Indian Motorcycle Story
I grew up in Lexington, MA. our next door neighbor owned an old Indian I remember it because it had a suicide shifter right next to the tank,
and had an Indian in full headdress painted on the tank.
They did not have any kids and his wife was always bitc*hing at him about something.
He would spend hours tinkering and cleaning that bike and would take me and my little brother for a ride if we washed his car for him.
I guess the bike was his escape from his miserable wife.
Like all small towns we had septic tanks and every couple of years you would have to have them pumped out. When your neighbor finally had theirs done she was not home and he being a tinker had to watch. Well lo and behold the thing was full of rubbers and I remember him asking the guy (what’s those) the guy says french ballons you know rubbers and he yells we are Catholic
we do not use those things
Two days later he leaves for work and hides in our back yard and when the boyfriend shows up he lays into him with a bat beat him up pretty good.
Before the cops got there he jumped on that old Indian and rode away never to be seen or heard from again.
My mom and dad still live in our house and the bi*ch is still there next door. I use to ask my dad if they every caught him and he told me years later that Art called him once to see if the boyfriend survived the beaten and he was out west and doing ok. Never did catch him.
I always liked Art and know he is out there somewhere just riding That Big Old Indian Motorcycle.
