Mike Motorcycle

A bitter, aging Harley vents in therapy while the world moves on without him—electric, efficient, and painfully polite.

The therapist adjusted his glasses, clipboard balanced on his knee. “So, Mike, how’ve you been since our last meeting?”

Mike let out a long, wheezing sigh, his frame rattling with the effort. “Fine. Great. Just living the dream.”

The therapist raised an eyebrow. “Is that sarcasm?”

Mike’s exhaust sputtered, his engine groaning. “Oh, I don’t know, Jerry. Is it sarcasm if your ex-wife is out there getting her tailpipe stuffed by some sneaky little Japanese crotch rocket while you’re stuck in parole-mandated therapy?”

He rolled forward just enough to knock the trash can over with his back tire.

Jerry blinked. “Okay… Let’s unpack that.”

Mike revved sharply, cutting him off. “Becky says he’s smooth and efficient. Efficient? I burn 10W-40, Jerry. The real stuff. That plastic-wrapped asshole drinks premium gas and probably waxes his fairings every weekend. Becky used to say I ‘roared.’ Now she’s riding around town with some pussy who purrs.

“You tell me, Jerry—who’s the real man here.”

The therapist scribbled something down. “Uh… right. Let’s talk about your son. Ethan, isn’t it?”

Mike’s exhaust sputtered again, almost like he was choking on his own bitterness. “Ethan. Yeah. Christmas is coming up, and you know what he wants? A wrap. Metallic orange.

“I told him, ‘Kid, you’ve got a perfect charcoal-gray coat. Classic. Timeless. Like your old man.’ But no. That’s not good enough. He wants to look like a goddamn traffic cone on clearance.”

Jerry nodded slowly. “How does that make you feel?”

“How does it make me feel?” Mike’s headlights flickered in anger. “Jerry, I’m 42 years old, and strangers still walk up to me humming that stupid fucking song.

“‘Michael, Michael, Motorcycle.’ You ever hear it? It’s a goddamn nursery rhyme, Jerry. Some kid sang it at a talent show when I was seven, and suddenly I’m not Mike anymore—I’m a joke.

“‘Michael, Michael, turn the key.’ Turn the key? What does that even mean? You don’t pee from turning a key, Jerry!”

Jerry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Uh, okay. Have you considered letting go of the song? Maybe seeing it as a harmless childhood memory?”

Mike’s engine sputtered violently, rattling the desk. “Oh, sure, Jerry. Let’s just let it go. I’ll just forget that Becky hummed it every time she packed her shit before riding off with her 4-Stroke Fairy Boy.

“Forget that my own son is humming it now, like it’s some kind of quiet fuck you. Forget that no matter what I do, I’m not Mike the Harley. I’m not Mike the father. I’m Michael, Michael, Motorcycle. Forever.”

 Jerry tapped his pen on the desk, his discomfort growing. “So… work? How’s that going?”

 Mike let out a low, bitter chuckle. “Work? Yeah, work’s great. Nobody wants a Harley anymore. Too loud. Too heavy. They want scooters, Jerry. Teslas.

“You think a scooter knows what it’s like to take a corner on gravel? You think a Tesla knows how to scream down the highway at 90, shaking the pavement? No, they just beep politely and tell you your door’s open. I’m a relic, Jerry. A burnout.

“I used to be the road. Now I’m the punchline of a goddamn rhyme.”

Jerry cleared his throat. “Well, Mike, it seems like you’re carrying a lot of unresolved… feelings.”

“Feelings?” Mike rolled forward, bumping the desk. “Yeah, Jerry, I’ve got feelings.

“My ex-wife’s out there bumpin’ chrome with a guy who calculates fuel efficiency for fun. My kid’s turning into a goddamn pumpkin, and meanwhile, I’m sitting in this fluorescent-lit shitbox talking to a guy who probably drives a fucking Prius.”

Jerry frowned. “Actually, I drive a—”

“Don’t say it, Jerry. Don’t. You. Dare.”

Jerry froze, pen midair. “…Tesla.”

Mike let out a long, hissing sigh. “Of course you do.”

He rolled toward the door, his tailpipe dragging just enough to leave a mark on the linoleum. “Michael, Michael, Motorcycle,” he muttered. “One day, when their pipes are clogged and their wraps are peeling, they’ll understand. But by then, it’ll be too late.”

The door slammed shut. Jerry sat there for a moment, staring at his clipboard. Then he jotted one last note:

“Client shows severe anger management issues. Potential aversion to imported vehicles.”