Thirty-years ago, Jerry opened a motorcycle repair shop. He fixed most of his friends’ hogs for free, making his living off the paying customers since Harley Davidson had become fashionable. The club members were pissed-off knowing techie nerds owned more expensive bikes than they did. That was life in the new millennium. Yuppies ruled, geezers drooled. Yep, on his last birthday he’d turned sixty-five. Where had the time gone?
“Get your wings, Jerry.”