The Ballad of Clyde Harris Porter Jr. by Joshua Michael Stewart

Conceived in a biker bar bathroom. His mother named him after his father, who everyone knew as Spider. Born with a hole in his heart. All his older girl cousins loved to lift his toddler shirt. Trace the vertical scar splitting his chest in two. His mother quit school in the tenth grade. Quit working at the Dollar Store after becoming pregnant. Before Baby Spider’s third birthday, his father got himself stabbed to death with a broken pool cue in the same swill hole where Spider and Clyde Jr.’s mother first slung slurred flirtations at each other.

By Spider Jr.’s fifth birthday, Mountain Dew mouth rotted out his milk teeth. By age seven, he started swiping Pall Malls from his grandma’s purse and could chug a can of beer without taking a breath by nine-and-a-half. The public schools held him back in the first grade and in the third and fourth. Despite his stunted growth, he towered over his fifth-grade classmates. He did well for himself by pushing kids to the ground. Taking their lunch money. First time in his life he ate meals regularly. 

He snatched a stapler from his sixth-grade teacher’s desk, and when she demanded its return, he flung it at her face. Broke her nose. Expelled, he spent the rest of the year sweeping his uncle’s motorcycle shop. In seventh grade, school girls whispered and giggled about his wispy mustache while he talked choppers and Panheads with the other baggy pants and Megadeth t-shirts. By high school, he wielded a welder’s torch with a gunslinger’s grace, and by his sixteenth birthday, he cruised town on his custom-made cruiser. 

Summer of junior year, he got himself a girlfriend. Freckled-faced strawberry blonde named Abigail. He’d take her out on his bike. Her heat against his back. Her hands around his waist. They’d stop at a farm stand that sold ice cream. They liked to watch the cows grazing across the road. At night, they’d make love in Timothy fields under blinking cellphone towers, roving satellites, and celestial shimmering. She convinced him to quit smoking. Cut down on beer. Helped him write a term paper on the history of the potato. New-World Crop to Irish Famine. A+. 

He graduated high school, enrolled in a technical college, which shocked everyone, especially himself. When he walked across the stage to receive his diploma, Abigail’s crucifix necklace jingled and bounced as she jumped and hollered his name. All his girl cousins traded their halter tops and shredded jean shorts for flower-print dresses. Sat in the front row. His uncle rose to his feet. Produced a series of two-finger whistles. His mother dabbed tears, and Grandma clenched her purse. Closed her eyes and gave a solemn nod—her highest form of praise. 

Clyde Jr. moved in with Grandma. He no longer tolerated his mother’s boozing. Too many tirades and broken dishes. Grandma told him he could stay rent-free as long as he attended his college classes. Accompany her to church on Sundays. His uncle developed lumbar arthritis. Wondered if Clyde Jr. would take the shop off his hands. Abigail had a year left in high school. She’d fix Clyde Jr.’s lunch. Bring it to the shop on Saturdays. She’d meet him at church. They held hands. Prayed. Still went out for ice cream and sometimes to the movies. For Christmas, he saved enough to buy her a ring.

They planned a long engagement. No date set until after college. Abigail majored in nursing at a nearby Catholic college. Graduated a year early. Passed her boards. One day, Clyde Jr scrubbed the black from underneath his fingernails. Hung a red tie around his neck. Tied it four times to get it right. Strutted into the Third National Bank. Asked for a loan. With his uncle’s blessing, he changed the shop’s name to Spider’s Motorcycles Custom Build and Repair.

Abigail landed a job working second shift at a nursing home. The couple bought a shotgun house on the edge of town. Painted it pink with green trim. One summer Sunday, Clyde Jr. scrubbed the grime from underneath his fingernails. Lassoed a blue tie around his neck. Tied it three times to get it right. Swaggered into St. Margaret’s Catholic Church with Abigail in an ivory gown and a daisy-chain crown. Jr.’s uncle served as his best man. The older girl cousins traded in their leopard-print pants for bridesmaid dresses. Abigail’s soon-to-be mother-in-law interrupted the ceremony to deliver a drunken speech from the pews. Two parishioners escorted her out of the church. Grandma clenched her purse. Closed her eyes. Nodded solemnly when proceedings resumed, and Father John said, “You may kiss the bride.”

Year later, and a few days after his twenty-seventh birthday, Clyde Jr. developed a cough, dredging up a blood-tinged mucus. Abigail pointed out the swelling in his ankles. His doctor informed him he had right-side heart failure stemming from the condition he’s had since birth. Abigail, seven-months pregnant. The couple named their daughter Charlotte Webb Porter. A wink to her father and grandfather. Seven pounds. Nineteen inches.  

Charlotte’s first word was “Bob,” the cat’s name. A filmmaker contacted Clyde Jr. about creating a reality show about his custom motorcycles, but nothing came to fruition. Abigail earned a promotion to Lead Nurse. Started working first shift. Clyde’s cough became more persistent. Dizzy spells and fatigue plagued him daily. He delegated most of the shop’s labor. Acted more as a mentor and overseer. He hated having clean hands. At night, Abigail would lie awake. Listen to his wheezing.   

Early on a Tuesday morning, three weeks after Charlotte’s sixth birthday, Abigail found Clyde Jr. face down on the bathroom floor. She called for an ambulance. Performed mouth-to-mouth. Chest compressions. At Clyde Jr.’s funeral, Harleys and Indians filled St. Margaret’s parking lot. Charlotte laid a dandelion on her daddy’s black and silver tie. Jr.’s uncle looked down at his nephew. His hand trembled holding a cane. The older girl cousins in beautiful black dresses huddled around Abigail. Embraced her. Took turns holding Charlotte in their lap. Clyde Jr.’s mother stumbled through the church, reeking of whiskey. Carried on about how it should’ve been her and not him in the casket. No one argued. Grandma clenched her purse. Closed her eyes. Kept her head down. Shook it side-to-side.  

Abigail sold Spider’s Motorcycles to three long-time employees who promised not to change the name. She listed her pink house. Bought a condo on the other side of town. The financial cushion allowed her to take time off from work. Take Charlotte to Disneyland. For months, Charlotte would ask, “When’s Daddy coming home?” One day, she stopped asking.

These days, the older girl cousins show Charlotte her father’s baby pictures. “You have his eyes,” they say. “His ears.” Abigail doesn’t speak to Clyde Jr.’s mother. Doesn’t want her around Charlotte. Charlotte clings to Clyde’s uncle. Climbs on him like a jungle gym. Calls him Grandpa even though he’s not her grandpa. On Sundays, Abigail and Charlotte pick Grandma up for church. They sit in the second pew. Hold hands. Pray. After, they go out for ice cream, where Charlotte gasps and points to the cows grazing across the road.

Joshua Stewart

Image by RENE RAUSCHENBERGER from Pixabay – Silhouette of a biker couple kissing against a red sunset with a bike beside them.