Burned Out

Nuke Dimmitis walked out of the church in Leawood. “I’ve seen it all now,” Nuke said out loud, “I’m ready to book.” Hidden behind the trash dumpster was his Harley Chopper, a ’65 Panhead with extended forks, lots of chrome and a blue ‘flake paint job. Pulling on aviator goggles and a pair of anti-vibration gloves with the fingers cut off, he straddled the big twin engine and kicked her to life. He idled through the asphalt parking lot, giving a last look to the place where he had found sanctuary the last twelve years. “Twelve years,” Nuke thought, “One for each disciple, including Judas.” He juiced the carbs and the Harley responded with its unmistakable guttural growl. A couple of the elders looked up, grabbing the brim of their hats and shaking their heads as Nuke blew by them. “What a shame,” one of them said. Nuke heard it and turned 180 degrees in the seat to give them a final look at his face. He smiled. Turning back around, he hit the side street and roared off, sycamore leaves chasing him and then giving up as he went out of sight. It was a hard ride away from the church, but not as hard and rough as the road to the church had been. Nuke weapt. But it wasn't the wind in his face that caused the tears.
“Looks like he was headed East,” The elder said.
“Yes, probably to that Buddhist monastery he was always talking about,” The other elder replied, climbing into the 2006 Lexus de Tokeville, “Good riddance, I say, how about you?”
“I don’t know for sure, all I know is he had that so-called vision and kept talking about what he called “The Statements” right before he went into therapy. He sort of melted down”
“That’s why they called him Nuke,” the elder waved goodbye, “See you next Sunday, Ralph.”