6
The door of the bar swung open and out spilled a colorful pair, both pretty loaded: a husky guy in a bandana and a big, bearded lanky hunk. They were talking so loud that Isaac could hear from twenty-feet away.
“Now that’s what I call a real bike!” said the hunk.
“You bet…. none of your modern garbage. This is a classic!”
“Is that a Harley Sportster?”
“Yep! And not just a Sportster... This is my bro! Even born the same year as me!”
“Okay, cheers, Bikie. See you in a week or two. Going to Trieste tomorrow and from there to Prague, but the Friday after that I’ll be back here.”
“Ciao, buddy! Smooth riding and no stones on the road.” Isaac already knew that Bikie’s shift in the bar was due to end shortly. He had read a lot about this guy and didn’t want trouble, so he addressed him in a familiar tone.
“Bikie the Biker… that does sound funny.”
Bikie swung аround and looked Isaac up and down. “What issue do you have with your face?” he said menacingly. And, after a pause, added, “We can fix that right now. Now what were you saying?”
He leaned down bringing his ear close to Isaac’s face. His stubble almost touched Isaac’s nose, the reek of alcohol was abominable. Isaac recoiled, realizing he had clearly overdone it with a sassy approach. Getting a punch in the face wasn’t quite what he was looking for.
“No, chill dude, it was just a bad joke.”
“A joke? There’s a trauma wing for jokers in the hospital.” “Sorry. Why don’t we just forget about it, and I’ll buy you a beer?”
“Not one of those queers are you?”
“Hey-hey, don’t you forget about that trauma unit for jokers.”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Bikie guffawed. “Attaboy, I like you. Just don’t forget that the last guy who joked with me went broke with his dentist’s bill. Okay, let’s have a beer, as long as you are paying.”
Isaac and Bikie walked into the bar. Everyone here knew Bikie and many of the customers came over to hug him and slap him on the shoulder.
The shaggy gaunt barman chuckled behind the counter. “Back to work? Who’s this with you?”
“My beer. A special import, from the land of fools,” Bikie replied.
“Seriously?” Isaac grinned.
“Since you want something from me, you’ll have to put up with it,” Bikie snapped and plumped down on a chair. Compared with Bikie’s beefy frame, Isaac looked really small.
Not off to a great start, Isaac gritted his teeth, said nothing and sat down beside Bikie. No one had promised this was going to be easy, but Isaac’s enthusiasm for the idea of telling Bikie about his plan kept melting away. The biker seemed too drunk and offensive to deal with. It took all Isaac had not to just slip away.
Seeing Isaac’s sour face, Bikie slapped him on the shoulder and added good-naturedly.
“Okay, won’t do it again. You started it, so I got wound up and enjoyed it. I like taking the piss out of smart-asses and drunken superheroes. When all’s said and done, everyone’s afraid of fucking with me anyway. In real life I’m the kindest and sweetest bouncer in this hemisphere,” said Bikie, pointing to the right side of his head and cracking up again. “I’ve never given anyone a genuine mauling, though. By the way, this is my private table,” he added, casting a proud glance at his companion.
The private table was small, but right in the very center. There was a large brass plaque embossed with “Elvis and Steve Tyler can sit here without Bikie’s permission.”
Elvis again. “Well now,” thought Isaac. “Sometimes you don’t remember a word or a name for years, and suddenly it invades your daily life like a virus.”
“I see you’re well-respected here.”
“You bet. I can do more than just make good use of my hands if need be. I once crashed the bar’s site for seating a pair of freakin’ tourist suits at this table.” Bikie checked himself for a moment and gave Isaac a cunning glance. I’ll listen carefully to what you have to say, just as soon as you bring that beer you promised, fella.”
“I brought a bottle of twenty-five-year-old whisky instead of the beer. I hope you don’t mind that? Your friend…” – Isaac nodded in the direction of the other barman – “won’t object because I brought my own liquor?”
“What the fuck’s going on here?” Bikie exclaimed. “I’ll be damned! Now you’re talking! How could I mind. Ain’t you from the Society for Encouragement of Good Old Rock’n’Rollers?”
“Almost,” Isaac replied, pouring the whiskey into glasses. “I used to work as a barman too. I quit the job last week. They gave me this in lieu of severance pay.”
Closing his eyes, Bikie breathed in the aroma of the whisky and smiled contentedly.
“I’m Isaac Leroy, but you can call me Isaac.” “I’m Bikie. Well, you know that already.”
They drank to getting to know each other. Isaac told Bikie a bit about his bar and Bikie told Isaac about his, as well as about his Harley, boasting about it and gradually getting more and more drunk. Over the third glass of whisky Bikie began a serious monologue.
“Dude, have you seen the latest Ducati? And the Honda? And the Harley? They’re all almost identical now! Sure, they look real heavy, but they’re all the same shit. The Goddamn creeps are repressing our freedom of choice! Where is