Page 26 of Existential
“Yeah.” Maybe it’s the hint of a time forgotten, the dreams of such opulence, and the fantasy of that kind of carefree life, but there’s magic about the property that hooks me in. The thought of wanting to spend more time in a single place frightens me, but what if this is actually it? The place I feel right settling in? Easy, girl. Talk about jumping the gun.
Hooch’s heavy boots make a thunderous noise as he climbs the steps to the porch. How he wore those things while sweating it out on the driveway, I have no idea, but I guess when you wear them as much as he does they probably become a second skin. I’m sweating just looking at them.
The members from the bar earlier have spread themselves out as we enter the house, reclined on chairs and leaning against the walls in some places while deep in conversation. And yet, every single one of them stops what they’re doing to look us over as we walk past the parlor and into the heart of the house. I duck my head, feeling more out of place than ever, and flank Hooch as he strides seemingly unaffected to the kitchen.
Guess they didn’t expect us to be getting along. Interesting.
“Just ignore them,” he murmurs as we pass the room I’ve hedged bets on being the chapel.
For a change, the doors are open offering an unhindered view of the invitation only space inside. My feet halt of their own volition and I take in the awe-inspiring masterpiece that is the sculpture encased at the far end in a glass-fronted wall. A naked bike, stripped of all its leather and rubber to leave the bare steel, rests atop a rough bed of broken tarmac. And all that stripped material? It’s been broken down and transformed into a rider, hunched over the bike as he’s poised to kick start it.
“My old man commissioned it the day he became president; the first year our chapter was in operation.” Hooch’s quiet words drift over my shoulder and echo around the enclosed rectangular room before us.
“It’s amazing.”
“He had an artistic mind, but not the hands to see the ideas through. The old man had a ton of visions about things like that, but I guess when you’re busy runnin’ a place like this, you don’t get much time for doing what makes you happy.”
“Who did it?”
“A guy that owed the club his gratitude. A guy who had the skills Dad lacked.”
“Somebody owed them that kind of favor in the first year?” I twist and look at his solemn face.
“Most clubs are born from necessity, not chance.” He shifts his brown eyes to mine, and frowns. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, and the brothers who founded our chapter saw a man who’d run out of options. The man who made that.” He points to the sculpture. “I’ll tell you more about it sometime, maybe.”
“I’d like that.”
He steps away, restarting our trek through the house as I lag behind watching his broad form twist and turn in smooth fluid motions while he walks. I get the distinct impression I’ve underestimated this guy, made assumptions based off his outer shell that in no way reflect the man underneath. The distant look in his eye as he shared with me something so intimate about his club; he hides so much more.
I want to know it all.