BARS, DINERS, RESTAURANTS, REUNIONS Rina Terry
Haggard, low-life worn-down brown, draws the blub, blub, blub of Harleys at The Triton, Brownies, Central— sun bouncing off chrome, affiliation tattoos, property patches on their long-haired, boobed out women. I rode on my daddy’s clean Indian in the 50s when no one thought it too dangerous to mount a six-year-old and take off down the highway. Not too many cars on the road. Years later at my brother’s shop set back from the highway, sawed-off shot gun under the counter, jerking-off Santa year-round Christmas decoration, I videoed tattoos, asked questions, heard the stories. At the pig roast, when the JD saturated even the music, I knew to go home. When I called 1-800-Law-4HOGS the last digit didn’t matter. At Olga’s Diner, the Pagans’ lawyer and I sat for the interview. He was intrigued by the seminary student researching bikers. Coffee cups refilled, we were interrupted by a Philadelphia Eagle, long stride, wide smile, introduction short, Anthology 7
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