Channeling Biker Bob I takes us inside the psyche of Stewart Chance, a bewildered ‘new-age’ man, who can’t figure out why his sensitivity is neither adored by his wife, nor fulfilling to his own sense of manhood. In a delightfully raucous manner, Colyer propels Stewart’s transformation via a charismatic yet irreverent Harley-riding spirit named Biker Bob.
Chapter 1 – The prospect
“Come over here, Stewart and take a load off, we got shit to talk about.” Biker Bob points at a log beyond the revelers. I follow in a daze and sit.”Why am I here?” I repeat my question. This time I don’t feel like I’m going to get punched for asking. Bob seems different, more stable than the rest.
He smiles. “Well, in a way, you asked us here.”
“What do you mean? I don’t remember asking you anything. I’ve never met you until tonight.”
“Remember the New Year’s party last December?”
“Sure, but what does that have to do with me being in the middle of this. . . Hey, how do you know about New Year’s?”
The bikers resume their loud displays, crude remarks and physical abuse of one another. Bob and I are swallowed by the darkness while the carousing unfolds in front of us.
He turns to me. “Remember how your wife nagged you into helping her clean your house for the party, then left to go to the grocery and didn’t return all day?
“Remember how you cleaned the house, mowed the back lawn and fielded the calls? You knew she invited her favorite people and left your friends off the list.”
“Sure I remember, but what’s your point?”
“My question is, how did you feel?”
“What do you mean?”
“She bailed and left you with the dirty work, and it wasn’t even your party.”
I’m speechless. This is the first time anyone has put to words what happens between Renee and me. Our real truth has been spoken for the first time. The soul-wrenching truth has not been spoken by the good Dr. Farrell, Renee’s therapist, nor by Sally Herfner, my ex-therapist, but instead, by a middle-aged biker guy. How can he get it so right, when Farrell didn’t have a clue.
“I guess it felt all right,” I say in a feeble attempt to protect myself. “I didn’t mind too much.”
Bob gives me a patient smile. “How about last February, when you went on your two-week vacation to Cancun? Who came up with that idea?”
“Well, Renee, I guess.”
“Who made travel arrangements? Who carried the bags, and got them to the cab, then schlepped them to the plane?”
“I did, I guess, but how do you know all that?”
Bob puts his hand on my shoulder. “You might say you’ve acquired a temporary group of unique guardian angels. Like many nice guys, you’re hopeless.
“I want to ask one more question,” he says, toothy smile widening, “then I’ll shut up and let you think.”
I get a feeling this one will be a doozy.
“How often do you and Renee have sex, and who chooses when, where, and how?”
I look at a star thistle growing at my feet.
“Oh, I forgot,” he says. “Why are you seeing her therapist?”