the life of zooey who happens to be Bipolar 2
Talking to my dad before making our way down to the lake, I found out we were invited over to a fish fry. Dad said, “We’ve
been invited to a Christian Biker Fish Fry.” Dudes, I was IN! Visions of rows of Harleys, Doorags out the wazoo and Grizzled beards filled my head.
It was hot as hell and humid as we walked across the street to a yard steaming with outdoor cooking and a tent full of people. There was a sign in the driveway that noted “motercycle (sic) parking only’ spray painted on a piece of cardboard. The party was full of friendly folks, food and, surprisingly, no conversion attempts.
True to their word, there were several cooks, who’d finished up the fish were already on to deep frying Oreos, Snickers and
Twinkies. The 911-harden-your-arteries cookout commenced eating the savory and sweet goodness along with potluck dishes. Balanced perfection. One side of the scale, FISH! We could feel a little righteous about that. The other side, GOODIES! The ying yang of a great picnic.
I met a man named Jack, who was hosting with his wife. He had kind light blue eyes and the biggest bags under them I’ve ever seen on a human being. Casually during conversation, Jack mentioned he’d had chemo Wednesday-Friday and a shot on Saturday. “Stage 4 cancer, not supposed to be around, but here I am.”
“Power of prayer and medicine,” Mom commented.
“Better living through chemistry,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Jack. “The prayers do help. They got me on Oxycodone now. All I have to do is say the word and they’ll find something else.” He smiled, moved on and made the rounds at the party. I found out later he was the one who cooked the most excellent crappie I’ve tasted in a long time.
Jack, the Christian biker who gives the middle finger to stage 4 cancer with a cigarette still hanging out of his mouth. I went hoping to witness some serious biker culture with a little Jesus on the side. I left with a belly full of great food, honored to meet the living embodiment of true grit.
Rock on Jack,