The King's Man

It was a late summer afternoon when Irving Kingman pulled his Harley Davidson  Softail into an I-70 rest stop, just east of Columbus, Ohio. He stood six feet six and  weighed a burly 290 pounds. Kingman?s stringy, dirty-blonde hair touched his shoulders. He wore a denim vest over a black, sleeveless T-shirt and threadbare, wide-belted jeans with a Harley-Davidson buckle half hidden under his bulging stomach. His full beard, mustache, and sunglasses concealed his face. 

Like many bikers, Kingman had a lot of tattoos, but his were distinctive. On his right arm was an image of Jesus, resembling the mosaic of "Touchdown Jesus" at theUniversity of Notre Dame. The golden halo started at the invisible line where shoulder becomes arm. The icon?s raised arms flanked biceps on one side and triceps on the other, and Jesus? body filled out the length of the arm, the feet resting at the bend where his forearm began. The tattoo on his left arm started just below the shoulder. It was the image of the pyramid copied from a dollar bill, the one with the eye at the apex of the pyramid.  

He believed this was a representation of the omnipotent God. In the middle of the bicep  on his left arm was a simple cross, and under the cross was a descending dove. Scriptural verses ran the length of his forearms. They were in an Old English typeface, strategically etched so that when he held his arms across his massive chest, someone could read the verses. His right forearm, which he always folded on top of the left, read, "I am the way, the truth, the light," while the left forearm read, "Whosoever  follows me shall have everlasting life." 

As Kingman rode through the parking lot, he spotted a single motorcycle parked at the far end. He cut back the throttle and eased over toward the other bike, parking four spots away. There were no cars between them. The Honda Valkyrie had a windshield and saddlebags, indicating that the owner was probably a serious cross-country rider. Walking toward the vending machine, Kingman spied the Valkyrie owner sitting alone at a picnic table under a tall maple tree. A gentle breeze moved the leave at the top of the tree. In the distance he could see a soybean field. Kingman selected a bottle of Diet  Coke and sauntered toward the man. 

"Nice day to be travelin'," Kingman said. 

"Yeah, it's pretty nice," the man said.  

Kingman guessed that if the smaller man stood up his head would about equal the height of his own shoulder. His slight frame appeared to have successfully avoided hard labor. He wore a plain white T-shirt and a clean pair of Wranglers. He had a short rectangle of a mustache and well-trimmed brown hair.  

"That your bike?" asked Kingman. 

"Yeah." 

"Real good cruiser, what I hear." 

"It's a good ride," he said, still a little defensive. 

"Every once a while I think about gettin' one a them rice burners - no offense  

meant. Nice water-cooled engine, new technology and all. But then I look at my hog and  

I jus' cain't give it up. Know what I mean? It jus' suits my personality." 

"Well, what personality might that be? I've seen a lot of bikers with tattoos, but  

none like yours - no offense meant." 

Kingman smiled; the young man was getting bolder. "I'ma man of God. I'm the Harley evangelist. My name is Irving Kingman and I work for the Lord of Lords, the King of Kings. I am the King's Man." Kingman laughed loudly and said, "Git it? Kingman, King's Man. I lead souls to the Lord, I help the lost find the way, I grant eternal peace, and I end suffering." 

The man rolled his eyes and mumbled so Kingman could hear, "Sorry I asked." 

"Now don't go worryin' I'm gonna try an convert ya. It don't work that way. I  cain't make you do sumptin' you hain't ready to do. Bible says there is a season for all things, a time to sow and a time to reap. You got nothin' to fret about if it's not your season. Now what's your name, son? Where ya been and where ya goin'?"