It's 6:20 a.m.

And I hear a motorcycle in the distance.........................................
I stepped outside to have a cigarette at 6:20 in the morning, expecting to hear nothing more than kittie's purring as she eats her food out on the frigid front porch. But I heard the motorcycle in the distance. I can only imagine the other times I've heard the motorcycles. I would lay in bed, sleepless, at my parents' house a few years ago. I had to work early the next morning, but neither my mental state, nor my sleep schedule would let me rest. Every Friday night, I would hear the motorcycles trekking down Broadway street. A fun night at the bar, and a drunken, two wheeled drive home. Up to that point I was always worried. "I'm never going to wake up in time for work" I would think to myself. Little did I know that my McDonald's life was just a tickler, a feather in the world of my work life... Three periods equals "continued". Boy are those three periods perfectly posed.
So I stand, leaning on the outside wall of this magnificent, tiny home, the house where I now live. Upon hearing the echoes of the 10 degree motorcycle ride, the first person I can think of is my own second cousin. Victor. Victor once worked as a lumberjack out in the forest, and once upon a time, a large branch fell on top of Victor's head. From that point on, Victor suffered from random headaches, and regular/random memory loss. Once when I was at the grocery store with my mom, we ran into Victor. She had to remind him of who she was and of course, he suddenly remembered, and she went on to tell a joke about the branch that fell on his head. He responded with laughter. The impaired have a default reaction. The impaired want to be treated as if they have no impairment, so a joke about said impairment has no adverse psychological effect on the person. If anything, it has a positive effect. I was young at the time, but shared an understanding between Victor and my mother, as was the case in most situations. I play pool at the Olde Town Tavern almost every Sunday, but during Hastings Summerfest, I've been known to play on weekdays. One such weekday, I ran into Victor, wearing his leather, motorcycle parked outside, talking on the payphone. I didn't approach him, knowing there was know way in hell he would know who I was. My friend made a joke about him, his "mullet" his "Pantera fan" getup, his barfly ways. But I respected this man more than I respected the friend who was making these comments. Afterall, he may act like it, but a branch never fell on his head.
I heard the motorcycle somewhere out in the rural abyss, and hoped upon all things that it was Victor. I hope he's on his way to some warm bed, to be shared with some beautiful, understanding woman. I wish this upon him more than I wish it upon myself, afterall, a branch never fell on my head...But maybe one should.