They had midnight cookouts: grilling steaks, corn on the cob, and potatoes on a charcoal grill in the driveway, eating cherries while they waited for the meat to brown. He taught Girl how to season a steak, how to grill corn, and how long to cook a foil-wrapped potato over open flames. They talked and laughed while he tinkered with some project in the garage. When Samson revved the bike’s motor too loudly the neighbors would knock on their bedroom window and he’d be quiet for a while, until he really needed to listen to the engine run.
When she met him, Girl could make Hamburger Helper and homemade whipped cream, but that was about it. Samson was Italian, and taught her how to make spaghetti sauce from scratch, alfredo sauce, and homemade macaroni and cheese. They bought ham on the bone, and made soup with the bone the following week. He worked alongside Girl, teaching her how to cut carrots with a rocking motion, instead of chopping like the knife was an axe. She learned to sauté vegetables instead of boiling them, how to time a meal so it would all be done at the same time. She even learned how to light the pilot light in the old stove without too much anxiety. Samson was a patient teacher and always complimented her on her results, no matter how questionable. Occasionally Girl would melt a bowl or burn a pot beyond recognition, but he never yelled. Afterward they cleaned up together, and he’d try his best to rehabilitate the pans she decimated, filling them half-full with soapy water and simmering them on the stove.
When they were home, they were never more than three feet apart. Girl read books in the garage while he worked on his bike, and she was happy to make dinner for the various men who were always appearing in the garage. Girl was proud of her subservience; she kept her thoughts to herself and never interrupted the men. Samson’s slogans were “I’d rather have a broken-down Harley than a woman who doesn’t know the meaning of silence” and “If it has tits or wheels, it’ll give you problems.” Girl tried her hardest never to cause him any problems.
Girl loved the smell of his sun-warmed skin, the feel of wind on her shoulders as they rode the Harley. They made up silly songs and sang them off-key together as they rode down random country roads, not caring who heard them or where they wound up. Girl became a fixture at the bike shop as well, where the storeowner would flirt with her outrageously and she would blush and smile back, too shy to say much of anything in return. One of Samson’s friends humped her leg every time she saw him, another said things like, “I’d love to bend you over right here.” Girl was flattered. It made her feel like a real girl, sexy. It made her feel pretty.
The bike broke down nearly every week, it seemed, and for some reason it always cost $300 to fix it, never $189, or $310, but exactly $300, every single time. The only thing that helped Samson feel better was making the bike go faster. That way he wasn’t spending money to just fix stuff, he was improving it. When the bike broke down Samson was volatile and unpredictable. One minute they would be having a normal conversation in the kitchen and the next he’d be screaming at the top of his lungs, provoked by some random comment. Girl never knew what would set him off, and she had never seen anyone go from calm to furious so quickly. She came to view the repair bills as necessary for his mental health, and gave the Harley precedence over all other expenses, paying for groceries and gas with her own money, even though they weren’t living together. She wanted him to be able to pour all his earnings into the bike, if that would let him be the happy, laughing man she fell in love with.
Samson didn’t just swear, he raised it to an art form. “Mother fucking son of a bitch!” echoed out of the garage, and Girl would know that his rage-o-meter had gone through the roof. She always ran toward the screaming.
Sometimes Girl yelled back, slamming doors and storming off. This was a surefire way to break his mood. The sight of Girl standing up to him, “like a little mouse yelling at a lion,” as he said, made him laugh and calm down, instantly breaking the tension.
a quick lesson in motorcycle clubs
Samson was in a bike club called the Fifth Chapter. It was started by a group of people in AA who helped each other stay sober and who talked to treatment centers to help spread the message of sobriety. The name referred to the fifth chapter of the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, which details reaching out to the newcomer. Samson and Girl both went to AA regularly. Samson had been sober a year longer than Girl, although she followed a stricter adherence to the twelve steps than he did. Members of his club went on camping trips and bike rides together, and Samson was always expanding the club by starting a
