RUDIMENTS, pt. 332
Making Cars
In some ways it always
seemed to me that you
could judge a man by
the men who hate him.
Anyway I was often told
that 'Jeez, Gar, people
either love you or hate
you, what's with that?'
And I of course never
had an answer; though
it never exactly made me
feel real good. There used
to be an old Teddy Roosevelt
quote going around, and
someone once gave it to me
on a plaque, to hang. It was
called 'the Man in the Arena'
or something like that. It
went to the effect that
everyone has opinions
and about this person in
the limelight, the doer. But
that was only because he
WAS the doer, the man of
action, the one hard at work.
I never judged like that, and
that quote always seemed
a bit too much to be belittling
others for being slackers.
-
I've been in a lot of touchy
situations, a lot of it motorcycle
related, from back in those days.
Even though I was neck-deep
in all that stuff for a long time,
I never got to the bottom of it.
Looking back now, as I try to
deconstruct the Biker scene, I
get somewhere, and then it fades.
The people were sometimes
dangerous - I mean the club
guys, just out and out hideous.
A beating, real blood, etc., could
end up meaning nothing to them.
There wasn't really a logic of
sensibility to much of it, just
as often the plain old schoolyards
antics of bullies who grew more
and more stronger by company.
The more the merrier, so to
speak. One time, and this was
late, like 1998, in the midst of
a pretty good struggle going
on between the two big clubs,
I ran across a strange scene,
when I realized pretty much
it was over for me or had
better be or should really
be, before something horrid
befell me. I won't be
mentioning any names,
or club names, or nicknames
either, so if you can surmise
any of this fine; if not, no
big deal. The times had
been pretty vital and rough
between the two clubs.
One was headquartered
here, NYC, lower east side,
with some forays into
establishing a central NJ
presence. Which presence
this other side, northern
New Jersey guys and
southern New Jersey
guys and Philadelphia.
The NJ guys had been
sending guys to my
ABATE office, and at
the same time demanding
that we buy 20 or so
tickets, etc, for the various
runs and events they were
pushing. They were maybe
25 bucks each, annoyance
and a sum when added up.
That's the story I've previously
related about the piece of
lumber thrown through the
window with the scrawled
message on it about 'I need
that money;' etc. (I still have
it, as it's now the back of a
painting I did, using that flat
wood for the painting surface.).
Two or three guys in particular
used to show up and hang
around, mainly making
sure the 'other' side had
been having no dealings
with me. (Yes, it as all
very weird). There had
been talk of some guys
here and there playing
both sides, or going to
the 'other' side; traitors,
turncoats, all that crap.
It usually resulted in big
trouble, shooting, beating,
stabbings, even death.
(Yeah, it was all very
weird, did I mention?).
Anyway, in the middle
of all this, broad daylight,
one day along the lower
east side, on his bike (a
hoped-up, radical Sportster,
actually, and surprisingly)
I'm standing at a corner,
my wife with me, (how
homey!) waiting for a light
to change, and there comes
guess-who? Yep, the NJ
club guy who'd often been
hanging around me the
most, and a tough hombre
he was. I wonder, 'what
the heck's he doing here,
downtown, this neck of
the woods, NYC.' All
way out of the ordinary.
Well, when I saw to what
street he was headed, and,
knowing what headquarters
was there, I said, 'Holy shit!
Two sides against the middle!'
I was flabbergasted, and
immediately, in my half-stance
between the two clubs but
really neither at all, began
figuring the odds of my
getting caught in a lowland
middle deal I was too fond
of. So, at that point I just
began laying really low
and staying out of that
harm's way (there were
others). All secrets, yeah,
safe with me. I ignored
him, he didn't see me,
and it was as if the instant
never occurred. Another
time, not near as 'strange'
nor fraught with danger,
but just as vivid. I was
sitting in Tompkins
Square Park, a misty,
half rainy, early October
day, presaging Fall,
cool and damp. I'd
known guy in the NY
club, from Iselin, who
had entered into full
club membership and
been moved into the
housing and headquarters
the club kept down there.
Famous spot; out of it,
besides the motorcycle
stuff, they had a few
other enterprises going,
under other business
names - van/delivery
service, a small trucking
company, some bars and
girlie clubs, etc. I espied
him, walking quite
determinedly through
the park. He was sort of
criss-crossing, cutting
the angle as a short cut.
Out on Second Avenue
there, one of the businesses
I'd noticed was a temporary,
pop-up sort of storefront
for Halloween costumes
and masks, capes, tophats,
any of that ghoulish
Halloween stuff they
sell : lanterns, inner lit
pumpkin-lights, etc., etc.
And that was right where
he was headed. He strolled
right in as if he owned the
place. Which, I figured
from that, they did.
-
These weren't drinking guys.
They couldn't really do any of
that stuff, except maybe, if out
late at night somewhere, among
their own club, at their bars.
Half of them were wanted for
one thing or another anyway,
their bikes gave them away,
facing confiscation - even
though really the NYC Police
mostly let them be, hands-off,
by agreement. The Feds were
another story. They had Biker
Task-Force guys, drug and
alcohol guys, RICO act guys,
always out in force and with
ongoing investigations. There
were times, honestly, we'd go
places and the entire scene
would be being filmed from a
rooftop nearby - long lenses,
FBI guys standing around,
radio contacts, you name it.
And it wasn't over Halloween
shops either. This was serious
business.
-
A lot of these hardly ever left
the clubhouse - which was also
a fortress and on what was termed,
because of their 'justice', the safest
street in NYC. It was lounge,
clubhouse, tavern dwelling, and
store, all combined - they
sometimes sold shirts and other
support items out front. It was
touchy, and you had to be real
cagey, as an outsider, to get
involved, but people bought
stuff. Some of their motorcycles
were always out front, protected,
with a guard posted (one of them,
on a rotating basis, the lower
echelon guys). It was just the
way it went. You hear stuff,
the stories and the tales. I
remember those two writers,
Hunter Thompson, and Tom
Wolfe, both writing 'books'
about their allowed-n time
with the club guys, to write
testimonials; supposed 'insider'
accounts of what really went
on - California stuff, runs,
parties, girls, women, funerals,
fights, rumbles, cops, indictments
and arrests too. How true and
how far any of it went, I don't
know. I hear tell once or twice
they both got beat up along
the way for one thing or another.
Separate projects, each, these
were. These two gents were
never in cahoots.
-
The writer Suketu Mehta, in his
'Maximum City,' wrote: "Each
person's life is dominated by a
central event, which shapes and
distorts everything that comes
after it and, in retrospect,
everything that came before."
I think I find that to be true, but,
for myself, I cannot decide which
it would be : being pulled out of
urban, waterfront Bayonne, early
on, with my little glimmers of its
memory still; The train wreck;
the seminary years; NYCity in
exile; or these little tidbits of
Biker years and lore; or any of six
or seven other episodal eras in
my own, dull life. One time,
someone's mother said to me:
"Life is out there, what you catch
sight of when the windshield
wiper momentarily clears the
glass obscured by rain or snow."
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