YOUR PINNACLES OF UNDERSTANDING
I sure understood them : the park across
the street was arid and there was but
little water anywhere. The Boro workers
were in there working, Ed and his crew,
whacking grass edges and servicing the
wide lawn. All Ed ever cared about was
motorcycle clubs - who was coming to
where and how the Breed was going to
war with the Angels and the Angels were
at was with the Pagans and this Summer
for sure it was all going to come down
to a battle royale. Yeah, sure, and I had to
hear this stuff everything he'd get my ear.
It got so I couldn't step out of my house
somedays because he was there, again.
If it wasn't the grass in the park, say, in
the Winter months, he'd be on the garbage
truck at 6am. I'd see him there as I walked
to the train station - and more of the same
ensued. Bar-room brawl he'd witnessed at
the Knox, when the Pagans came in at
one in the morning on their way back
from something, and two guys were in
there from some other club on their way
out. Snack-down central, never any cops
Grace, the lady who owned the Knox,
she was wise and never cared anyway,
just keep the front clean and stop the
shit. My trouble was always this trouble.
No matter where, it didn't need to be in
Metuchen. It went Hoboken or New Yok
or Monmouth Shore Points or Asbury Park.
Tiredest crap you'd ever want to hear. I
had to at it all like it mattered, and report
back on it all too, writing the steamboat
articles for the local Biker papers, and then
getting all screwed up over an obituary
when some one of these cretins died.
Real pinnacles of understanding,
they were.
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