Respect. In the hustle and bustle world of the modern age, the general population has forgotten how to be respectful. Most of what would make us more courteous as adults was drilled into our heads as children. Don’t touch it if it isn’t yours. Don’t lie. Don’t cheat. Don’t steal. Use the words please, thank you, and excuse me in everything you do. Think before you act. If someone serves you something, eat it out of respect without complaint. Stand up for what you believe in. If you make a mistake, be man enough to admit it. Don’t say you’re going to do something unless you have every intention of following through with your promise.

No, it’s not okay to cut me off on the highway because you’re late for your son’s soccer game. There is never a good time to text a picture of the soup you ate for lunch to your girlfriend while you’re on the highway.

People assume because I look tough, I’m covered in tattoos, and I ride a motorcycle I must be disrespectful. Nothing could be further from the truth. I treat others with respect, and I expect the same in return. For me to walk this earth smiling at every person I see and shaking the hands of strangers would be the same as living a lie. Most people on this planet aren’t the caliber of person I want to know, be friends with, or allow to the luxury of even saying they’ve ever met me.

“Damned near graduation day, huh?” I asked as I slid my empty water glass to the center of the table.

“Yep,” Avery responded.

She sure didn’t seem to be excited about the fact she was graduating from college. Hell, I barely made it through high school. As much school as I missed, it was a miracle I even graduated.  I learned more in my post-graduation reading than I ever did in school. I wouldn’t trade who I had become for anything, but it sure would have been nice to get a degree in mechanical engineering. Applying the education of a technical degree to building bikes would be far more efficient than reading books every night.

“Can I get you some more water?” the waitress asked.

“No thank you,” I said.

She turned and smiled at Avery. “You ma’am?”

“No thank you,” Avery responded.

“Anything else?” she asked.

I shook my head and grinned. “The food was great. We’re stuffed.”

“Okay, I’ll leave this here. No hurry, whenever you’re ready,” she said as she placed the bill on the table.

I looked at the bill. $17.22. I reached for my wallet and placed thirty dollars on the table. I’ve always believed if I couldn’t leave a ten-dollar tip for a meal, regardless of the cost, I shouldn’t be eating in public.

“Ready?” I asked.

She stood from her chair and slid her glasses onto her nose. Avery had changed from talking a hundred miles an hour about any and everything to being a woman of a few words. In a conversation about a particular subject she’d talk for as long as I was interested in doing so. Through the course of a normal day, she now spoke very little unless I encouraged her to do so. Seeing the change in her caused me to believe she was willing to modify her behavior to attempt to please me.

“You don’t talk much anymore.” I chuckled as I stood.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t have to.”

I opened the door and waited for her to walk through. As I stepped to the sidewalk and turned toward my bike, a man was standing beside it taking pictures. I reached down and pulled the rubber band away from my wrist.

“What are you doing?” I growled.

Snap!

He looked up, grinned, and took another picture. “Just taking a few pics of this bike.”

“Is it yours?” I shrugged as I stopped in front of the bike.

He shook his head and stood. “Nope. Probably yours, huh?”

Avery stood quietly by my side with her hands in her pockets. It was probably a good thing she was with me, as I had found myself fractionally more reserved in her company. I rested my hands on my belt and stared as he continued to try and take the perfect photo of my bike.

“Probably.”

Dressed in nice jeans, a button down shirt, and dress shoes, he looked like a thirty-something year old business man. I would have expected him to have had enough common sense to at least, in my presence, ask permission to continue.

“You have any kids?” I asked.

He looked up and smiled. “Yeah, two.”

“What’s your address?” I asked.

He shoved his cell phone into his front pocket and narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

I crossed my arms and began flexing my pectoral muscles, causing my chest to flare. “Your address? I need your address.”

“Uhhm, I don’t think so, why?”

“I want to come over sometime when you’re gone and take some pictures of your fucking kids, you idiot.”

“Uhhm. Listen, I was just…” he began.

“You were just fucking with something that wasn’t yours is what you were doing. I don’t have a family, that bike is all I’ve got. It’s like my kid. It sure as fuck isn’t on a pedestal in a museum, is it? It’s not on display out here for you to take fucking pictures of, that’s for God damned sure.” I shook my head lightly and inhaled a deep breath.

I looked up and down the block and then shifted my gaze to him. “You know, this is the only restaurant around. There isn’t another place of business for two fucking blocks. It was pretty fucking obvious where we were. It would have been a lot different if you’d have stuck your head in the restaurant and said, hey, I’m building a Heritage Softail and I’d like to use yours as a template. Hell, I’d have agreed and probably been fucking flattered.”

“I uhhm. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“Get out of here. I’m done talking to you,” I grunted as I raised my hand and waved toward the end of the block.

As he walked away, I glanced at Avery. “I fucking hate people.”

She grinned and lowered her chin slightly.

“So, what? Now I talk like a motherfucker, and you smile and nod?”

She grinned and tossed her leg over the rear fender. “Yep.”

I stood beside the motorcycle and admired her. As much as I hated to admit it, she looked damned good sitting on the bike. Having Avery accompany me for the last month allowed me to become fractionally more civil. I was still myself, but a little less rough around the edges.

“Well, it’s a good thing you were here. Balance. You give me fucking balance,” I said as I stepped over the seat.

“Progress,” she said.

I raised my right hand to the apes and rested my hand on the grip. Across the street a new Lexus was parked; probably the amateur photographer’s car. I grinned, twisted the throttle twice, flipped the ignition, and hit the start button. As the engine warmed up to temperature, I released the throttle, reached over the ape hangers and snapped my rubber band against my left wrist.

Snap!

I gazed at the new Lexus.

Snap!

“Ready?” I asked as I moved my right hand to the throttle.

“Always,” she responded.

As we slowly rode past the Lexus, I grinned.

Progress.