Life

The time has come to get out of this place Viktor thought, as he parked his custom 1960 Harley Ironhead Sportster around the back of the bar. Lowering the kickstand, and glancing at the neon lit “Employees Only” sign above his normal entrance, he knows he will miss this place eventually. Jackman, Maine had been his home his entire life after all. With a population of barely nine hundred people, and its mountain man way of living, it was a tight knit community where everyone helped their neighbor and was ever too busy to share a story of times long past. He had tried his best to fit in, becoming quite fond of his vast collection of logging jeans, flannel shits, and work boots. But he knew he was out of place. Standing at six-foot four, an athletic two-hundred twenty pounds, pale-faced with shoulder length dark-brown hair pulled back in his signature messy bun, an ever present five o’clock shadow, and a slight Russian accent acquired from years of homeschooling, it was fairly easy to guess his descent.  He was grateful that his grandfather had dragged his mother from the grips of wretched Serbian winters just months from his birth, but he still felt displaced. Most of the older locals knew his family’s story and accepted them as their own, even with its ties to the Russian mafia. But that was many years ago, and being just shy of thirty with no family left, Viktor could see the recent immigration debate starting to creep its twisted fingers into the community. And he was now becoming a target.

 No time for reminiscing. All he had to do make it through one more shift before disappearing, leaving no trace of his destination. He unlocked the dead-bolt and made his way through the dingy kitchen to his post behind the bar, placing his key ever so subtly on the small hook under the cash register. He wouldn’t need that in the future. “Hey Viktor! Did you ride your bike again? You DO know it’s forty-five degrees and raining out right?” Frank boasted cheerily as he made his way from the small manager’s office located in the loft above the bar. “Yeah well, babushka always said that without effort, you can’t even pull a fish from the pond,” Viktor replied, doing his best to suppress his disdain for his boss. “After all these years, I still can’t make sense of your dammed Cossack expressions,” Frank sighed, making his way towards the kitchen. A roly-poly man with thinning white hair and an affinity for clothing that looked as if he fell into the extra’s wardrobe during the filming of Miami Vice, Viktor had always a certain contempt for Frank. Maybe it was the clothing, or maybe it was the fact that he always had a certain racist arrogance about him. After eight and a half years, Viktor couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But it didn’t matter anymore. He could already taste the salty shores of Santa Cruz, California. One more night, Viktor reminded himself. “It means no pain, no gain Frank. Jesus, don’t you catch on to anything?” snapped Mary as she entered the front door, attempting to stomp off of the sogginess of the weather. “Hey babe! I grabbed us a few movies from my parent’s for when we get off. They’re old Charlie Chaplin, your favorite,” turning her attention to Viktor. Though only being together not quite a year, Viktor knew his abdication would affect her the worst. “Uh, I’m gonna close tonight. The bike needs a new back tire and stuff, so I’ll just come by around two-thirty?” he choked out, feeling a twinge of remorse as he blatantly lied his way out of conversation. “Works for me!” Mary chirped, hanging her coat up next to his and preparing for the night ahead. Good, Viktor thought, no one suspects a thing. Business as usual.

                                                              ∞

Viktor looks at the aftermarket clock hanging from his handlebars as the drum of the motorcycle blends with the sound of surging, crisp mountain air. It’s a quarter till four in the morning and he is coming up on the state line. Mary’s phone calls had stopped vibrating his pocket some time ago. Not wanting to dwell on the vision of her face he downshifts and rips the throttle, becoming one with his machine. Maybe I’ll open a mechanic shop on the beach, he ponders, as the needle buries itself at eighty-five miles per hour.