10,659. RUDIMENTS, pt. 264

RUDIMENTS, pt. 264

Maple Tree, pt. 3

One of the stranger conflicts

of my life has always been about

community, versus my solitary

nature. Essentially, it's a deadly

conflict inasmuch as I am really

quite internalized and singular.

Yet, once I got involved with

all this Maple Tree and motorcycle

stuff, that was out the window.

The most difficult thing I had

to do was to get used to this new

style of neighborliness. It wasn't

really 'me,' let's say. My daily

job with what was called ABATE,*

a definitely motorcycle-centered

operation, had been quite by

accident. I was sick and tired of

the business world, and this new

opportunity came by me, third-hand,

when someone else, (Judy Schott)

clued me in that the 'office manager'

for the organization had given notice.

I had no clue what it entailed and

only because I was part of the once-a-

month mailing crew did I even know

they had a publication. I saw the

office they were in (an entire lower

level of a house 4 blocks from my

own), watched the kind of work to

be done, and said 'this is a breeze.'

I also realized that the dumb-bell

monthly publication was ripe for

someone like me to grab hold of

and really expand. It was a golden

opportunity, staring me in the face.

Then, once I saw the salary, my

own hours to come and go (only

later, actually did I see that I'd

expanded it into something that

surpassed 'hours.' 40? It was more

like 80 when I got done. But I

didn't care  -  it was Biker life

stuff, talks and travel, writing and

journalism, etc.) -  I figured it was

a must for a man of my bent  - 

writing, computers to write on,

paste-up, editing, covering events,

and photography too. Plus the

crazy enough salary was more

than I was currently making (I'd

already left St. George Press 6

months before), AND it had

medical insurance! Philosophically

too, there were some problems.

Motorcycle Rights? What the

heck was that about? I didn't care

two cents for that  -  my personal

life was all about rights, and the

last thing I wanted was to legislate

'rights' into laws about having those

rights. That sounded like a oxymoron

to me for sure. A contradiction of

terms for sure  -  but these people

wanted 'laws' to be written to allow

them the rights of not wearing a

helmet, things about insurance,

exemptions, exceptions, special

consideration  -  all because they

rode a motorcycle. It made little

sense to me, but the meant I'd have

to promote, defend, and speak for

that agenda. I did  -  Trenton, DC,

etc. Political campaigns, Sen. Lou

Kosco (NJ Senate) helped  -  who 

(suspiciously?) just happened to 

have a long-standing Harley dealership

in Kinnelon NJ, or somewhere up

there along Rt. 23. Of course, having

such an ally was nice (but still it

was ineffectual), but for him it was

a way of promoting his business by

siding with Bikers in a cause he'd

know as hopeless. It was no-lose,

for him. 

-

So, I went to work with a vengeance;

up and down the state of NJ, and more.

Meetings, hearings, testifying  -  which 

all meant dealing with some of the most

obtuse people I'd ever met. It always

seems that these sorts of organizations,

run well as a business or not, fall apart

from internal dissension after a while.

Way too many weird egos get involved.

Factions and cliques. This was worse

because with 14 'chapters' up and down

the state there was no way I could be

everywhere and it was very difficult to

get them to understand that, regardless

of their locale, their first allegiance

should be to the 'State' office. That was

never good news. They all had treasuries

of their own, they claimed; which by

the by-laws, were State organization

monies, due to be turned over. Try 

talking 'by-laws' and stuff like that to a 

group of bent-on-destruction bikers 

anywhere - it's a dead-end game. It was 

always tough, and a hardship. There

were constant battles. The office, salary 

and health insurance junk was expensive.

Against all wishes I took it upon myself

to freeze the salary and then to drop the

health insurance. For years it went

on like this. Fights and squabbles.

-

Thank goodness for the Maple Tree,

because the frequency of runs and 

events at least allowed me to have 

a decent enough stream of money 

coming in, if I watched it carefully. 

The feds and the taxes were always 

a problem. That was their way of 

getting us to shut down. I had to hire

a Jersey City biker accountant,

(Ed Zampella), who at least 

straightened us out on taxes and 

won a few appeals for us too,

but he was never cheap and he

wanted his money. Eventually, I

looked at the bank balances, the

income, the kittys around the state,

the expected takes from the different

chapters, and figured we were 

good for maybe another three

or four years. I was about right,

close enough. By 1999, insolvency

loomed. I stopped even paying

myself at the very end, which is

how I got re-involved with Barnes

& Noble  -  which all turned out 

good enough for the rest of my 

work career anyway.

