"God gave you that scar to keep you humble, so you wouldn't get too high on yourself."
My Dad's theory mingled with the cranking purr of the socket wrench in his greasy hand.
There was no obvious reason he would mention it, my scar, all these years later... Perhaps restoring the Harley was taking him down the gravelly road of Memory Lane.
I didn't feel high on myself. I felt humbled to a fault as I turned my attention to the reclusive, abnormal flesh hiding under my shirt. A gnarled twist of thick scar tissue, hidden from the light of day and the quizzical stares of rude strangers, my scar was my best kept secret.
"You should make up a bad ass story about how it happened."
Advice on lying seemed apt coming from him. He stuck his fat, gray hands into the guts of his iron horse. More cranking, more grease. More parts tossed into a red crate.
"...like a dog bite, or a shark attack."
A shark attack? The sun beat down on the red, cracked earth in our desert front yard. Miles from a man made lake, not to mention sharks.
I learned how to strategically hide my scar, and the truth, as I concocted outrageous stories about how it happened. Where it came from. At 21, my scar was the result of a violent bar fight; a stabbing. When I was 30, my scar was a badge of heroism after I saved those orphans from a burning school bus.
Tinkered to death, with its gas tank on the garage floor, the Harley was miles from being restored. He couldn't undo what he'd done.
He would never be able to put it all back together.
Straightening himself out, he smeared his hands across his jeans and stepped over me like a doormat to get in the house, leaving me in the garage to swim with the sharks.
