Otis Read Free Page B

friends hurt if you go to one of those get-togethers.”
    My mother was fifty-nine years old, and appeared to be much younger. She was a small woman, standing barely over five feet tall, and weighed roughly one hundred pounds. I attributed the majority of her preserved appearance and youthful looks to the fact she rarely left the house, and spent most of her time either cleaning or preparing meals for my father, who was a mirror image of me.
    “We’re not going to get hurt, ma. Not unless some cop decides to shoot one of us,” I chuckled.
    As I heard my father’s footsteps coming into the kitchen, I turned to face him, hoping he had heard at least a portion of what we were talking about. His opinion mattered to my mother, and he was not much different than me in his judgement of today’s police officers and their poor decisions.
    “Ken, talk to your son,” my mother sighed as she folded the towel that dangled from her fingers.
    “My son? He’s our son, Marge. What are we talking about?” he chuckled as he slapped his hand against my back.
    “Game’s over and the Royals won. Best team in the league,” he bragged as he rubbed his hands together.
    “It’s about time,” I laughed, making reference to the fact the Kansas City Royals hadn’t done anything good in baseball since the 1980’s.
    I glanced at my mother for a second, and shifted my gaze toward my father, “We were talking about the biker shoot-out in Texas. Ma’s afraid the fellas and I are gonna get hurt if we’re hanging around the thugs who were at the bar in Texas. I told her the only way any of us would get hurt is if one of those trigger-happy cops decided to shoot at us for getting in a fist fight.”
    As far as my mother and father were concerned, I was part of a group of men that loved riding motorcycles together. They either didn’t want to accept or were afraid to admit that I was the Vice President of a 1%er MC. I didn’t press the issue or try to explain anything, and they didn’t ask. For them to understand just what it was the club offered me or to learn of and comprehend our day-to-day activities would be nothing short of impossible.
    “That’s the damned truth Marge. That whole thing stinks. They said the other day the shooting was inside the bar. Now they’re saying it was outside . The officer in charge originally said the police returned fire when the bikers shot at them. Now the film from the security system of the bar has been reviewed, and it looks like the only shooting was from the police officers. The whole thing makes me sick. Cops today are too damned trigger happy. Hell, I made hundreds of arrests, and never pulled my service revolver once,” my father explained as he walked toward the casserole dish and peered down at the concoction my mother had cooked.
    My father worked for thirty years as a police officer, and had retired unharmed. He now attempted to maintain his sanity by working part-time at a local hardware store, which seemed to work well for him. Still standing six foot five at sixty-two years old, he was in good physical and mental condition. His job kept him busy enough that he continued to feel his life was worthwhile, and it allowed a little physical separation from my mother during the day, which, according to him, was necessary.
    “I just don’t want him to get hurt,” my mother sighed.
    “He’s a big boy, Marge. He’ll be fine. Hell, he’s got that Marine by his side half the time, nobody’s going to mess with him,” my father said under his breath as he walked toward the dish my mother had placed on the countertop.
    “What have we got here, Marge?” my father asked as he poked the top of the casserole with his fingertip.
    “It’s a recipe I got off of Pinterest,” my mother responded, “Enchilada casserole.”
    “You know, we ate for thirty years without Pinterest. Now it seems every time I turn around, we’re trying something new that some shit-head in San Francisco cooked, took a