By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Kyle Swenson
Johnny didn't seem to care what I did, and Drew wanted me to ride with him. So I slipped on Drew's extra pair of sunglasses, and he said something about riding's being akin to Buddhism. Then I climbed on the back of the bike, and we took off down a back road. We went over a speed bump, and I clung more tightly to Drew.
Soon we arrived at Big Game, which turned out to be a poolside lounge at a motel. It seemed that Betty had been watching for us, because when we arrived, she came out and scolded the pack before throwing her arms around me. Then we scurried off to the bar to put in my French fry order. But the hubristic glory-courting that I'd been doing all night turned the gods against me, and they willed the kitchen be closed.
I sat at the bar nursing a kamikaze. It went to my head fast.
Drew had his arm around my chair, telling me he never expected women to sleep with him. It was more like an ebb-and-flow thing, really. He divulged his life philosophy: It was sort of like what Eddie Izzard terms "the relaxed and groovy" ethic of the great spirits, whose words are misinterpreted again and again by the power-hungry. What I wanted to say was that I too ascribed to "the relaxed and groovy" thing, but my jumbled thoughts were resisting the discipline of formation. So I smiled vapidly through my painted lips.
Wrapped in Betty's leather halter-top, I felt like a piece of grade-A biker beef. Then Betty said, "I gave her a biker-chick make-over." Upon hearing this, one of the guys shot me a reproving glance and asked, "What do you usually look like?" The question was tantamount to, Who the hell are you?, implying the further question, Do you even know who you are?
It was too much for my French fry-deprived system to contemplate. You think you can innocently adopt the image of a scene, but sometimes a penetrating eye peers through the masquerade and spies you for the impostor that you are.
Betty rescued me by offering to whisk me away to the next biker location, Smith Bros. (2651 N. Federal Hwy.), which, I was informed, had no kitchen.
So we cruised through a Wendy's drive-through, and instead of the curly fries I'd been lusting after all night, I ate four or five fast-food fry husks. The booze was in control of my system by this time. It was, alas, too late to restore my faculties.
When we arrived at Smith Bros., Drew and Johnny were there, but I was too exhausted to resume our playful banter. Barely able to stand, I dialed a ride. I needed to get horizontal immediately, and not in the way Johnny and Drew had suggested.
Betty and Slick and I stood outside of Smith Bros., recapping our evening. Slick advised me on what was printable, alluding to Hunter S. Thompson, whose ass was stomped by the Hell's Angels. He said something about spitting teeth, after which I assured him I'd choose my words carefully.
Then the parking lot came to life with growling engines. Drew's machine joined the chorus as he revved it up to depart to some unknown locale. He threw us one more gleaming grin as his engine roared and shot him out into the street. Slick looked at me, pointed his cigarette toward the disappearing hog and rider, and said, "There's your ending right there." He lifted his Jack and Coke in a gesture of nuff said, and I nodded silently in Durstian agreeance, suppressing a senseless smile.