Rooter (#Wattys2015)

The Beginning

I live for the sound of Rooter's Harley when he comes home at the end of the day. We've never met. He's lived next to me for a little over a year and we've never exchanged more than a few nods in passing. I can't seem to muster the courage to introduce myself.

The fact that he is a one percenter might have something to do with that. He is a member of the Halsey Hellions Motorcycle Club. Locals claim the Mayor and the Chief of Police are both on their payroll; that the club owns this town.

I snooped around and found out Rooter is the Motorcycle Club President's son. He is the Sergeant at Arms, according to the patch on his vest. The SAA is third in the MC hierarchy, just under the President and V.P. Word on the street is he is a "vicious mother fucker." There's a story that he nearly beat a rival biker to death with his bare hands.

When I look at Rooter, I see the tough exterior, but I also see something... gentle. It's been said that it's what a man does when he's alone that determines his true character. He plays ball with his pitbull, Dopey, in the backyard, works out and runs regularly, and has a carefree, childlike laughter. He smiles often, and in that smile, I see innocence.

It's his smile that draws me to him.

I wonder what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of that smile.

I yearn to be on the receiving end of that smile.

I'm in the backyard, sunbathing on a warmer than average, sunny mid-May Michigan afternoon. Long blades of grass tickle my feet. There's a few lawnmowers running nearby. Our lawn desperately needs mowed, but it isn't my turn. I've mowed it two weeks in a row. I hear my favorite sound. I watch as Rooter pulls up on his bike. He opens his back door and lets Dopey out. Dopey runs to the giant Red Maple tree to pee and then lunges at Rooter. Rooter laughs, picks up the dog's ball and throws it. For the millionth time, I wonder what his real name is.

"Goddamn it, Sophie!" My undesirable roommate yells.

My reverie is broken. I turn and glare at him. He's so freaking annoying. "What?"

Mike is a for real dickhead. I've known him most of my life. I can't stand him anymore. He's my best friend Miranda's brother and she owns the house the three of us live in. I've asked her on several occasions to kick his ass out, but she refuses. She claims he can't make it on his own; that he's unstable from the death of their parents, both of whom passed away in the past year. I don't buy it. I think he's just naturally an asshole, which is a shame because he used to be a nice guy.

"I was supposed to be at work a half hour ago!" Mike complains.

"Then it sounds like you're late."

"No Fucking shit! You knew I had to work tonight!"

"What's your point?"

"Did it occur to you to wake me up?"

He's right, I did know, and maybe I could have woken him up, but his work schedule isn't my main concern in life. "Um, last time I checked, I'm not an alarm clock, or your mother."

"Fuck you."

"Not in this lifetime loser."

"Worthless, fucking cunt!"

He goes back in and slams the door. I flip him the bird. He's hated me ever since I shot him down after he told me he had feelings for me. The passing of nearly a year hasn't done anything to soften his attitude toward me.

I turn back in my chair and see Rooter staring at our back door then he turns his attention to me. I'm mortified. This is not the first impression I was hoping to make. I wave because I don't know what else to do. He carries himself with confidence, head held high, rigid posture as he walks toward our fence.