Chet May stood at the door of the gas station casually sucking on aroot beer Slurpee as he watched the scene in the gas pump bay. There was nothingremarkable about it. All the players moved about in a practiced manner.Two black and white Riverside patrol cars were parked akimbo, doors flungopen, lights fluttering and reflecting off every surface, blocking thetwo bikers who had been filling up at the pumps. The bikers calmly satback on their sissy bars. Their muscular, tattooed arms were foldedacross their chests, their faces under scraggly beards revealed no emotion. Both riders were decked out in club colors, their sleeveless Levi jackets sporting large embroidered emblems on the back. The bikes they rode were full-dressed street chops — ape hangers, extended forks, lots of chrome and spectacular style.
The two young cops stood with awkward bravado, a fidgeting unease intheir stance. The taller one stood to the side and behind hispartner, his hand never leaving the diamond textured grip of hisGlock 9mm. The other cop was at the front of the bikes, squinting into thesetting sun as he spoke. The tension diminished as the bikersreplied in a measured tone. The tall cop moved to the back of the bikes, prompting an instinctual twitch of the rear biker’s head in that direction.
“Eyes forward, dirt bag,” the tall cop snapped back as his hand slidinto position on the gun’s hilt. This comment made the rear biker stiffen hisback. Tension returned to this not uncommon drama. In a less publicmeeting, the circumstances would be different.
“You guys just passing through?” The smaller cop tried to makerelaxed conversation as his partner scanned the bikes and their riderssuspiciously.
“We’re on our way to a brother’s funeral in Escondido,” one of thebikers volunteered. “We don’t want any trouble. We just pulled off the freewayfor gas. We’ll be out of here as soon as we get it.”
“Ease off Marty, these guys are OK,” one of the cops said. Their good- cop, bad-cop routine did nothing to relax the bikers. From Chet’s view at the gas station door, it seemed a stalemate.
After an interrogation that lasted 15 minutes, the cops moved theircars to the side of the station and turned off their flashing lights.The commotion had shown the passing citizens that their tax dollars were atwork and the cops were ridding Riverside of a “bad element.” Thedepartment policy was to “show the colors” as often as possible. Gang violence had increased and was getting the public’s attention. Political pressure hadbeen brought to bear on policing procedures. The cops had seen this as asign that they could roust any “undesirables” with impunity.
Riverside no longer had the sleepy agricultural character of the past.Today it is one of the fastest growing bedroom communities in SouthernCalifornia, with $300,000-plus stucco and tiled, quasi-Mediterranean yuppiecondo communities springing up among the chaparral. Long ago, these semi-desert, sparsely populated communities offered anonymity to eccentrics, outlaws, religious cults and other characters. They could ply their trade orhowl at the moon just out of reach of the oppressive socialmachine of the L.A. Basin, as the crime-ridden, politically corrupt, smog-shrouded conglomeration of over 7 million people is collectively called.
This whole scene outside the gas station contradicted everything Chet stood for or believed. Yet many painful lessons throughout his 35 years had taught him to express himself with great frugality. In his view, the world was a dangerousplace. There was no honor, no integrity, no faith. All was a measure of wealthand power. Early on, he had challenged power that called itself authority. Helearned that words mean nothing, that everything is in the service of power.Eventually he realized that power maintains because it is an institution,not an individual. He could often defeat an individual, but he waseventually brought down by institutions — parents, teachers, employers,drill sergeants, wives, cops, the list of insults to his personal integrity was long.
So as he watched the drama play out in front of him, he wascareful not to draw attention to himself or his bike stashed at the sideof the station. Twice when Chet noisily slurped the dregs of his drink, thetall cop glared at him from behind his reflector Ray-Bans. ButChet’s practiced social camouflage served him well. The copassessed Chet, but his retro-sunglasses, hiking boots, short hair, clean-shaven face and goofy smile revealed no particular agenda. As the tall cop turned back to the sullen bikers, Chet’s smile vanished as quickly as he had thrown it up.Chet knew this was a potentially dangerous situation. His militaryexperience had given him a toughened respect for the volatility of suchencounters. The initial engagement is potentially “hot”, then a kind ofsubtle truce ensues, but continued engagement often provokes renewedtension.
In ‘Nam, the result was almost always deadly. Today, as a thin river ofsweat trickled down Chet’s spine to the crack of his ass, he felt thescene could go either way. He didn’t want to be a part of any of it. Hedidn’t want to make a move lest it bring attention to himself. But he wasready to spring aside if bullets started to fly. The bikers didn’t get their gas, instead they took off with the two cops eyeing their every move as they went. The Sikh gas station manager poked his turbaned head around the doorway and hollered out “Thank you” to the departing cops. They waved.”They are such nice men, don’t you think?” The manager had returned to hiscounter filled with Slim-Jims, Lotto tickets and candy. Chet absently nodded and made an agreeable noise, “hmmm, uh.”
Chet thanked the manager for the root beer and left just as the cops slowly cruised through the intersection. When he was sure they were out of sight, he moved to the side of the station to recover his bike. Next to his bike, a tall, skinny teenager sat on a cinder block wall dividing thestation from the mini-mall next door. The kid’s demeanor expressed that commoncombination of awkwardness and too-familiar hipness that was bothirritating and endearing.
