10,662. RUDIMENTS, pt. 265

RUDIMENTS, pt. 265

- Maple Tree, pt. 4 -

After a while, everything gets a

life of its own and just starts

moving along for you. Outside

of you, almost. It was like that

for me  -  the wave was always

running by me, most of the time

drawing me in. Once or twice I

resisted and just let it slide past.

In about two years, with this 
ABATE stuff, everything was 
changed. I was alone. The previous

line of administrative people had

walked. Some didn't wish to

deal with any of the outside club

pressures, claiming threats to

their homes and families. That

never much bothered me, I took

it head on, and nothing every

happened. There wasn't much
else I could do  -  either close up
shop or stick it out and transform 
things into some sort of workable,
yet educatable, fun. Which I did.
Basically through magic  -  being
Ringmaster, mouthpiece, jerk, fool
and wise man all in one. Somehow
I found myself pretty good at it. The 
monthly newspaper I'd transformed
into a top-notch, prime quality opinion 
rag, on-time and on-point each month : 
photos, columnists, stories, editorials.
I got comments and praise on it from
everywhere  -  all those other ABATE 
states looked to it. But, at the same
 time, we were  falling apart. The
tax man was biting. The clubs were 
pressing hard. Everyone had their 
hands out. The last thing I ever wanted
was to become a fund-raising operation 
for others. I felt any monies raised
or brought in were ours, and should
remain with us. Others were always 
bleeding for giving money out, 
to some other cause. The really 
dumb stuff too : Cancer, Muscular 
Dystrophy-wheelchairs  (they can
take care of their own), any of 
5 various diseases and conditions 
that always wanted sponsorship, 
money and support from the good
'Bikers.' It was some awesome bullshit 
by then. A problem arises once you
become known as a tap for money  -  
everyone wants in, every cause there
is. The easiest thing to do is to be
nice to everyone and just keep saying 
yes just to bolster your own sense of 
'feeling-good.' Everything becomes a 
scam, especially when we (the 
organization) needed it (the money) 
so badly for our own continuation.
A for-instance? - One time, 
one of the local guys, riding
in Las Vegas with his girlfriend
(maybe wife, I forget), got hit by
a speeding ambulance, the story 
went.  She was killed. He was hurt 
and mangled, but came out OK. 
Responding to local requests by
his friends and family to help the
guy out, I reluctantly sponsored a 
huge Maple Tree Summer Biker 
bash event in support of this guy.
By the end of the evening, with his 
parents and cousins and all around, 
I handed over the day's proceeds to 
to him, to great applause.  Seven
thousand dollars worth to him! Plus 
Hazel had a great bar day We got nothing. 
Dumb move on my part, I guess. But one 
after the other, that's how it was going.
And that was when we were needing it 
most, late in the game. It was gruesome 
stuff. Yet, in some other way, it was
needed local effort for needed local
support. I just wish it all could
have been different.

I dealt with things. There were,

I'd guess, five or six serious club

guys who really rode my case,

visiting the office, seeking funds,

forcing me (us, en masse) to buy

blocks of tickets to their events,

proclaim allegiance, take sides.

Nobody wanted too much of that.

It was a real pain, but they kept

coming around  -  I tolerated

the visits, knowing I was being

watched. At the same time, the

Metuchen police started dropping

in, because these 'Pagan's' (their

spelling, wrong with the possessive.

Tell them, I dare you) guys were

riding right onto town, right past

the police station, right down Main

Street, in fact, on their way to #719,

wearing their Pagan's colors. That

was a no-no, maybe a law was on

the books against it too. I don't

know. They wanted to know what

was up, why the visits, what was

being planned, how come now,

etc. I said little  -  'Oh, it's just some

club guys; they want to make sure

we remember they own the

playground.' (Kind of a dumb

thing to say). The cop pops up,

'Oh, yeah. You tell them from me,

to make sure they understand that

WE own the playground.' Veiled

threat, I guess. I mentioned it later,

and they started (except for one

really nasty, obstinate guy) turning

their little riding vests inside-out

as they entered and left Metuchen.

To compensate, they rode louder,

and harder. Nothing much else was

ever heard on that subject.

-

One of these guys, by the way

went to prison for killing a regular

young kid, in a Manville, NJ bar,

a year or two later. The new-rider

kid was out with his girlfriend,

having lunch in a local bar/restaurant,

but wearing a support T-Shirt for

another motorcycle club other than

the one which claimed 'ownership' of

Manville (remember that playground

stuff again). He pulled out a gun

and popped the poor guy, 25 years

old at most, who died right there.

For all I know, the gunman here is

still in prison. 'Nuff said. We had

occasions like that at the Maple Tree

too, but nothing of that nature occurred.

The fights and slashings and shooting

that occurred there were usually over

drunken feuds, or girls. It was crazy.

It's pretty weird when you know the real

names, addresses, and life-stories of these

motorcycle guys, as I did. Oftentimes

they came down to being the most

otherwise normal and meek guys,

sometimes still living at home. The
town of Manville, by the way, in and of
itself, was like a bad desert of nothing;
but it had a solid, hard core of Biker
dudes, and they didn't mess around.
This gunman in the corner bar was a
pretty good example. He's the same guy
I mentioned, somewhere back in one
of these chapters, who heaved a piece 
of lumber scrawled with a message,
into the ABATE office doorway. It had
to do with a block of twenty or so, 
tickets we'd been 'given' to 'sell' for
one of their events. Something like
thirty bucks each. He was probably 
under pressure from his own people 
too. It said, 'Gary, I need the money for
those tickets, TODAY!' and he'd signed
it off with his club name. Pretty succint,
magic-marker message for sure. 
The extortion worked; I bought
the block of tickets.
-

In addition to the Biker scene, which

we basically imported into there, the

Maple Tree had also a plain, old,

local 'Avenel' side. I got to know

them too  -  there was one guy,

strange at first but later good

buddies, me and him  -  he hung

himself on his front porch, for

specific and family reasons, but

until that sad point he was the

ad-hoc sound man for the wring

and lighting of the back room in
the Maple Tree. During the Winter,

and bad weather, nothing was held

outdoors and the band music got

crammed into this crazy little

backroom  -  Eddie had wired and

rigged the whole place, and with a

sound board managed to sometimes

actually engineer a sound system,

with jumping lights too. It was

cool, except he was really loud

and vocal, always yelling out, and

he succumbed quickly, each time,

to a few beers, which plastered

him but good and kind of ruined

the night. And then, he was gone.
Eddie was a real gung-ho one of
those 'Give 'em Hell from Avenel'
guys. They were always full of fire.

His death was sad, and I had known

his brother, (also dead), from my

own grade-school days there. We

gave Eddie a big motorcycle

send-off to and from the funeral

home. I nearly got killed that

night by a car, over on Middlesex

Ave. massively drunk. Riding on

the wrong side of the double yellow,

by an oncoming car. Squeaked by,

but my friend Gary Russo, riding

alongside me, probably only a tad

more sober, really got pissed off

by what I'd done. He thought sure

I was a dead man, and that didn't

sit too well with him. Even Hazel

was angry with me when she heard

what had transpired. I mentioned

previously about the camaraderie 

and 'community' of bikers I'd gotten

into, against my own, solitary ways.

This was an example, and it may 

have saved my life. Who knows?

From the Maple Tree on out, we

usually always set out in some

sort of group; little was ever

done alone  -  for fun, for safety,

and for look-out. Hard to explain.

We knew who we were and we 

knew somehow the allegiance we

kept and owed to each other. Like

Brotherhood. Flag. Colors.

I guess.