If Rock and Roll Were a Machine Read Online Free PDF Page A

home.”
    Tanneran takes the sheets. “One, two, three . . . fourteen pages,” he counts. “Good Lord!”
    â€œI would have typed it, but I wasn’t where my computer was,” Bert says.
    â€œGohome and go to bed,” Tanneran says. “You look bad.”
    â€œI feel bad,” Bert says.
    On his way to the car Bert sees a crowd of football players at the gym door. They are jocking around like yearling killer whales when it’s raining fish. The cut-list has been posted. Mike Jackson and Christman and McDougall and other guys who didn’t have a worry in the world about getting cut are high- and low-fiving Camille Shepard.
    Bert squeezes through. He reads the names. He reads down the list again. It’s no surprise that his name is not here. It’s no surprise, but it hurts.
    He will walk to his car. He will drive to the bank. He will buy the Sportster. He will keep his word.

Chapter 7
Scott Shepard Meets Bert’s Father and Resolves to Return a Kindness
    Donald Bowden observed the woman and the two bikers from the McDonald’s lot across the highway. She sat in a green sports car with the top down. She was in her mid-thirties, wore her straw-blond hair in a long, thick braid, and radiated that healthier-than-thou attitude Donald found so detestably attractive.
    The older guy sat on his bike with his arms folded, smiling. There was gray in his hair, the stubble of his beard, and his moustache. The younger guy wore an old-fashioned black half-helmet out of which his ponytail hung. They were both big.
    Donald would not have been surprised to see the three exchange drugs, but they exchanged only smiles, and then waves as the woman sped away.
    The younger biker dismounted, walked to the older biker, and kissed him on the cheek. Donald watched them knock their fists together like steroid-addled athletes, vicious subliterate pimps, dumbass bikers. Then the younger one returned to his bike, kicked it into a roar, and shot out through the colored band of cars like a black bullet through a rainbow.
    The older guy left his bike and walked to the door of the shop. This must be Shepard, Donald said to himself.
    *  *  *
    Scott Shepard watched his son sitting at the light, revving his engine. Aside from his worry about Camille’s safety on the Harley-Davidson, Shepard felt a profound sense of peace. It was a sense that his life had finally dialed itself in and was running right.
    Camille chirped the tire when the light went green. His father’s heart did a wheelstand. “Stay off your head!” the elder Shepard yelled. But the younger was long gone.
    Shepard walked up to open the door. He was standing in the doorway looking out at the beautiful early September morning when the silver Acura pulled up. A man in a suit stepped out. His jaw was set as he started for the door. Shepard couldn’t remember having done anything that would occasion such an aggressive posture in someone this well dressed.
    â€œMy name is Donald Bowden,” Donald said. He wondered if the guy would want to do some stupid power handshake.
    Shepard shook Donald’s hand in the traditional way. “I’m Scott Shepard,” he said. “People call me Scotty. I’ll bet you’re Bert Bowden’s dad.”
    â€œI’m Bert’s father, and I’m upset,” Donald replied.
    The kid must take after his mother, Shepard thought. This guy is dark, wiry, over six feet. “Step inside, Mr. Bowden,” he said. “Let’s get you pacified.”
    Donald looked up at Shepard. The man filled thedoorway in height and width. Donald was six two, and not accustomed to looking up at people. He wasn’t intimidated by Shepard, but he was surprised the man spoke standard English. He followed him across the showroom to the counter. Shepard hung his jacket on a peg and turned. “Your son doesn’t want the bike? You don’t want him to have the