In order to avoid a plethora of comments and e-mails about geographical errors and unbelievable people this story needs an introduction. Several of the different aspects, locations and people are based on those I have known, places I have been, and dilemma's I have witnessed or experienced. The main character is based on a kid that lived a mile away who was by most determinations "larger than life" considering her was already six foot one in his freshman year and six foot four when he graduated. He was indeed a big bad mean motor scooter, he had been all-state as a guard his sophomore through senior years and received a football scholarship to play for Iowa but ruined that opportunity the summer after graduating by blowing out a knee playing softball. As in the story, he ended up in the Marines.
I needed a remote location for the story and chose Bemidji, MN having spent a few summers there camping as a teen. The little towns I mention are real names but the content concerning them is fictional. The romance and title are based on something that I experienced, I actually asked a girl from another state to "come home with me" with the intent of marrying her. It didn't work out but did provide me with the impetus for this far-fetched story decades later.
For the guy who will comment on the PTSD issue as though I have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, know this. I have the scars of two bullets in my gut received during combat and know all too well the ravages of PTSD. It doesn't have to kill you, but it will damned sure slow you down for a season. My aunt said it best in regard to her late husband, "he died in Vietnam, it just took forty years to kill him."
Come Home With Me
part one
Finishing the gigantic porterhouse in a fancy steak place in downtown Chicago I thought back to how I'd gotten here. I had always been the black sheep of the family, my two older brothers had become successful wealthy businessmen doing it the legal way instead of how our old man got his money. He was always involved in a scam or con job, always fleecing someone. He had moved around enough that he didn't face retribution very often, the last six years of his life had been spent in Chicago, that is until somebody from his past decided to put a bullet into his thieving body. One low caliber shot dead center to the forehead with a hollow point leaving a gaping cavity at the back. The DA wasn't quite sure it was a professional hit, gee, what did he miss that everyone else saw?
I didn't know it until I was already gone from home but the woman we called mom was actually never anything more than someone living with the old man. She wasn't our stepmom, nor his wife, she was just someone who put up with his crap and raised his boys. I was a sophomore in high school when I came home to discover she was gone, the old man said she'd abandoned us, we knew no different. With the oldest out of school and the next a senior ready to graduate we were left with the impression that our mother had walked away and left us.
My anger and bitterness escalated after I'd blown out my knee erasing any chance of a college scholarship. The long, ever-increasing boil within resulted in a plethora of bad decisions. I had a block on my shoulders a yard wide, I was always in fights, arrested several times for underage drinking, always in trouble of some sort. I hadn't been out of high school a year and was already known as a thuggish ner-do-well looking at considerable time in the lock up. Though it's seldom done anymore, the local judge gave me a choice to go in the military or a year in jail. I vividly recall him pointing at me and snarling, "Your choice boy, go in the Marines and be a man or go to jail and be somebodies bitch."
There was no question in my mind, it would be while in the Marines that I would see more time in combat than I ever imagined. Iraq was winding down, but Afghanistan was going strong, after six years I got out of the Marines still full of the same anger and bitterness I'd entered the Marines with. The problem was that now I had no one to take it out on, at least over there I could shoot at someone if they shot at me. Having been discharged at Pendleton I bought a used Harley fat boy and set out to find adventure, it found me, and not in a good way.
Within a week I was embroiled in a barroom brawl over some chick who was getting the shit slapped out of her. I didn't know at the time that it was her old man, but I didn't care either, obviously his mom never taught him it's not okay to hit girls. I proceeded to kick his miserable ass within a few inches of his life, unbeknownst to me he was part of a local pseudo biker gang, I say pseudo because they were basically the weekend warrior type. Given my size, the anger issues I still dealt with, and a heaping helping of PTSD I was relentless in making sure this guy never slapped another woman. Those very same things also kept the others at bay, had they decided to pounce as one, I'd have had no chance.
As I left the bar headed for my bike I felt a hand on my shoulder, as I spun my arm was cocked and ready to unload, that is until I saw it was a woman, not just any woman, the one that had been getting slapped around. She looked the worse for wear, lips puffy and swollen, her nose looked broken, eyes puffed up and beginning to discolor, I felt bad for her but had no idea what to do. She reached for and touched my arm.
"Thank you, I was afraid he was gonna kill me this time. I've been putting up with this shit for over a year, and today it was all about how I took a swig of his beer without asking. I mean, what the hell, he's been fucking me every which way but Sunday and I'm supposed to ask for a drink of his beer? Anyway, thanks and if you're interested in being involved with real bikers I can let my brother know. He rides with the Mongols."
Now that was some serious shit, from what I knew, once you made it into the Mongols you seldom if ever got out. I wasn't interested in that kind of commitment, there were other things I wanted to do with my life. Three weeks later I was at a roadside stop taking a break when I first heard the rumble, a noise never mistaken for anything more than it was.... motorcycles, lots of motorcycles. I watched at least two dozen drive by and then froze as the lead bike slowed down and spun around, it was headed my way. I was not looking forward to what might await me. It took minutes until the thunder and rumble came to a close with the head bike a few feet from me.
Stepping off he walked toward me, all by himself, "You the mean motherfucker that stepped in at the County Line Bar?" I nodded. "Thanks, that was my niece. I didn't know he was pounding on her or he'd have been put in the hospital sooner."
My mind is whirling, in the hospital, I didn't put the guy in the hospital. It suddenly reached my lightning quick mind, he had. He told me to follow them to a bar called Miller's Place, it was a biker bar, and only a biker bar. Long story short he convinced me to ride with their group, they weren't the Mongols or Bandito's or Hells Angels, but yet, they controlled the drug flow in that area. I told the leader outright I had no intentions of being long term and if that wouldn't work I'd simply go my way. He was fine with that as long as I didn't divulge club info, with the warning that if I did my life would cease to exist.
I'd been with them less than a year when life took an unsuspected turn, I was riding alone returning from a drug delivery late at night when a drunk ran a red light and nailed me broadside. With my right femur, three ribs and right ulna fractured along with multiple contusions, abrasions and lacerations I was what one might call a mess. A few of the guys stopped in at the beginning of my extended hospital stay but that quickly tapered to nothing. I would be in the hospital and extended care for at least four months, they had other places to be and people to see.
The driver's insurance company was willing to cover all my expenses, but I wasn't sure if I'd be taken to the cleaners or not, so I hired an injury lawyer. A year to the week after the accident I straddled my latest Harley and decided that maybe the Midwest was a good place to find peace and solitude. Considering I was still rehabbing and walked with a slight limp I decided for comfort over coolness buying an Electraglide with a trailer to hold what few belongings I had. With all the medical bills paid and a tidy settlement in the bank I headed north along the coast. I intended to see a part of California I'd never seen before I headed east to what people refer to as "fly over country". I wasn't set for life monetarily, but I was comfortable for the time being.
