Tommy’s Roof (Preview for free subscribers; become a paid subscriber to read the whole piece)

White working-class chaos (Michael Mohr's autobiographical fiction)

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Tommy’s Roof

Retired cops and ex-Hell’s Angels have to have kids somewhere and Oak View, California—ten miles east of the coastal town of Ventura—is where they do.

            Scott Casey’s father was an ex-Hell’s Angel.

            Scott swings the covers off his bed and grunts, yawning and coughing almost at the same time.

            He catches his blue eyes in the bathroom mirror for a moment and frowns, insidious. He slams the toilet cover, a loud thud against the porcelain, and presses the lever to flush.

            Scott enters the kitchen. Tommy, his father, and his mother are eating and drinking coffee. The Los Angeles Times is covering his father’s face. His mother’s eyes drift up creepily, zeroing in on Scott. Her eyes squint hard nails. She’s reading the editorial section of the Times. She drops the paper with a thud.

            “Scottie, what the hell is wrong with you, stop scratching yourself like an animal. And put on some clothes for Christ sake!”

            Tommy sets the Times down, a picture of the Aurora, Colorado twenty-four-year-old killer on the cover. Tommy’s tough tendons flex. The thick, vein-throbbing neck and chiseled but aged cheekbones are what always scare Scott the most.

            Tommy’s hulking, mangled hands scrunch up the Times. He eyes his derelict son.

            “C’mere boy,” Tommy says. A deep, rough, scratchy voice; a voice which had commanded beatings, administered citizen justice, taken the law into its own hands. That voice. It was a demon voice, but it was a voice Scott couldn’t afford to ignore. Not while he was living under Tommy’s roof.

            Scott moves forward, tiny steps like a docile mouse: weak, mellow, easy. Not his usual countenance.

            Tommy looks at Scott, hard, the yellow irises of Tommy’s cold eyes dominating Scott’s. Scott swallows. Tommy lets go of the Times, and extends his hand, roughly rubbing Scott’s head.

            “Shaved it again, eh?” Tommy says, pulling his hand away and crossing his arms over his chest.

            “Yeah,” Scott says. “Ain’t a crime is it?”

            Tommy remains motionless. Scott knows this trick. It is akin to a rattlesnake, lying in wait. Tommy would strike without warning.

            And he does.

            Tommy grabs Scott’s wrist harshly. Scott begins writhing, trying to loosen the hold.

            “Lemme go,” pleads Scott. “Mom…”

            His mother looks at Tommy. “Tommy, c’mon let ‘im go; he’s gonna be late for school again.”

            “Stay out of this woman,” Tommy fires. He tightens his grip.

            “C’mon, man!” Scott shouts. Tommy swings his left arm, which has been lying on the breakfast table.

            He catches Scott in his right cheek. Scott goes down.

            His mother shoots up immediately.

            “Goddamn you Tommy, don’t you touch my son, you hear me you sonofa—”

            Tommy leaps up and smacks her clean in the face. She bends and almost goes over, but catches hold of the chair and gains balance somehow. She glowers at Tommy and there is a half tear in her eye. She’s used to this. She can’t leave him: the house is in his name, he pays the mortgage, and he had paid for both cars, plus his two motorcycles. One was a black Harley, just like Ron Holden’s.

Ron Holden—Scott’s best friend Eric’s father—and Tommy Casey were good pals. They’d been friends since the eighties.

            Ron Holden had led an honest Flife. Tommy Casey had lied, cheated and stolen. Tommy’d run, as president of the Oak View Chapter, the rugged and nefarious Hell’s Angels. But he’d done one thing which would forever capture Ron’s respect: Tommy’d lived on his wits, and, furthermore, he’d never once, not one time, done anything he didn’t want to do. Unless, of course, you’re talking about jail time.

            “You bastard!” Scott’s mom screams. Tommy takes a step forward and she cowers. Scott is still on the floor. Scott had tried once to fight back and the results had been worthy of remembering and never repeating.

            “Remember what I told ya, boy. What did I tell ya? Huh? Speak up, Scottie,” Tommy says.

            Scott, still sitting on the hardwood floor, wipes tear residue from his eye and looks at his father in anguish.

            “You said: I don’t want you lookin’ like no Oak View skinhead.”

            “That’s right, boy. That’s exactly what I said. Maybe you can explain your shaved head, huh?”

            Scott takes a deep breath and pulls himself up. Standing, he faces his oppressor. Scott’s thin blue lips quiver for an instant and then he sniffles.

            “Sorry, sir.”

            Tommy eyes Scott with determination. He swivels his gaze to his wife.

            “I expect you to do as I say, boy. And woman, don’t you undermine me.”

            Tommy shakes his shoulders and walks off. She hugs Scott tightly and cries for a moment, then breathes, in, out, in, out. Scott runs his hands through her hair. In a minute they hear the familiar sound of the Harley’s engine, filling the house with mind-bending loudness.

            Then the engine noise speeds off, decreasing, becoming softer, softer, fading into the distance.

            “I’m gonna kill the sonofabitch,” Scott says, slamming his fist against the kitchen counter.

            She begins clearing the table. This is the usual routine. Violence, then her cleaning up for Tommy. Protecting Scott.

            “Honey, could you help me clear this table, please? Then you got to go to school, you’re going to be late.”

            “Did you hear me, ma?”

            Silence.

            “I said I’m going to kill the bastard.”