The Milwaukee Iron

The fuel in my Harley Davidson was running low, so I pulled over at the nearest gas station, recharged it with the mojito-quality oil (only the best for my girl), and went in to pay.

This particular model of Harley Davidson, three years old already, is called Low Rider S. I hate the name. I associate it with Mexican gangbangers’ trucks, able to dance thanks to their modified suspension’s hydraulic systems.

The thing about Harley is that they’re not the best bikes in the world. They’re not even close. They’re overpriced, not reliable and run on an outdated technology.

The heart of the Harley - its engine - is temperamental. It’s rough, it’s unstable. It beats irregularly. You can never really trust it because it has the tendency to leave you hanging at the worst possible time. Just like my ex.

When I first sat in one, I was afraid. I am not ashamed to say it. The guy from the dealership approached me and turned on the engine. I shat my pants. At least I thought I did. I’m not sure, but I knew one thing - whether I shat on it or not, I had to buy it. Not because I thought I ruined the seat - you can always replace that, pay for the new one, and not buy a Harley. No, I bought it because I was scared of it. It was that simple.

I promised myself that I wouldn’t be scared of anything ever since I was eleven. I did okay dealing with things I was afraid of. One of them, after all, paid for this Harley.

I made my first big money in Hong Kong, where I was initially terrified to relocate to. I was young, I mean, I still am. I was young-young. I worked in the banking industry and my job was to help bad guys launder bad money. I am not going to get all technical now, but I ensured that the money they made - that was absolutely not earned legally - appeared to be legitimate. In fact, I was so shameless that I even helped them evade taxes on that criminal profits. The guys weren’t human-trafficking bad. I’m not that morally corrupt to assist those fuckers. Even better - I actually tipped off the police once or twice on such groups. The guys were drugs-bad, but not cartel-drugs-bad.

The last criminal enterprise I cleaned the money for operated under the cover of a Phillipine-based agricultural firm. They wanted to move the money from Asia to the US, so I orchestrated a fake sales contract that moved farming machinery worth 40 million dollars across the Pacific. The receiving party would subsequently sell the equipment in the States. The first plot twist here is that its price was listed in the contract as trivial half a million (the fee of yours truly). That’s what we call trade-based money laundering.

Everything went smoothly and I was invited to a small private island located 37 miles east of the Philippines’ capital to celebrate my success. You see where this is going, don’t you? I underestimated my popularity among the local law enforcements agencies and got burnt, which brings us to the second, and the last twist - the job was a sting operation and I was sentenced to two years to be served in Manila’s prison.

It was September 2018, right around the time I started to serve the sentence, when my psychological problems began. Don’t get me wrong, I did okay in there. I was well-liked, I knew how to fight - thanks to the sparring sessions with my alcoholic dad that started when I was eleven - and I got connections outside. The issue was that ever since the sting, I became extremely paranoid. I had the time to think about the whole thing and the longer I thought about it, the more disappointed I was in myself. The police involvement was so obvious that I decided to never again do the drugs and drink alcohol, the abuse of which was the only reasonable explanation to my colossal imbecilism that got me inside this all-inclusive establishment.

Exactly a year into my sentence, the biggest riot in prison’s history broke out. The tensions were high because at the time, the prison’s maximum capacity was exceeded fourfold. The media outlets, citing prison’s officials, were correct in reporting that the whole ordeal was triggered by the argument between two inmates. The press, however, didn’t report on the specifics around who and why.

The main actors were Halo-Halo Danny, famous in the joint because of his culinary talent and named after one of the Filipino deserts which was just a mix of different fruits with ice, and John, a Neanderthal. The latter decided to move his bunk closer to the window, which inevitably resulted in the slight push of Halo-Halo Danny’s. One thing led to another, and the riots began. I, along with dozens of other first-timers, was released two months later following the press’ pressure put on prison’s management to deal with the overcrowding.

I came back to the US straight away. I used the money I hid in Belize to purchase a small ranch and a Harley Davidson. I digressed a bit, but the Manila thing was important for the story. I bought the bike because I still struggle with what happened there. I struggle with the paranoia. It was an accident - me walking inside the dealership and presumably shitting my pants when I sat on this beast. But I start to get better, you know? It helps me deal with things. I am not so scared riding on it anymore, and I get less and less psychotic. I accept the mistakes I made and I know that Harley feels that too. We start getting along. It's not so temperamental with me now. The rides are becoming more and more soothing, less scary. I think it’s like breaking the horse, but in this case, it’s me who needs to break.

“That’s a very nice story, honey,” the old grannie standing behind the counter looked at me with pitying eyes as if I just escaped from the mental hospital and I really didn’t. That happened years ago and I didn’t know why she would even think about that now. Also, we were in Texas for fuck sake, not Hong Kong. I didn’t mention to her that I got locked up in a crazy house for different thing before Manila. Do they transfer the patients’ files internationally between the gas stations? How the hell did she get her hands on my record? “It’ll be forty-seven dollars and fifty-one cents.”

I paid with cash, left a two-dollar and forty-nine-cent tip, and gave her the best suspicious look I could muster. I knew she was after me, and I wanted her to know that I know.

I got out, sat on my Harley, put on the helmet and started the engine. I took a deep breath. It was a long road ahead of me.