to stay in the room. J. watched, waiting for Teach to respond with anger when the little punk called him the worst names there were. In fact, J. was ready to beat the punk down himself, right there in front of everyone.
But instead, Teach had folded a socket wrench into his huge hand and crossed his arms . He waited impassively for the loudmouth white kid to shut his face. The silence lasted so long, J. started to squirm uncomfortably. He had never seen a man so still, so immovable. The punk kid slowly trailed off in the face of his calm and meekly sat back down. Teach stood in the prison classroom as if he was planted there and nothing could move him from that spot.
J. was fascinated.
As his sentence dragged on, he learned everything he could from Teach. Mostly about motorcycle repair, but also about religions and history and Teach's favorite subject, philosophy. J. went to the prison library and picked up the teachings of the Roman philosopher Seneca, Teach's personal hero. He spent many nights in his cell, laboriously picking through the dense words.
"The point is not how long you live, but how nobly you live." He memorized the word and took them to heart. The teachings of the Stoic philosopher calmed the red rage in his mind almost as much as the intricate work of dismantling a 1200cc, 74 cubic inch, horizontally opposed V-Twin engine and rebuilding it from scratch.
J. slowed his bike, hugging the curve of the off ramp. The road along the Delaware River wound among the rolling, grassy lawns of mansions as he made his way up to the bridge at Lawrenceville. Riding led him further out of Philadelphia than he ever would be without it. Riding cleared his head and soothed the riot of anger that sometimes threatened to consume him. Riding let him see the country. Riding had given his life purpose. He had a job now, a place to live and brothers who would die for him if asked. Ride to live, Live to Ride.
The sun peeked out from behind a cloud, warming the black leather of his jacket. The wind was in his face, the roar of the engine filled his ears. He could do whatever he wanted, he was free. For the first time since that stupid fuck-up six year ago, he was his own man. "Keep your head down," Officer Sayers had warned him, and he intended to listen to that advice. No more prison, no more screw-ups, no more red rage getting the best of him. No getting mixed up in other peoples' drama ,
And no more fighting. That was going to be the hardest part.
Chapter 6
J.
It was late in the morning when J. got back from his ride. Crash and MacDougal were still dead asleep in the clubhouse in back of the shop, sleeping off lethal hangovers no doubt. J. wasn't surprised to see Teach already behind the shop's counter, leafing through parts catalogs he still insisted on ordering from, no matter how many times J. reminded him of the existence of the Internet.
When Teach heard J.'s key in the lock he looked up quizzically and punched the volume down on the news show blaring out of his old boombox. Since retiring after twenty-five years at the prison, he had nothing to do but putter around his shop full-time. Despite that, it still looked like it was 1992 in there.
Teach raised his bushy eyebrows, but said nothing.
J. nodded in reply to the unasked question. "Yep. I'm done."
Teach's mouth twitched.
"Don't tell me I made you smile, old man," J. growled in mock anger.
"Don't get full of yourself, you little shit," Teach growled back. But he was stepping out from behind the counter, his arm already extended. J. grasped the proffered hand firmly, and looked into the older man's watery, but still sharp eyes and saw the pride there. "Congratulations, kid, you did good. Now keep your head down."
J. nodded. "Plan on it."
"You gonna work today?"
"Yeah I gotta deliver that job tomorrow."
Teach chuckled and shook his head, his long gray dreads swinging across his chest. "Weekend warriors. Gotta love them."
J. grinned. "Long as they pay
But instead, Teach had folded a socket wrench into his huge hand and crossed his arms . He waited impassively for the loudmouth white kid to shut his face. The silence lasted so long, J. started to squirm uncomfortably. He had never seen a man so still, so immovable. The punk kid slowly trailed off in the face of his calm and meekly sat back down. Teach stood in the prison classroom as if he was planted there and nothing could move him from that spot.
J. was fascinated.
As his sentence dragged on, he learned everything he could from Teach. Mostly about motorcycle repair, but also about religions and history and Teach's favorite subject, philosophy. J. went to the prison library and picked up the teachings of the Roman philosopher Seneca, Teach's personal hero. He spent many nights in his cell, laboriously picking through the dense words.
"The point is not how long you live, but how nobly you live." He memorized the word and took them to heart. The teachings of the Stoic philosopher calmed the red rage in his mind almost as much as the intricate work of dismantling a 1200cc, 74 cubic inch, horizontally opposed V-Twin engine and rebuilding it from scratch.
J. slowed his bike, hugging the curve of the off ramp. The road along the Delaware River wound among the rolling, grassy lawns of mansions as he made his way up to the bridge at Lawrenceville. Riding led him further out of Philadelphia than he ever would be without it. Riding cleared his head and soothed the riot of anger that sometimes threatened to consume him. Riding let him see the country. Riding had given his life purpose. He had a job now, a place to live and brothers who would die for him if asked. Ride to live, Live to Ride.
The sun peeked out from behind a cloud, warming the black leather of his jacket. The wind was in his face, the roar of the engine filled his ears. He could do whatever he wanted, he was free. For the first time since that stupid fuck-up six year ago, he was his own man. "Keep your head down," Officer Sayers had warned him, and he intended to listen to that advice. No more prison, no more screw-ups, no more red rage getting the best of him. No getting mixed up in other peoples' drama ,
And no more fighting. That was going to be the hardest part.
Chapter 6
J.
It was late in the morning when J. got back from his ride. Crash and MacDougal were still dead asleep in the clubhouse in back of the shop, sleeping off lethal hangovers no doubt. J. wasn't surprised to see Teach already behind the shop's counter, leafing through parts catalogs he still insisted on ordering from, no matter how many times J. reminded him of the existence of the Internet.
When Teach heard J.'s key in the lock he looked up quizzically and punched the volume down on the news show blaring out of his old boombox. Since retiring after twenty-five years at the prison, he had nothing to do but putter around his shop full-time. Despite that, it still looked like it was 1992 in there.
Teach raised his bushy eyebrows, but said nothing.
J. nodded in reply to the unasked question. "Yep. I'm done."
Teach's mouth twitched.
"Don't tell me I made you smile, old man," J. growled in mock anger.
"Don't get full of yourself, you little shit," Teach growled back. But he was stepping out from behind the counter, his arm already extended. J. grasped the proffered hand firmly, and looked into the older man's watery, but still sharp eyes and saw the pride there. "Congratulations, kid, you did good. Now keep your head down."
J. nodded. "Plan on it."
"You gonna work today?"
"Yeah I gotta deliver that job tomorrow."
Teach chuckled and shook his head, his long gray dreads swinging across his chest. "Weekend warriors. Gotta love them."
J. grinned. "Long as they pay
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