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The door to the clubhouse swung open, and Chains stepped inside. “Surprise!” they all shouted, as they flicked on the lights. Chains looked around in disbelief, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Happy birthday, Chains!” Blackheart said, slapping him on the back.
Chains was momentarily speechless, touched by the effort his brothers had put into celebrating his day. “Thanks, everyone,” he finally managed, his voice thick with emotion. He wasn’t usually an emotional person, but this one time a year, after a lifetime of its being a forgotten day, he still couldn’t believe the love he got from such a group of rough, tough bikers. “I’d forgotten that day…but it feels so fucking good y’all remembered.”
Most of them were already holding glasses or bottles of booze, raising them in a toast as Baptiste handed Chains the Jokers’ version of a Hand Grenade – served in a jug. Chains wasn’t one for cocktails usually, and this concoction was a far cry from the real deal, but he knocked it back all the same. Holding the now-empty jug over his head, he reveled in the cheers that erupted around him. As the countdown echoed through the room – "3, 2, 1" – he hurled the jug into the fireplace. The resulting shatter of glass was met with even louder cheers.
Gator handed him a bottle of beer and patted him on the shoulder. “Happy day, old man,” he said.
With the party in full swing more and more people were getting curious about the mysterious item on the back of Chains’ truck. Some tried to sneak outside for a peek, but he caught them in the act, laughing as he shoved them away and made them promise to not look.
They respected his request, on his promise that all would be revealed later.
The evening was filled with laughter, camaraderie, and the clinking of glasses as gallons of booze took its effect. Chains was filled with gratitude for the unlikely family he had found in the Jokers MC. Each year, on this very day, he reflected on his time as a member, appreciating the fortune that had belatedly found him, after an upbringing that had left him doubting if luck had overlooked him while being doled out by the powers that be.
As the night was winding down, Chains decided it was time to reveal the surprise he had brought with him. He led his friends outside to his truck, anticipation buzzing in the air. With a dramatic flourish, he pulled back the tarpaulin, unveiling the item underneath.
The club members’ eyes widened as Chains revealing an unrestored, rusty 1950 Indian Chief motorcycle, its engine conspicuously absent. The sight of the dilapidated bike sparked a mix of amusement and disbelief among the group.
Razor was the first to speak up, his eyebrow raised skeptically. “I thought you didn’t believe in owning anything. Tell me you’re going to sell this at one of your swap meets because you’re sure as hell not going to be riding it this side of a long time.”
Chains smirked, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Who says it’s not a keeper? I can see myself cruising on it while the bunch of you are going soft on your bikes.”
Maddox joined in, gesturing toward the gaping hole where the engine should have been. “You won’t be doing any cruising unless you can find the missing part,” he said, triggering a roar of laughter from the others.
“Hey, Chains, I’ve got a spare Sportster engine you could wedge in there,” River offered, barely containing his laughter.
“Fuck you, man,” Chains said, but he couldn’t help joining in the laughter too.
Maddox slapped Chains on the back. “Hey guys, we gotta be nice to the old boy tonight. After all, it is his birthday. We can laugh at his expense tomorrow,” he said, ushering the group back inside to continue the party.
“Gator, you’ll help me get it off in the morning?” Chains asked his brother.
“Sure, man. Hey, what’s that?” Gator pointed to another tarp-covered item on the back of Chains’ truck that no one else seemed to have noticed.
“Just something I want to offload at the swap meet tomorrow. Got it from a deceased estate. They were going to discard it but didn’t want to pay the fees, so I told them I’d take it off their hands for free.”
“So, what is it then?” Gator asked, trying to get a better look.
Before Chains could respond, Chance, the club’s Sergeant at Arms, called out from the clubroom door, his beer raised high. “Stop talking and let’s party!” Poppy, his old lady, supported him as he swayed slightly, having already indulged in a few too many drinks.
Chains and Gator exchanged glances, deciding to leave the mystery of the second tarp-covered item for another time. They headed back inside to join the party.
* * *
“How old are you?”Patrice, Gabriel’s old lady, asked Chains with a curious tilt of her head.
“Thirty-six,” he replied, taking a sip of his beer before adding, “or so.”
“Or so?” Patrice echoed, eyebrows raised in confusion. She hadn’t heard the story of Chains guessing his birthday. “Aren’t you a bit too young to be forgetting how old you are?”
Chains shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t really know. I didn’t start celebrating birthdays until I got here, and Blackheart told me I had to. Now, I kinda like it.”
Patrice glanced at Gabriel, hoping to make something from the conversation, but when Gabriel gave her a subtle shake of his head, she knew he’d fill her in later. Sensing it was best to leave that topic alone for now, she focused on Chains, who seemed happier than ever tonight, and that was all that mattered.
Raising her glass, she smiled warmly and said, “Here’s to you, Chains. Age doesn’t matter as long as you stay young at heart, right?”
“Cheers, lovely lady,” he replied, clinking his glass against hers and Gabriel’s when he raised his as well.
By the time Chains finally stumbled into his bed at the club, it was past 2 a.m. He felt tired, intoxicated, and content.
