Bars, Diners, Restaurants, Reunions, Rina Terry

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,

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they adjourned to the men’s room for business I knew better than record.

I watched the waitress at the counter, remembered the juke box at Harry’s, me sitting at the counter listening to The Righteous Brothers drown out the, “Oh shit,” from the back room— a scratch, 8-ball sunk too soon maybe? The Roy Orbison lookalike, gradient-tint glasses, leather jacket, English Leather, his own stick in a leather case and the “Hey, P.C., we’ve been waiting for you,” as he walked in the pool room.

I remembered my little brother before his leather and chrome life, rolling on the floor when our mother spat, “I don’t want you in that place wasting money on that nickelodeon.” I can see every waitress uniform I had to buy each time the boss got a new mistress and covered us up as much as she could but the dishwasher showed baby bump, mistress and uniform changed again.

Restaurants came and went in that building, bars got bought out, painted, menus used words like cuisine. Diners are retro trendy now. At my 50-year high school reunion someone snorted when they put Reverend in front of my name, called me up for the invocation.

21 Quaranzine

JUNK DRAWER