Encounters

Over the close to forty years I’ve lived in the Boston area, three times I’ve had these sorts of encounters:

1993

I’m heading west on the Mass Turnpike on a sunny weekday morning, my mind churning with the sort of shit that churns a young man’s mind.  Traffic zips along I90’s six-lanes compulsory-land-purchased-bulldozed-blasted into Massachusetts’ rolling green countryside. Despite my trusty-rusty Corolla, now firmly in its adult-diaper-fluids-dripping phase of life, groaning at the sight of yet another long hill, I glance in the mirror to pass an eighteen-wheeler. 

Immediately, my eyes lock onto two columns of motorcycles, twenty-two honking-big Harleys, flowing along I90’s fast lane with military precision. 

Curious now, I stay behind the eighteen-wheeler, eyes flicking from my rearview mirror to the truck’s bumper sticker: “IF YOU DON’T LIKE MY DRIVING CALL 1-800-EAT-SHIT.”

One by one the silver BMWs, red Camaros, even a banged up navy-blue Cavalier with a tan door, drop out of the fast lane to get the column of motorcycles hot off their ass. 

We crest the long hill; I lose sight of the Harleys; minutes later their grumble rattles my rattley windows; the two lead bikes filling my side mirror with Black German army helmets, mirrored sunglasses, grizzly-grey-flowing beards, black-leather-jacketed arms stretching to handlebars.

As they growl past, my eyes lock onto the semicircular red-letters-on-white-fabric patches on their black leather jackets: “HELLS ANGELS  MASSACHUSETTS”.

Two-by-two the column passes: Large, scary humans on rumbling hogs filling my suddenly-even-more-tinny Corolla with an aura of raw power, danger, fear-excitement and a gnawing sense of life not lived. And yet, from some fucked-up place in my fucked-up head, I get an overwhelming urge to flag down these latter-day Vikings and lecture them that it should be the possessive: “HELL’S … ANGELS.”

I resist the urge for grammatical purity, instead choosing boring life: On the Harleys rumble: On my Toyota groan-rattles: On my mind churns.

As the last two Harleys pass, way-too-tight behind them speeds a black Dodge Intrepid filled with four burley, black-leather-jacketed Angels.  The front passenger has an indistinguishable-at-75mph oversized dark-ink-tattoo on his right cheek. From the back seat, a heavyset-bearded-baldy, twenty-something Angel, ADHD bounces in his seat as he glowers at me so hard that I flee back to my boring but safe life.

1998

I’m in the Middleton Baptist Church tent at the Topsfield Fair washing down a $3.50 turkey-gravy-mash-carrots-and-peas dinner with milk from a red plastic cup. The tent’s heavy white fabric, greying at the seams from years of long service, billows in the October wind, the canvas slapping against the sturdy metal poles.  Behind the hearty-dinner dispensing table, hovering over the shoebox in use as a till, stands a squat fifty-something, balding, jowly-faced church volunteer, in grey wool pants belted-and-suspendered hard up under his nipples, white shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, red-and-tan-plaid tie tucked between the buttons of his shirtfront.  With thumbs hitched inside his black suspenders, the church volunteer peers down into the Florsheim shoebox heaped with heaped $5’s and $1’s, his pudgy face grinning uncontrollably.

At our folding-table, my ten-year-old son, who’s big on rules, as in the breaking thereof by him but strict enforcement, also by him, for all others, is scraping a plastic fork along the shiny red-plastic plate to extract the last molecules of turkey gravy.

“Can I get dessert?” he asks excitedly, raising a gravy-moistened white-plastic fork to his mouth.

“I think Baptists are more into hell n’ damnation than desserts,” I parry with something I figure he won’t understand not wanting my ten-year-old, ninety-pound Rule-Enforcer to get up or look around and see that there’s two Hells Angels and their, interestingly clad for October, “old ladies” sitting on the opposite side of the tent enjoying aprés-dinner-Marlboros directly under a “NO SMOKING” sign.

My eyes flick to the church volunteer and his unstoppable grin: His eyes are now directed to the tent doorway which brings him more $3.50-a-mouth customers.

The Angels, tall, burly guys, the red-on-white HELLS ANGELS patches stretching across their weathered, black leather jackets, lounge back, almost toppling over the church-basement wooden folding chairs and billow blue-grey cigarette smoke.

“Come on!” my son tone sharpens.  “You said I couldn’t have a candy apple cuz I’d be gettin’ dessert. Now dinner’s done, so it’s dessert time.”

