Southbound Surrender Read Free Page A

that always require a belt and the metabolism of a race horse, except I’m not running any Triple Crowns. He tells me I won’t complain when I’m older, but I find it hard to believe considering I pound protein drinks any chance I get to no effect.
    “Thanks,” I mumble and pull the screwdriver back underneath the Harley Davidson.
    “How many hours you think yet?” Big Dave asks as he leans his head over the handlebars toward me. I close my eyes and let out a big sigh.
    “I didn’t know we were talking in hours now,” I reply without looking at him. We’re not even close to finishing the restoration on this ’78 classic Shovelhead. The motorcycle has been in our garage since I’ve stopped wearing Spiderman pajamas. And no, it wasn’t last week.
    “What’s it been? Five years now?”
    “Try seven,” I reply. We have this conversation every couple of weeks, and it always ends the same way. Big Dave denying that it’s been seven years.
    “No way. We haven’t had this old beauty for seven years,” he says as he pats the black seat I replaced just last week. I can still smell the earthy scent of the leather – the new car smell that I’ve only ever smelled when Big Dave let me test drive a brand new Chevy Camaro on my sixteenth birthday. The stodgy salesman knew Big Dave wasn’t going to be bringing that Camaro home, but he gave him the keys anyway. Big Dave can be pretty persuasive. It dawns on me that we had this same conversation when I was taking off the old seat last week, which tells me that Big Dave is either slipping, or he has an angle. Big Dave doesn’t slip.
    “Should I say what I usually say or do you want to tell me what you’re fishing for?” I set down the screwdriver with a clank and shimmy my body away from the bike.
    “Say what you usually say,” Big Dave grins.
    “Oh geez, Dad. It’s been seven years. You got the ol’ Shovelhead when I was only ten. Don’t you remember?” I lay it on thicker than usual, and I can’t help returning his smile. This is where the father ruffles his son’s hair in one of those cheesy Hallmark movies. I realize that most seventeen-year-old boys don’t know a thing about Hallmark movies, but sadly, I do.
    “Thanks.”
    “No problem,” I say as I wipe my greasy hands on my work jeans and stand up. “So what’s up?”
    “Nothing, I just like hearing you say those words. I like to think about you with your scruffy hair that hung over your forehead and your Spiderman pajamas that you wore holes through.” He pats me on the shoulder and leaves his hand there. I know Big Dave is about to get all sentimental and spiritual on me. I can see it in his eyes. They well up and crinkle at the corners. Wait for it…
    “Sixty pounds soaking wet,” I reply. I know this is going to send him over the edge.
    “Maybe sixty-one pounds if you were holding one of your Transformers,” he says with a glint in his eye as he squeezes my shoulder.
    “All right, Dad. What is it?” I let him leave his hand on my shoulder because I know it’s his way of connecting his spirit with mine. He closes his eyes and nods his head. Except I don’t feel anything, like usual, but I let him get on with it anyway. Big Dave has been like this since I can remember. He claims he had his spiritual enlightenment when I was just three, so I’m pretty used to the transcendent stuff he likes to pull every once in a while. It doesn’t bother me or freak me out. And it just so happens that it takes a whole lot to embarrass me unlike most normal teenagers. I think Big Dave got pretty lucky with that one if you ask me. Just a few more seconds, and he’ll let go.
    Except, he doesn’t.
    “Dad,” I start.
    “Shhh,” he whispers.
    I let him do it because I know I’m all he has. It’s just been the two of us for the last sixteen years. My mom died in a car accident when I was a baby. A head-on collision killed her instantly. The Corolla crunched up like an accordion , Big Dave says