For those who don’t know anything about bike clubs, it is the official term for what most people call gangs, and “club” can mean outlaw bikers like the Hell’s Angels or the Outlaws, or it can mean a tame group like the Fifth Chapter. If you wanted to start a bike club, though, even a sober one, proper protocol entailed going to talk to the dominant outlaw club, which in our case was the Hell’s Angels. The Angels had to give permission for clubs to wear “colors,” as they called the patches on the backs of their jackets, and no one wanted to be in a club that didn’t get to wear patches. Hell’s Angels–approved patches were really cool to a lot of people. Interestingly, Hell’s Angels themselves rarely wore patches in public, because it would mark them to rival gangs and the police.
Before Girl met Samson, he was very active in a local chapter that was inclusive of all people who rode motorcycles or trikes of any manufacture, and where women and men were treated equally. Apparently, Samson got into a heated fight with one of the founding members, a heavyset “butch” woman married to his sponsor. (Later Girl learned that this particular type of woman triggered the worst of his temper.) The fight was so bad that Samson left the club to start his own chapter. The two chapters he founded when Girl was with him both had the same rules: no female members, no foreign bikes. New prospective members had to “prospect” for a year, during which time any full member could ask them to do anything they wanted and they had to do it—mainly washing bikes and giving up comfortable chairs at meetings. Although the members that Girl knew were mainly married older men, they had specific rules about women. For example, if someone wanted to date someone’s ex-girlfriend, they had to ask their permission and give their biker brother two dollars in exchange. Samson’s ex, the one Girl had met previously, was riding around with one of his biker brothers and the man had failed to give Samson the courtesy of the two-dollar payment, and Samson was livid. Worse still, the guy was only a prospect.
The bikers Girl knew in the Fifth Chapter called their wife or girlfriend “Old Lady” and if they were really serious about them, the biker could buy their Old Lady a “Lady Patch” she could wear on the back of her jacket to show she was the property of the club and deserved a higher level of respect than hang-around girls. Girl wanted one so badly, but she didn’t let on. She even picked out her biker name: Belle, from Beauty and the Beast. After all, Belle had brown hair and brown eyes and always had her nose in a book. Samson’s temper made him a Beast, but a loveable one, in Girl’s eyes.
The guys liked to talk about “passarounds” and a class of girl called a “house mouse” who were granted the privilege of living with a bunch of bikers in exchange for having sex with whomever wanted it, but Girl never actually met any of these women. She only saw a bunch of guys in their forties riding around feeling tough, sometimes accompanied by nice, normal wives.
Samson soon gave up the bike club scene entirely. He said he joined because he needed family, but after he met Girl he didn’t need them anymore. Girl was more than happy to fill the void, though she secretly longed to go on the big rallies and poker runs he talked about so often and which were now consigned to his past.
ryan
fall 1992
Ryan and Girl sat in his car in a church parking lot. It was bitter cold outside, gray and un-wedding-like, though it was only the end of September. They had finished setting up for the service, but instead of leaving for the next stop Ryan lit a cigarette.
“We’re running ahead of schedule,” he said. “Let’s talk for a minute.”
“Okay,” Girl said. During the summer they rarely talked much at the shop—everyone was running in different directions. She was glad to have time alone with Ryan.
“T-cells are like soldiers,” he said. Girl knew all about T-cells from William, but instead of being her usual know-it-all self, she let Ryan talk.
“Infections are like bad soldiers in your blood, and T-cells are the good soldiers. A normal person has like five hundred to a thousand T-cells. My last count was seventy-five.”
Girl knew what he was telling her. Although William had said Ryan was HIV positive, Girl still clung to that comment he made on her first day at work—I don’t got AIDS. She had so hoped those words were true.
“I’ll die of lung cancer. No one is to ever mention that I have AIDS. I don’t want my kids to have to live through that stigma. Lung cancer isn’t so bad.” He flicked an ash out the window. Ryan only owned two coats—a black leather jacket and a long 1970s raccoon fur coat. He wore the leather jacket, because it was more masculine, even though it was so cold and he was so thin.
“How long have you been sick?” Girl asked.
“Two years.”
William lived five years, Girl thought. There was still time.
“I’ve picked out my funeral home,” Ryan said. “They have these emery boards with their name and phone number printed on them. I told them I want the emery boards out in bowls so everyone can have a souvenir.” He coughed his deep hacking cough with which Girl was