His increasingly insistent tone and darkening eyes foretell a mind mobilizing for an angry eruption in response to failure to follow through on a real, or perceived, promise.

My eyes flick to the symbol of order and civilization in this billowing church tent whose grin has deepened as he collects $14 off a plump, likely salivating, family of four.  Behind the church-volunteer’s ample torso I see a table littered with red plastic bowls heaped with orange Jello, mixed in with cans of spray cream, some standing, some lying over, their nozzles splattered with yellowing-cream. 

For a millisecond I fantasize that maybe, … just maybe, hidden behind the churchman’s grin-paunch-plaid-tie lurks a righteous Bruce Lee–Chuck Norris-whack-the-bad-guys persona or even better a Clint Eastwood type that’s packing a Howitzer, which he keeps stashed in the trunk of the purple Oldsmobile Cutlass parked directly behind the tent. 

There’s a distinct possibility of needing all of the above if a trip up to buy dessert from to this grinning churchman results with my son assuming responsibility to verbally correct the Angels and their lady friends on the No Smoking infraction employing a viciously cutting tone he has learned to mimic from his own multitude of infractions. 

I turn back to my son’s longing-trending-to-angry-explosion stare.

“You know what!” I try to sound like I’ve got a big idea, which I don’t and already I need to pivot as one of the Angels “old ladies” stands, shakes her over-flowing-over-tanned-crinkly-skinned cleavage, and stilettoes across the grassy-mucky tent floor to the counter. From her fingers dangles a Marlboro bleeding blue smoke.

“Gih me four Jellos an’ cream, with lots a cream,” she says to the church volunteer.  He glances at her cigarette and dispels my childish fantasy in favor of the wiser course that discretion is in fact the larger part of valor.

“Yeah what?” snaps my son – hidden from this whole scene, his normally so-smooth forehead contracts ominously into narrow furrows.

“What about the pig race?” I hear these words but didn’t now I had them – obviously they’ve been dropped into my frontal cortex by the gods of parenting. 

“How about we go to the pig race,” I repeat my newfound idea, now I’m all fake enthusiasm.  “They must be set up by now … an’ then we’ll go back to the carnie selling candy apples … or find some ice cream, Richardson’s has to be here somewhere.  Isn’t there a Massachusetts law that Richardson’s ice cream be available within fifty feet of every gathering.”

I beam an idiot-dad smile, begging a pre-teen insult.

“I really do wanna go ta do the pig race,” my son says slowly, eyes down, brow still furrowed.  “I just can’t decide between the candy apple an’ the ice cream, can I …,” he flicks up his beautiful brown eyes, “get bo….”

“We might need ta get some Oreos somewhere for the pigs,” I cut in to avoid letting him ask a question to which the answer can only lead to releasing pre-loaded disappointment-anger.  “Boy do pigs love their Oreos!”

A couple of hours earlier, walking into the Fairgrounds, the first thing we came across was the Pig Race.  They were still setting up: A gimpy, heaved-gutted, can’t-stop-smiling seventy something man and his same-aged, tall-boney wife, who walked like a marionette puppet, her shoulders and hips jerking up and collapsing down with each step.

“How d’ya get them ta race?” I asked.  As a dad accompanied by a younger child, I feel fully empowered to spontaneously ask anyone any question no matter how stupid or pointless.

“R…eos,” the old guy says with a heavy southern accent. With a smile, he slides an Oreo from the pocket of his stained and worn jeans.

“All critters luvs sugar.”

“But how do ya … ya know, how do they know there’s an Oreo to chase for?” I ask, as into my mind flashes a memory of the fake hare, basically a rabbit skin glued to a short iron rod, who got zipped around the Galway Sportsground on a tiny rail pursued by greyhounds seemingly in need of glasses.

“That’s where yer little fellar there comes in,” he hands my son the Oreo and then rubs his hand in a grandfatherly way across the top of his head. 

“See them little ‘uns encourages the pigs ta run an’ then the winnin’ pig’s motorvated by gittin’ a R…eo, cuz that’s what done happened t’last time he raced, an’ the time afore.”

He turns his head enough to unleash a stringy, brown tobacco-dip spit onto the grass. Breathing in a deep chest-rattley breath, he continues: 

“Then dad, you kin pay five dollars ta name a pig or pay a dollar ta have this little fellar be a en…courager.  An’ if this little fellar’s pig wins, he gits ta give the winnin’ piglet the Oreo in the ah…ward ceremony.  All that money goes on back ta t’Boys N’ Gurls club that done brung us up ‘ere.  Me an’ Millie, we don’t make a nickel in cash, but the Boys N Gurls paid every’thin fer us ta brung t’piglets an’ all this here gear all the ways up from Mar’land.”