“That your bike?” the kid asked. His head bobbed to some music in his head. His greasy flat-top, pimple-pocked cheeks and nose-wrinkling squint gave the kid an expression of almost comical stereotype. Chet tried not tosmile too broadly.
“Yup,” Chet said curtly.
“I’m gonna’ have one of them,” the kid continued. “As soon as I’m 16 I’m gittin’ a license.”
“That so?” Chet busied himself with mounting the bike, rolling it awayfrom the side of the garage and turning on the gas.
“Yeah, my stepdad has a Harley but he won’t let me ride it. Says I’m notbig enough. I ride dirt bikes though. I’m good.”
Chet turned and regarded the kid more closely. He turned off the gas andput the kick stand back down. He turned, putting both feet down on the pavement,and leaned sideways against the seat. The kid kept up his mantra of hopes anddreams. Chet smiled supportively.
“You don’t look like a biker,” the kid said, regarding Chet more closely.
“Well, kid, what you look like is not always what you are,” Chet pausedenigmatically as he waited for the kid’s reaction.
The kid was silent as he looked down at the asphalt, kickinghis heels against the cinder block. Then he quickly looked up at Chet withthat same awkward squint. “So what’s that mean?”
“I’m not sure what your experience will permit you to understand.” Chetpaused again. He was wasting daylight talking to this kid. But then hethought it would be good to give himself a little distance from the copswho had just left. “Nothing is as it seems. What people tell you is notalways the truth. What you believe is often what you’ve been told to believe.Bikers who wear badges want to be noticed. An outlaw is someone who getsnoticed. The baddest dudes,” he lapsed into biker jargon for the kids’entertainment, “are the ones that no one notices. Brothers who ridetogether get noticed. OK?”
“I think I see.” The kid stopped kicking the cinder block. “So are you a biker or not?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“So what matters?” The kid was worse than a cop. He was working a screwdriver around and under any flaw in Chet’s words, trying topry apart the fallacies normally found in any adult statement.
“What matters to you?” Chet bounced the question back to the kid.
“Not much,” the kid shrugged and looked down.
“Yeah, that’s the way it is for a lot of people some time in their lives,” Chet said. The kid nodded vaguely. “The hardest thing in lifeseems to be finding something you believe in; something that someone elsedidn’t create for you, something that you discovered on your own. Maybethat’s too abstract. How’s this? At one time, I trusted people, Mom and Dad. They got a divorce. Teachers, who I found out later didn’t always tell the truth. Buddies, who wouldn’t back me up when I was in trouble. The Army, which just wanted you for gun fodder. A wife who made promises but ran off withanother guy. It goes on and on. What it all means is that we are all alone, frombeginning to end. To maintain, you’ve got to come to terms with that, inyour own way. There is no one to show you the way. You must find ityourself.”
The halogen lights had come on in the service station bays, casting aneerie artificial glow on the two figures. They sat quietly regarding the settingsun and its spectacular effect on the clouds.
Chet broke the silence. “That’s something you can believe in,” he saidpointing to the sky. “Things like that, that you experience, are as real asit gets.”
“But will I ever have a bike like yours?” The kid looked at Chetpleadingly.
“Sure, and you’ll probably break your neck,” Chet mounted the bike againand turned on the gas, “and that will be real. And it will be your experience.But how it will matter is up to you. You’ve got it all, kid. It’s waitingfor you out there. All you have to do is be open to it. Don’t take anyoneelse’s word for it. Don’t depend on others to validate who you are. Youmatter.”
Chet smiled his biggest smile of the day at the kid as he crankedthe engine over. Conversation was pointless now that the chopper throbbedto life. A deafening rap from the pipes punctuated the hot night air. Thekid’s eyes sparkled as the ground shook, he could feel the power rumble upthrough the cinder blocks on up into his rangy frame. He gave Chet athumbs-up sign and bobbed his head to the rhythmic lope of the engine.
Chet turned back to the kid and hollered, “You’ll matter to you.” Withthat, he roared out of the gas station and onto the pavement. He soon blendedinto the mass of traffic and became invisible to the kid. Above the din of traffic, the kid could hear the unmistakable rap of Chet’s chopper as he rolled the accelerator forward, coaxing more horsepower out of the Panhead.
The kid scooted off the block wall and walked to the edge of the sidewalk,looking out at the parade of taillights. Just then, a fully dressed-outchopper passed within a couple feet of him, roaring into the right turn lane.It was a spectacular combination of chrome, leather and steel. The rider wasA fat old guy who was dressed out as spectacularly as his bike. It was aFeast for the eyes, a veritable Mardi Gras in metal.
The kid smiled, waved and turned. Talking to himself as he walked away, he said, “Pretty, but it ain’t me.” The kid kicked at an empty can as he crossedthe parking lot of the mini-mall. “But I don’t know me.” He stopped, looked upin the sky, then shrugged his shoulders. His walk returned to thatdistracted, rhythmic, loping gait that some lost kids have as they stumblethrough life, looking for something to direct their passions. Somethingmore than just the setting sun in hot, harassed, heartless Riverside.
