Wild Ones
A few years ago I knew a biker named Dave. When I drove trucks for the post office he worked at Air Canada cargo where I dropped off and picked up the airmail. I had the following conversation with him one time:
“Say, Dave, you ride a big Harley, right?“
“Yeah.”
“So do you like belong to a gang or something?”
“I got some buddies I ride with. Yeah so what about it?”
“Yeah I know about you guys. I saw a movie about it once.”
“Yeah I know. The Wild One.”
“Nah. Nah. That’s just some hollywood crap. I mean a real movie, with like real bikers. Hells Angels. This guy made a movie in California. Showed everything. Bikers partying with guys doing each other in the ass and everything. (Dave’s looking at me sideways by now.) Yeah, it was a good movie. Scorpio Rising. You could probably rent it on video.”
“I don’t watch no fuckin videos.”
“Nah, it’d be great. You could get together with your gang and rent it, make some popcorn, you’d have a great time.”
“Jeesus fuckin….”
“Hey, lissen, Dave. This is weird. They got these yuppie coffee joints near my place – Starbucks – and these lawyer or stockbroker types with big bikes, like Sunday bikers, hang out there.”
“Yeah I know. Cappuccino bikers.”
“Right. After work they put on these leather outfits and go drink coffee at Starbucks. I can’t believe it. I hate the bastards. They sit on their bikes and rev their engines, no mufflers, and the racket’s incredible. There’s like twenty bikes lined up against the curb and they sit there having orgasms on their fuckin bikes and the racket’s driving me nuts.”
“Yeah.”
“Say, lissen, Dave. Why doncha get your biker friends together some night. Y’all ride down to the west end.”
“What the fuck for?”
“Wait a minute. Get your bike gang and you all come down to the west end. Then you beat the shit outta these guys.”
I figure the only reason this guy never beat me up is cause he could never understand what the hell I was talking about. To him I was very strange. I think he actually liked me in fact. He used to grab me all the time. Roughhouse stuff but there was some kind of sexual danger in it. After a while it got to feel too strange and I told him to never touch me again. He started to grab my arm and I yanked back and said “just don’t touch me, man.” I was scared and serious and he backed off and never touched me again. I thought I got a taste of how women feel in the presence of sexual violence. I practically felt sick.
There was a guy in seventh grade that wore the outfit, black leather jacket and motorcycle boots. His name was Rocky. He scared me but secretly I admired him because in 1956, or whatever year that was, bikers seemed glamorous to callow, unformed intellects such as we possessed as the children we still were. To me he was an outsider, an existentialist hero, or anti-hero. It’s funny to think of now because of course he would have been about twelve at the time.
A few years ago I knew a biker named Dave. When I drove trucks for the post office he worked at Air Canada cargo where I dropped off and picked up the airmail. I had the following conversation with him one time:
“Say, Dave, you ride a big Harley, right?“
“Yeah.”
“So do you like belong to a gang or something?”
“I got some buddies I ride with. Yeah so what about it?”
“Yeah I know about you guys. I saw a movie about it once.”
“Yeah I know. The Wild One.”
“Nah. Nah. That’s just some hollywood crap. I mean a real movie, with like real bikers. Hells Angels. This guy made a movie in California. Showed everything. Bikers partying with guys doing each other in the ass and everything. (Dave’s looking at me sideways by now.) Yeah, it was a good movie. Scorpio Rising. You could probably rent it on video.”
“I don’t watch no fuckin videos.”
“Nah, it’d be great. You could get together with your gang and rent it, make some popcorn, you’d have a great time.”
“Jeesus fuckin….”
“Hey, lissen, Dave. This is weird. They got these yuppie coffee joints near my place – Starbucks – and these lawyer or stockbroker types with big bikes, like Sunday bikers, hang out there.”
“Yeah I know. Cappuccino bikers.”
“Right. After work they put on these leather outfits and go drink coffee at Starbucks. I can’t believe it. I hate the bastards. They sit on their bikes and rev their engines, no mufflers, and the racket’s incredible. There’s like twenty bikes lined up against the curb and they sit there having orgasms on their fuckin bikes and the racket’s driving me nuts.”
“Yeah.”
“Say, lissen, Dave. Why doncha get your biker friends together some night. Y’all ride down to the west end.”
“What the fuck for?”
“Wait a minute. Get your bike gang and you all come down to the west end. Then you beat the shit outta these guys.”
I figure the only reason this guy never beat me up is cause he could never understand what the hell I was talking about. To him I was very strange. I think he actually liked me in fact. He used to grab me all the time. Roughhouse stuff but there was some kind of sexual danger in it. After a while it got to feel too strange and I told him to never touch me again. He started to grab my arm and I yanked back and said “just don’t touch me, man.” I was scared and serious and he backed off and never touched me again. I thought I got a taste of how women feel in the presence of sexual violence. I practically felt sick.
When I was in seventh grade there was this kid that wore the outfit, black leather jacket and motorcycle boots. His name was Rocky. He scared me but secretly I admired him because in 1956, or whatever year that was, bikers possessed a kind of stupid glamour. To me he was an outsider, an existentialist hero, or was it anti-hero? It’s funny to think of now because of course he would have been about twelve at the time.
Scorpio Rising