by Darrel Bird
***
They cranked the old Ford and headed out on the 205 for Oregon City, which lay across the Columbia River, and a few miles up the freeway. They arrived at the small restaurant, which was owned by one of the local bikers. Larry had explained on the way that bikers were not always welcome to hold their meetings in the restaurants, so a couple of the chapters held them here.
There were about twenty bikes lined up in front of the restaurant when they got out of the truck and walked in the door. The restaurant was a little homely, with its worn seats, counter, and tables. Photos of bikes lined one wall from the ceiling to the floor. A rather homely waitress came up and hugged Larry tightly, “When are you going to marry me and take me away from all this?” She looked up at Larry’s face fondly.
“Just as soon as I get some money, Mae.”
“You ain’t ever had any money honey, and if you did you would spend it on choppers” She retorted. “Hey, who is this you brought along this morning?”
“Jessie, meet Mae.”
Jessie extended his hand.
Tables had been set end to end, and as they walked on, greetings were called from the tables. Larry introduced Jessie to the group, and the introduction was received by friendly nods and waves.
They took seats near the end, and Mae set coffee before them. They sat drinking their first cup of coffee for the morning; the coffee was delicious, made from freshly ground beans. The drone of conversation rose and fell, when at length, a bearded man of about fifty arose from his seat, and tapped his spoon against his cup for attention.
“Fellows, let's have a word of prayer, and then Craig Johnson is going to give his testimony for us this morning.”
As the chaplain gave the morning prayer, Jessie looked around the room. They looked like any other group of bikers in leathers and chaps, and dress of various forms; there was no formal dress here, but they acted like no other group of bikers Jessie had ever seen.
The chaplain ended the prayer with amen’s all around and sat down. A big man who looked to weigh in at about 250 pounds, all muscle, stood, and the men and women at the table gave him their full attention. The big man in the tank top just stood silently for a full minute with his head bowed. Then he looked up.
“I just got out of San Quinton prison down in California. I was the president of the northern California chapter of the Mongols. We had guns, hand grenades, and TNT high explosives hidden in between the walls of our building when the FBI came in and rounded us up, and I was charged with murder.”
“I don’t know the reason you all came here this morning. If you came here to hear about the Mongols, the blood, and the guts, that’s all true and real enough; I got the scars to prove it. I’ve been there and done all that. But I’m not here to talk about that.”
“When I was a little kid, I had no one to look up to; my Momma prostituted herself to feed me and my little brother. When I was growing up, there was no C.M.A, and there was no one coming to us and handing out the pamphlets and the trash that told us about God. Sometimes I wonder where the preachers were, because they sure weren’t on the mean streets of L.A. and San Francisco. But I chose the life I lived; I got nobody to blame but me. Any man that goes crying about his past, blaming it on someone or something else is just fooling himself.”
“So I ain’t here to tell you about my experiences as a Mongol, I’m here to deliver you a message about Jesus Christ. I think the Holy Spirit has impressed on my heart this morning that there is someone here, maybe more than one, that needs to hear this.”
As the big man talked, Jessie felt as if the man’s gray eyes were boring into his very soul. “As I said, I ain’t here to tell war stories; I am here to tell about Jesus Christ, and how to be saved. The Gospel in its purity is very simple, believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and you will be saved. You are saved in Christ alone, by faith alone.”
He preached on for about fifteen minutes on a message of salvation. When the meeting was over, and they were on the way back to Larry’s place, Jessie was quiet. Larry didn’t push him; he knew there was a struggle going on in Jessie’s heart.
That night Larry used the phone in his bedroom to contact Jimmy Dugan, and told him what had happened to his bike. Dugan told Larry to forget the bike; he had already collected on his insurance, and it wasn’t worth coming that far to collect the bike anyhow. Dugan knew about Jessie's case, and he told Larry he would send him a title; that way Jessie would not get into more trouble.
