(Originally appeared on danieljhogan.com)
Photo by dantada on morguefile.com.
[dc]W[/dc]hile driving down the highway¹ the other day, I spotted a single, lone crutch on the side of the on-ramp.
“Sweet bananas,” I thought, “What’s the story there?”
I tried to think about what would cause some poor soul to cast aside a single crutch, and on a highway on-ramp of all places. “Perhaps someone tied it to the roof rack, and it fell off,” I thought at first, but then I remembered such a fate is usually reserved for the likes of R2-D2, Granny and Irish Setters.
Then it came to me.
Someone was hitchhiking, and they were picked up by a biker. Yes. What else could it be? More importantly, the hitchhiker in question HAD to be Tiny Tim.²
I envisioned Tiny Tim joining a biker gang, clawing and stabbing his way through the ranks over the years. He became the new leader after a whiskey-soaked game of chicken on Brockway Mountain Drive, against a lightning kissed, midnight sky.
Tiny Tim was tough, but fair, and an artist with a switchblade. He gave no quarter and asked for none himself. His voice was the roar of an engine, or the blast of a sawed off shotgun. Tiny Tim no longer needed a crutch, because now he sat tall in the saddle of a steel horse. In time, he united all the Michigan biker gangs into the great wheeled tribe of the North.
Or, the crutch just fell out of the back of a medical supply van. But I like my version better.
¹ My hands wet on the wheel, etc.
² Because no one else only uses a single crutch.
Daniel J. Hogan isn’t even an artist with a butter knife. Follow him on Twitter, @danieljhogan.