Knowing the allure of animals for my son – just a few weeks back, he’d been so empathic separating cows from their weeks old calves on my brother-in-law’s dairy farm in Ireland that the cows didn’t freak out, as any mother would be wont to do in such a situation – I figured fun with pigs would get him out of this tent rapidly enough,h and in a good enough mood, to avoid his feeling the need to enforce rules on the Hells Angels.

“So where would we get Oreos in the Fairgrounds?” I ask in idiot-dad voice.

“The old guy who talks funny has them,” my son says, reflexively shaking his head at my deficiency in Pig Racing knowledge.

“Ok, well, we’ll go to the pig racin’,” I say jumpin’ up, “an’ if we see dessert along the way we can get some, if not we’ll go back to the Candy Apple carnie.”

I nod toward the smoking Angels and their “old ladies” to make sure the rest of our group table sees the need for the early departure while they’re still finishing up.

“We’ll meet everyone else at the Pig Derby, ok?”

My son and I walk hastily, pig-race-and-dessert-blinkered, towards the tent doorway.  As I attempt to further blinker my son’s vision by keeping directly apace with him, thus blocking his view of the smoking Angels side of the tent, we’re stopped in our tracks another an All American original: Red-plaid shirtsleeves rolled up all the better to display bulging-muscle-forearms, a massive fist gripping an axe so big it looks like it could decapitate the entire tent with one wild swing, the log-splitting-competition lumberjack fills the tent entry.

Grinning a grin of the comfortable extrovert, the lumberjack lumbers up to the Florsheim shoe box, drops in a $5 and two $1’s.

“Two turkey dinners, … if you would sir,” the lumberjack says.

“Heeheehee,” the church volunteer squeals a high-pitched laugh and says: “I hope our turkey’s better than your cutlery would seem to imply.”

The lumberjack’s eyebrows bunch together for a few seconds, then with his All-American-Hero smile he raises the axe, his enormous fist nestled under its huge, glistening head.

“Sorry sir, t’competition don’t start for ‘nother hour.  I didn’t wanta leave this a lyin’ round in case some stoopid dad hurt heself showin’ off.”

I swallow some saliva and consider my “stoopid dad” comeback options, but as I fit the fill, nothing comes.

“Oh, that’s quite all right,” the church volunteer pats his ample stomach and grins back with a church-man’s grin.  “Here at the Middleton Baptist Church, we accept everyone, even axe murders, heeheehee.” 

Pleased with his joke, his grin never leaves as he hands over two heaping dinner plates, adding:

“Just no axe murdering today, ok? Heeheehee.”

2014

I’m third in line waiting forced-patiently for a Santa-hatted Walmart cashier to check out the black-leather-jacketed biker who’s watching his wife slowly fish items from their cart and slam them on the conveyor belt.  Peering over the shoulder of the customer in front of me, I stare at the patch on the wrinkled black leather jacket where fading red-on-white letters spell out: HELLS ANGELS   MASSACHUSETTS CHAPTER. 

Next to me my twenty-six-year-old son ADHD fidgets with nothing; lurches towards the pastelly chewing gum display; then lurches back.

“I’m thinkin’ a quittin’ smokin’,” he says by way of lurching-explanation.

“Quit the booze first,” I respond impulsively and cruel-to-be-kindly. 

“No, I meant the pot, if I quit that, the booze is easy.”

“Quit everything,” I say, unhelpfully.

We’d seen this couple, the Angel walking gingerly, like every step hurt, Christmas shopping down various aisles.  My son and I were hunting a heavy, waterproof winter coat to protect him from the New England winter – that sort of protection being something I can provide.  Now they’ve beaten us to the register where the tall, stooped Angel leans in to help, two-handed unloading from their cart a heaped pile of Ramen Noodles, six cans of Starkist tuna, two loafs of whiter-than-snow Wonder Bread, four kids Christmas sweaters – two green, two pinkish-red – a Caterpillar-yellow toy bulldozer, a fire-engine-red toy fire engine whose lights flash when he picks it from the cart, a sixpack of Walmart Barbie knockoff dolls panic-faced-suffocating in plastic wrap and a royal blue, plastic snow shovel.

Embarrassed by my staring I turn to my son.

“So,” I say, forcing myself into conversation, “… you like this coat?”