The next morning Jessie found Larry up bright and early, working on the bike. He had cut the frame behind the triple tree, and extended it to where it changed the angle of the forks.
“Why are you doing that?”
“Building you a chopper; just wait and see, ok?”
“Ok…anyhow it was a pile of junk before; I don’t see how that could get any worse... Larry, do you believe what that guy was saying at the meeting?”
“Yes I do, Jessie. But it makes no difference, whether I believe it or not. The question is do you believe it?”
“I dunno, I think I do. I have to believe something happened to him; the Mongols are hard core.”
“Yes they are. Hand me that slag hammer over there will you?” Larry began to beat the weld joints with the slag hammer, and then proceeded to grind them down smooth. At length he stood back and appraised his work. “Now we’re ready for the new forks.”
“I don’t have the money for new forks; I don’t even have money to eat on.”
“Come on, kid.” Larry led the way to the back of the house where there was a shed, and he entered the shed and began to rumble through stuff, emerging with a pair of long forks wrapped in canvas. He peeled the canvas off. “Forks,” he stated flatly, and headed back around the house to the garage. He assembled the forks in the triple tree, and then announced it was time to rebuild the engine.
“You can’t help me with this, but would you do me a favor while I rebuild it?”
“Sure.”
Larry went back into the house and came out with his Bible. “What I would like you to do is read the four Gospels while I work, you can sit there in the chair.”
“Why do I got to do that?”
“Because if you don’t, I don’t work; that’s why!”
“Ok, ok, jeeze! I’ll read!”
So as Larry worked on the motor, Jessie read the four Gospels. Larry roared off in his truck a couple of times, and then returned with parts while Jessie immersed himself in the task at hand. Along toward sundown he laid the Bible down.
“Done!”
Larry pointed toward the motor: “Done!”
Jessie looked at the V twin as it sat gleaming in the evening sun. “Will we have it running tomorrow?”
“Sure will; let’s go find something to eat.”
“That’s about all you ever eat, is what you can find!”
“Life does not consist of bread alone.”
“Hey, I just read that!” Larry grinned and clapped him on the shoulder as they went inside.
The next morning, again, Larry was hard at work by the time Jessie arose from the couch and stumbled out onto the porch. He looked in amazement at the bike. It didn’t look near like the same bike; the rake of the forks was drastically changed, and the front wheel extended out a foot from where it originally was. Larry had added a different, wider fender with a springer seat. “Now we’ll take it apart and paint it tomorrow, and by Friday, you will have a bike.
Larry was true to his word. Friday morning Jessie had a chopper that any biker would be proud to own. “She may be a rice burner, but she’s a beaut,” Jessie exclaimed.
“Let’s take her on a trial run, I’ll get the hog.” They rode around about an hour and then returned to the house; Larry made some small adjustments, and declared it good.
On Saturday Larry received the title in the mail all signed off, and handed it to Jessie, explaining what he had done. “Jimmy Dugan did that?”
“Yeah kid, he did. I’m going to a church near here Sunday morning Jessie, would you care to come along?"
“Would it do any good if I said no?”
“I won’t force you into coming with me, but I wish you would.”
“Ok, I’ll go, but I don’t have any clothes, you know that.”
“Where I’m going, they won’t care, Jessie. We’ll just wash what you have, get on our bikes, and go.”
Sunday morning they went. It was a very small Baptist church sitting beside a little creek out of town a way. Two old fashioned prayer alters sat on each side of the raised podium. The seats were worn; there were a couple of small Sunday school rooms off one side of the sanctuary.
The folk greeted Larry and Jessie warmly, and Jessie did not feel out of place with these people. The Pastor preached a message on salvation, and afterwards, gave the altar call as the people sang, ‘Just as I am.’
Jessie felt pulled toward that altar. The struggle going on in his heart finally got the best of him and he rose stiffly to his feet and walked toward it. As soon as he got to it he knelt there and gave his heart to Christ.
The end