Hell and the Hell’s Angels
By Michael Domino
By Michael Domino
“My Husband was pissed at the Hell’s Angels. They told us we could ride
with them from the Lower East Side down to Tijuana, Mexico.” She had
close-cropped, mostly grey hair, weary eyes, a denim jacket, and an artist’s
face.
“We rode behind them. We weren’t in the gang but those pussies put their
bikes in a truck and didn’t ride them down to Mexico like they told us they
would. Yeah, we followed a truck-load full of the Hell’s Angels motorcycles
all the way form New York to Tijuana.” She shook her head in disgust.
“That was forty years ago. Once we got down there, they all got drunk and
started fights and made a riot in Tijuana and half of them got locked up in
Mexican jails. It was really fucked-up; but that was a long time ago.”
Her name was Kathleen and she was buying a newspaper at Cliff’s News in
the center of Port Jefferson. It was about 7:00 PM, with a cool salty breeze
blowing in off the Long Island Sound in March, people hustling along the
sidewalk outside of the small shop situated in the crossroads of the small
sea-side port village. The tiniest hint of Spring was abuzz.
A lot of bikers come to Port Jefferson on the weekends, so I brought a
miniature Harley that I keep perched on top of my refrigerator for Cliff to
display in his store. I told him that if people liked it and wanted to buy them,
I could tell him where he could import them from Vietnam. I had been there,
Vietnam, and knew where I could order more. He grabbed it and put it on a
shelf under the magazines.
Kathleen, the ex-biker, who used to live on East 6th Street in New York near
the headquarters of the Hell’s Angels back in the 60’s said goodbye, and I
followed her outside onto the side walk and shook her hand. She had a firm
grip. I let go first.
No sooner than I’d said goodbye to her, another customer entered Cliff’s
World of Bizarre Humanity. Cliff knew her and politely asked how she was
doing. She unashamedly answered, “Depressed,” and said she had been
alone in her apartment all day except for a visit to her psychologist. She
kept talking without pause as Cliff and I listened, said that her grandmother
always told her that she was going to burn in Hell when she was a little girl.
Now that she was 50, she was still consumed by the things her grandmother
had told her when she was a little girl. She then asked us if we knew about
the Book of Revelations in The Bible, and Cliff and I looked at each other
bewildered, so she dropped that. Cliff just responded, “That’s fucked up.
You just have to stop thinking about that bullshit stuff.” I said, “Yeah, just
let all that old bad thinking go and move on.”
She put her hand out and shook mine, another powerful grip, and I smiled
and said it was nice to meet her. Cliff went inside, deeper into the rear of
his narrow, well-stocked store. Wendy stepped inside to buy something. I
continued to move outside as I heard Cliff call out, “See ya tomorrow,
Mike.” My mind spun about all the things I had just heard, so quick and
weird. I knew I’ll be back there again, for certain.
with them from the Lower East Side down to Tijuana, Mexico.” She had
close-cropped, mostly grey hair, weary eyes, a denim jacket, and an artist’s
face.
“We rode behind them. We weren’t in the gang but those pussies put their
bikes in a truck and didn’t ride them down to Mexico like they told us they
would. Yeah, we followed a truck-load full of the Hell’s Angels motorcycles
all the way form New York to Tijuana.” She shook her head in disgust.
“That was forty years ago. Once we got down there, they all got drunk and
started fights and made a riot in Tijuana and half of them got locked up in
Mexican jails. It was really fucked-up; but that was a long time ago.”
Her name was Kathleen and she was buying a newspaper at Cliff’s News in
the center of Port Jefferson. It was about 7:00 PM, with a cool salty breeze
blowing in off the Long Island Sound in March, people hustling along the
sidewalk outside of the small shop situated in the crossroads of the small
sea-side port village. The tiniest hint of Spring was abuzz.
A lot of bikers come to Port Jefferson on the weekends, so I brought a
miniature Harley that I keep perched on top of my refrigerator for Cliff to
display in his store. I told him that if people liked it and wanted to buy them,
I could tell him where he could import them from Vietnam. I had been there,
Vietnam, and knew where I could order more. He grabbed it and put it on a
shelf under the magazines.
Kathleen, the ex-biker, who used to live on East 6th Street in New York near
the headquarters of the Hell’s Angels back in the 60’s said goodbye, and I
followed her outside onto the side walk and shook her hand. She had a firm
grip. I let go first.
No sooner than I’d said goodbye to her, another customer entered Cliff’s
World of Bizarre Humanity. Cliff knew her and politely asked how she was
doing. She unashamedly answered, “Depressed,” and said she had been
alone in her apartment all day except for a visit to her psychologist. She
kept talking without pause as Cliff and I listened, said that her grandmother
always told her that she was going to burn in Hell when she was a little girl.
Now that she was 50, she was still consumed by the things her grandmother
had told her when she was a little girl. She then asked us if we knew about
the Book of Revelations in The Bible, and Cliff and I looked at each other
bewildered, so she dropped that. Cliff just responded, “That’s fucked up.
You just have to stop thinking about that bullshit stuff.” I said, “Yeah, just
let all that old bad thinking go and move on.”
She put her hand out and shook mine, another powerful grip, and I smiled
and said it was nice to meet her. Cliff went inside, deeper into the rear of
his narrow, well-stocked store. Wendy stepped inside to buy something. I
continued to move outside as I heard Cliff call out, “See ya tomorrow,
Mike.” My mind spun about all the things I had just heard, so quick and
weird. I knew I’ll be back there again, for certain.
© 2007 by Michael Domino
March 5, 2008
Port Jefferson, NY
Cliffs
Port Jefferson, NY
Cliffs