“It’s warm,” he says reaching out and rubbing the greyish polyester faux fur draped over my arm. “It’ll be good for when I’m walking the three miles to start my Dunks shift at 5AM in a fucken snowstorm.”

The Angel pulls on the silver chain hanging from his jeans belt loop and fishes a fat, black-leather wallet from his jeans pocket.  Walmart’s extra-bright checkout lights glint off his thick silver wedding ring as he thumbs twenties and hands them to cashier.  His wife, scowling, brow furrowed, grabs one large, gray plastic bag stuffed with their purchases, turns and steps away, leaving the other two for the Angel.

“Murry Christmas,” he rumbles in a two-packs-a-day voice, his weatherbeaten, sixty-something-hard-years face cracking with a pleasant smile.

As he limp-lurches out, his wife a half-step behind, involuntarily I say:

“I never seen that before.”

“What?” my son comes right back at me, ready for an attack no matter how I respond.

The customer in front of me, a big-big-squat guy, fully filling a XXXL grey sweatsuit, reaches into his cart and with a sigh, places on the conveyor belt a tray of Stouffers frozen mac ‘n cheese the size of Rhode Island.

“Well, I just don’t bump into Hells Angels down the Trader’s Joe in Coolidge Corner, that’s all, at least not that often or actually in fact … never!”

“Yeah,” he responds calmly, but sullenly, “well they’re around here, I got a friend whose dad is one.”

“Oh, really, it never occurred me that … you know,” I say setting the winter coat up on the conveyor belt behind a mountain of Doritos Cool Ranch Party Size bags. “I don’t know, I never thought … think … it’s probably just my small brain.”

“Yeah, but you’re not gonna believe this,” my son’s face brightens but hardens all at once. “That kid whose father is in a bike gang, he wants ta be a chick, started wearin’ dresses, fuckin’ unbelievable, puttin’ pics up on Facebook, him with makeup on an’ shit.”

“Oh Jaysys, … now that for damn sure never occurred to me,” I shake my head, trying to not imagine how something like gender transition plays out in a viciously unforgiving world.

“It’s actually disgustin’, he has a beard an’ shit, so fucked up, lipstick, that blue shit they wipe on their eyelids, an’ then this scraggly-assed beard.”

“Oh, what the fuck, the poor guy, what’s goin’ through his mind?”

“What? Ya think kids aint all fucked up just like adults,” my son says, his shoulders tucking back defiantly as he defends the ground he’s won.  “That’s where all the fucked-up adults come ….”

“Evenin’ sir,” the Santa-hatted checkout lady says.  She’s a tall indeterminate maybe forties or fifties year-old, heavyset, fish-belly-white skin sagging from her prominent lower jawbones.

“… from fucked-up kids, where the hell else?” my son can’t stop winning his point.

I raise my hand paternalistically trying to silence him, but the checkout lady steps in:

“It happens, my all’s niece went down ta Salem State fer a year ‘n a halves, dropped out, took assistant manager job in a fancy sit-down restaurant up Portsmouth an’ now she’s mah nephew!  Wears a gorgeous blue, double-breasted suit ta work ever’day.”

She cackles out a laugh.

I watch as she searches for the price-tag on the bulky winter coat.

“Aint nuthin ya can do, d’ya all wants ta apply fer a Walmart credit card, git five percent off this pur…chase, that’s a nice coat, cozy, I might git one a these myself.”

“No on the credit card, an’ it is a warm coat,” I say, wondering if this older woman’s vote of confidence in the garment means this Christmas gift will in fact never get used by my image conscious and cold resistant son.

She rings it in, I swipe my card.  Handing me the receipt she says:

“Ye’re all gonna need that coat, t’Almanac says we’s in a fer a bad winter.”

“Thanks,” I say, meaning it for once.

Walking away from the checkout, the coat now draped over my son’s arm, he starts up again:

“Why’d ya stop me talkin’?” he says, with more than a tinge of resentment.

“Well, at that time I didn’t know the checkout lady was in on the cross-dressin’ story.”

“It aint cross dressin’’, this kid’s goin’ all the way, gettin’ his dick cut off, becomin’ a woman.”

We walk past a ten-foot tall, plastic Christmas tree with too many shiny-plastic-gold ornaments and white lights that blink too rapidly – like someone with dust in their eyes.

“An’ what does his father, … the Hells Angel think of this?”

“Fucked if I know, I bet he’s like lots a father’s, won’t never speak ta him again, probly kick the shit outta him … or her.”

“Jaysys, that guy … girl … woman is brave!”