. “Hey, do I look like some bleedin’ ragtop with my sandals full of semtex?” he demanded.
George showed his teeth again. They were so ill-fitting you couldn’t tell if it was a smile or snarl. “No, you look like a scofflaw horse-gypsy on the run.”
Putting down the joint and swilling the last of his beer, Tinker stood up.
“Okay, this nomad knows when he’s not welcome.”
“Au contraire,” said Tom, rising with him. “Neither race, colour, nor creed–and that included wicca and wizards.”
George rose too, and tossed a handful of bills on the table. He smoothed one out and held it before Tinker’s eyes. “See, we’re right on the money. After all, who built America but masons?”
Meanwhile the patches were chugging beers and stubbing smokes; boots & saddles time for the troop. The old Indian came over and started scooping up the bucks. Tinker realized ‘The Buffalo’, logically enough, belonged to him.
“You long riders,” he grumbled, folding bills by denomination. “Come from nowhere and take over the whole show. Mess the place up then move on.”
George shook his head and threw down more cash by way of tip, which was promptly pocketed.
“Can’t buy my America back,” muttered the Chief. “So it goes.”
“Okay, okay, Seattle,” placated George. “I can’t tell a lie, we buggered you guys good. But if it wasn’t us, it would have been Spain or France, and good luck with their tender mercies.”
Chief Seattle had the last word. “Canadians pay better. Don’t make treaties with forked tongue either.”
George gave up and turned to Tinker. “So, Scottie, you care to ride with the big boys awhiles? Got some neo-fascists in Idaho fooling with black arts as need a spoiling.”
Tinker shook his head. “Naw, thanks all the same. Bit of a rebel myself, loner type as minds his own beeswax.”
Ranks of bikes were firing up with volleys of smoke and detonations, hand-shift transmissions clanged and clutches chattered impatiently. George swung a long leg over his 1914 Hendee Special, and brought it to raucous life at the touch of a button.
“You sure now?” he persisted. “Seems to me you got exactly the kinda pioneer spirit this damn country’s run short of.”
Tinker wheeled out the Suzuki Savage to a volley of wolf-whistles and cat-calls.
“So where’s yer Nortons now?”someone jeered. The little Manx one-lungers whupped U.S.’s best V-twins during the fifties at Daytona. Yanks never let Brit bikers forget the hog-factory can barely keep up with orders these days, while sterling steel lies in rusted memory.
“I appreciate the offer, and I dig where you’re at,” Tinker said. “But I’m gypsy; I wouldn’t fit, let alone on a one-bag ricer. Just about everybody rides little gray imports these days in Britain you know; it’s all they can afford.”
George waved a dismissive hand at the noisemakers. “Pay no attention to the Club idiots. Gold Wings are manufactured in America now and half of today’s Harley is outsourced.”
“Can’t compete with better mousetraps,” Tinker muttered. “Cheaper at Wal-Mart too, eh?” Americans always loved cut-throat capitalism… till the katana tickled their own neck.
“Last chance,” said George, easing the Hendee into first.
“Not a gambling man,” Tinker replied.
He waved goodbye as the club peeled out, gunning engines and chirping tyres; stood waving till they were out of sight. You don’t just ride with a heavy club; you become one or are spat out–goes double when the patches are spirit-riders. He’d come touring down the Pacific Rim for the good of his health and to chill out, not emigrate; certainly not to join a local vigilante variant of the ‘Wild Hunt’. Been there, done that, received the branding. The hunt brand stood, seared white against the tan of his waving hand, the three-thousand year old Uffington design–a horse in the wind.
“You no gamble, eh?” It was the old Chief at his elbow. “Pity, Casinos make good money for tribes.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Tinker. “Skim the Gaje, gypsies have been doing that for centuries.”
Chief Seattle looked at him more closely. “You man of traveling people, step lightly on the land.”
“Sure don’t put it behind fences.” Tinker said. “Romans built walls right across Scotland to keep my mother’s ancestors penned like sheep”
Seattle nodded. “Reservations are prisons.”
“Prisons are death,” Tinker agreed. The great Kiowa fighting chief, Satanta, nearly went mad in the Huntsville hoosegow. Nomads can’t do the porridge; better dead.
“Buffalo, salmon, the great trees–so much death.” Seattle shook his long white hair like an eagle ruffling its feathers in indignation. “Kill land, kill water, kill even the air. It is people need to die more; too many fish-belly whites, live too soft.”
Another convert for social eugenics, thought Tinker. Meanwhile the fundamentalists are still attacking contraception and abortion. Guess we’re just lucky pro-life doesn’t extend to war or unrestricted handguns.
Tinker saddled up and pointed the front wheel back the way he’d come. “Not to worry, Chief,” he said holding out a hand. “The Four Horsemen sort everybody out eventually, nature has stern measures for species that fuck up.”
The old man took his hand in both of his. “Strong medicine take time. Meanwhile, casinos.”
Tinker stuck it in gear. “Well, I’m for the off. Too weird for me here.”
“Me too,” agreed Seattle. “Yet it is my land, and like it, I must endure.”
Profit on the bike paid his fare, so Tinker flew back legit. If the old chief wouldn’t let waves of rapistic rednecks scare him from his native land, Tinker figured he’d not let a demon or two chase him off his home turf. Sure, life could be easy in the unspoiled vastness of Cascadia. There were so many places in the world to hide; Afghanistan for the poppies, Thailand for the little girls.
“This is nae my ain lassie, bonnie though the lassie be”. The song went through Tinker’s head as he dozed on the return flight. Sometimes only the real thing will do, and there’s really never any place like home.
The End.
