Even
though I had driven almost 800 miles to get to the 2 Million Bikers to DC
rally, I wasn't the least bit sleepy. Perhaps it was the anticipation of the
coming day, or the 14 kegs of caffeine I had shoved into my body on the way
here. Or perhaps it was that I was in a bad neighborhood in the middle of the
night all by myself. I knew I should have brought my handgun, although that
would have been illegal in every state except the one I came from. The recent
news coverage of random acts of black on white violence did nothing to appease
my concerns, either. I trusted God would take care of me, but that didn't mean
I could go lay out on the hood of the car, so I locked the doors of my crimson
Tide colored Ford Focus and let my seat go all the way back. Despite my obvious
jitters, ancient military training kicked in and I was asleep within 5 minutes.
Half an hour later I awoke to find the windows were completely fogged up.
Great. Now I looked like a scene from Titanic. Not only would the passing thugs
know someone was in here, they'd assume there were two of us bumping uglies. I
turned the air on until the windows were clear, then cracked them enough to
keep from steaming them up and tried to sleep again. Now my lizard brain kept
nagging me that hoodlums could get in the car, so after another fitful hour I
pulled out my eight inch pocket knife, opened it up and rested my hand on my
chest while trying to doze. Now bad guys could see I was a sleeping old white
man with a pocket knife. Yes. That should keep the gangs away.
I
gave up around 2 A.M. (telling myself "I'll sleep when I'm dead"),
cooled the car down again and listened to some Coast to Coast and then a
replayed broadcast of Mark Levin as the occasional baggy pants gangsta strolled
by. I told myself that if one of them turned to approach me I would quickly
pretend I was masturbating with a goofy look on my face. That works better at
repelling trouble than a pocket knife flashing in the street light. From time
to time one or two bikes roared by, their motors slicing through the still of
the night like lightening in darkness.
A
couple of motorcycles slowed down as they passed the Fort Washington Harley
Davidson building, turned around in the street and circled around to the back.
In a couple of minutes a pair of sleeveless, bandana wrapped bikers strolled
out of the gloom from the side of the store and walked the length of the glassy
showroom. They soon settled down by the wooden podium that had been erected the
evening before. It looked like they were going to wait it out. My stress level
immediately went through the floorboard. Who would mess with two mean-looking
dudes in leather and chains? I saw another opportunity for an interview and
exited the car, making sure I slammed the door loud enough for them to hear. Didn't
want to be confused with Jerry Garcia in case they hated the Grateful Dead.
As
I approached them sitting there on the steps of the podium, the pale lights of
the store outlining their bodies against the night, I smelled an old familiar
sweet odor coming from their direction and felt the hippy in me do a backflip.
I introduced myself and we passed handshakes around. They were both grizzled
and grey, and as I glanced at the patches on their jackets I saw they were
Vietnam vets. Tim had a deep bass voice that went to my bones, and the other
man identified himself as Cookie. No, I didn't ask, for fear of my life. Tim
passed me the cigarette and I thanked him before filling my lungs a couple of
times with the harsh smoke and then passed it on to Cookie. As we played Round
Robin with the burning stick, I found out they were from some town on the
outskirts of Bangor, Maine, and that they had indeed been in Vietnam but met
through the local VA center and wanted to be a part of this event.
I
spoke of the Muslims who were suppose to gather that day and shared my disgust
for their feeble effort to hijack it to voice their own complaints. Cookie's
eyes, black and shiny in the pale light, fixed on me for a moment before
speaking. "It's not about those mother fuckers. No matter what happens,
don't forget it. It ain't about them. It's about honoring all those people who
lost their lives on 9/11." He turned around and showed me a large round
patch in the center of his leather jacket. The twin towers stood against the
New York skyline, and a huge eagle was superimposed behind it, wings outspread
and claws extended. Below this were the words "ALWAYS REMEMBER" and
encircling the patch was "2977," "HEROS ALL" and "WE
SHALL NEVER FORGET." Cookie's voice
sounded ghostly as he spoke with his back to me. "My nephew worked for
Cantor Fitzgerald. He was working on the 103rd floor that day." The
silence that followed was thick with reflection and grief.
A
large RV towing a trailer with two bikes on it slowly and carefully rolled into
the parking lot across the street. It settled down at the far end, and we saw
two figures and a dog emerge. I shook hands with Tim and Cookie again, thanked
them for the honor of their company, and went to meet the newcomers, the buzz
in my head pushing sleep farther away.
Mark
and Lenard Moss (brothers with 20 years between them) and their old yellow lab
Joe had driven from East St. Louis to participate. The lights from the parking
lot turned everything a thin gray. They showed me their motorcycles - new
looking, fully dressed Goldwings - and we all sat on the edge of the trailer
with our feet dangling and swapped stories of the road. It was too dark to take
notes, and my short term memory was shot from the herbal martini, so I don't
recall most of our conversation. I do remember that they were good, peaceful
men who loved to travel and who had only decided two days prior to come to the
rally here. Joe roamed around the parking lot and tree line to the north of us,
his nose stuck to the ground, and whenever he strayed too far one of the men
whistled and the dog came back, zig-zagging across the pavement. At one point I
went across the street to the 7-11 and got coffee for us all, and we sat and
talked about where we had been until the sky began to change colors in anticipation
of the dawn. The somber day was upon us, and we were ready for it.
To
be Continued...
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