-

Now, back to the Maple Tree and

forget all that boring crap. They

all sucked, from Hunterdon to

Sussex and from Salem to Cape 

May too. And the clubs too, who

started muscling in and wanting

money as well. They ruined a

decent-enough thing. 

-

Politics? Give me a break. There's

no such thing as politics  - it's all a

myth propagated by self-serving 

assholes on the take. The Mayor of

Woodbridge at this time was one

Jim McGreevey. An Irish lad who

looked about 12 years old. He had

come out of St. Joseph's High School,

in Metuchen  -  more on all that

in a minute. Towards the end of one 

of his terms, he was deciding to

run for governor  -  it was all lined

up, the Demo. Machine geeks

were behind him, funding was set.

He contacts me to ask himself in

to one of our Maple Tree Summertime

bikefests - to meet and greet, say a

few words. He'd been to one or two

of my meetings in Rahway over the

last year or two, so it was nothing

new. He was glib, a little stupid, and

way slick. He comes rolling in

with his aide and driver in some 

township Crown Victoria. All around

him are some three or four hundred

half-drunk bikers. Half-clad girls.

Loud music. The rumors around town 

had always been that he was gay. St.

Joe's was halfway considered a gay

boy's prep school anyway, and he 

was held as a prime example. There

had been a few 'brothers' on staff

at the school who'd gotten into trouble

with boys. It was all just an icky scene.

In Metuchen, where I lived (and my

ABATE office was), you'd see the

St. Joe's boys on their lunchtime in

Dessell's Confectionery Store. I

swear all they ever bought were

candies called Mary Jane. (That's 

a joke). Anyway, on the field there,

at the Biker party, no one really

gave two hoots about McGreevey.

When he started talking, it got a

little quieter, and the music had 

stopped. Hazel disliked the guy,

said he was gay, others said the

cops had covered for him for 8 

years, it was common knowledge,

he'd get blow jobs in his car, from

his personal driver, etc., etc. Crap

talk; we all scoffed. (Funniest 

thing was when 5 or some years

later it all turned out to be true

and, after being Governor for a 

while, he resigned). Joke was on 

us. McGreevey begins talking.

Hazel and I are watching his 

every move, and the crowd is

sort of like Red Sea parted, for

this guy to talk. Trying to be

glib and ultra smooth, he opens

with, 'It's a pleasure to be here

with you today, all these bikers,

all these people, surprised me. I

didn't think anyone came to the

Maple Tree except prison guards,

mailmen, and escaped convicts.'

That was supposed to have been a

big laugh-line. It failed miserably.

Hazel was livid, steamed-up

immediately, and went berserk -
an otherwise God-fearing lady all
caught up with St. Andrew's Church.
I guess running a bar teaches you 
a few things while on-the-job.

The lady had a mouth when she

needed it  -  'That fucking fag 

son-of-a-bitch talking like that

right in my face when he knows

damn well what we could to do 

him. I hope he drops fucking dead.'

That was that. Whew, Hazel!

-

He finished his speech, glad-handed

some, walked around a bit. And left.

What the Maple Tree had opened for

me was a constant exposure to others.

I'm not bragging or tooting my own

horn (is that too McGreevyesque?), 

but at every turn there was someone

wanting to talk to me, have me a

listen, hear them out, air a grievance 

or a problem, help with this or that.

My 'solitary' nature was shot to hell,

and I compensated for its loss, 

I see now, by drinking. The good

thing about the Maple Tree, and there

were many, was that it was so informal

that I could get away with it all. It was

as run-down and sometimes decrepit 

as was my own heart and soul.

I just got tired of hearing, and

catering  -  after a while  -  to idiots.

The Sunday-school near-beer guys

whose mother's wouldn't 'allow' them to

drink when they had their motorcycles

out; the hot-to-trot girls looking

to take me down upon them; the

hot-heads and the soldiers, the 

fairies and the queens, the 

living, and the dead. Yet as
bad as any of it may ever have
gotten, these people became part
of me, just as much as I was of them.
Wouldn't have missed it for a minute.
----------
* ABATE was originally a Biker organization dedicated to the repeal of helmet laws. Officially, the name was 'American Bikers Against Totalitarian Enactments.' It was in 42 states. For us, here, it soon degenerated to either :'Always Bring Alcohol To Events,' or 'American Boys And Their Erections.' And then, finally, when the political correctees got done wrecking it, it was 'American Bikers Aimed Towards Education.' Go figure.