Wrong Chevy and Girl walked into his brother’s house without knocking. Two women were in the living room. He introduced them to Girl as the middle brother Sammy’s girlfriend and the older brother Timmy’s wife. The women were just a few years older than Girl, pretty and friendly, with trendy clothes and highlighted hair. The oldest brother was at work and the one they called Sammy was asleep, so Girl and Wrong Chevy decided to come back another day.
They went back a few days later, when the middle brother, Samson, was both home and awake. Girl recognized him immediately—it was Right Chevy. He was older, bald on top but still sporting a ponytail. He was fatter and had a thick mustache, like a janitor’s broom. His smile was the same, but it seemed less infectious.
The three of them hung out in the garage, looking at Samson’s new bike and making small talk. Girl teased him about disappearing at that dance years ago, and he asked her to go to a meeting with him on the bike the next weekend. He seemed dorky, overly confident, and not all that bright. The shine had worn off for Girl. She was a college kid now, and she dated college kids, not factory workers with ring-around-the-head hairstyles, but she still said yes. Girl figured that maybe she would learn something about Wrong Chevy. Surely Right Chevy wasn’t interested in her since she had dated his brother. Girl decided that it couldn’t possibly be a date.
“You should totally go out with Sammy!” Wrong Chevy said on the drive home.
“Oh my God, I would never!” Girl answered.
“Why not?” he asked.
“He’s a blue-collar worker!”
Girl’s parents wouldn’t have cared if she brought home a woman, an Asian- or African-American, a Hindu, a Muslim, or a Catholic, but no way would they approve of her dating “Johnny Lunch Bucket,” as Stepmother called factory workers. She was expected to go to college and marry a boy (or girl) with a college degree.
Still, Girl was looking forward to their maybe a date/maybe not a date that Friday. She and Sharon discussed what Girl should wear, and decided she shouldn’t look like she was trying too hard, just in case. Girl chose jeans, a muted green polo, and sneakers, her chin-length hair smooth and curled under. She didn’t want to look like she thought it was a date if he didn’t think it was a date, regardless of whether Girl had decided if she wanted it to be a date. Girl told her parents, and they begged her not to go anywhere with some strange man on a Harley.
“Girl, if you seriously want to remain friends with Wrong Chevy, you can’t date his brother,” Mother said.
“He wants me to,” Girl said.
“He may say that now, but trust me, dating your ex-boyfriend’s family never works out well.” Mother replied.
Girl blew off her parents’ concern. After all, Stepmother had two motorcycles and used to take Girl and Brother on rides around the neighborhood all the time—it’s wasn’t like they really thought bikes were dangerous. Even though Girl had had her share of boyfriends, she hadn’t been on many dates—they had all been more the hang-out-in-the-living-room types, not the kind where you go to dinner or a movie or something, and she had never been on the back of a real Harley. Who cared if it was raining?
Stepmother called Girl at work Friday afternoon to try once more to talk her out of it.
“Girl, you have to cancel tonight. It’s raining.”
“It’s supposed to stop,” Girl said.
“At least promise me you won’t go on I-90,” she begged.
“Fine, whatever,” Girl said, just to get off the phone. There was no way Girl could tell her maybe date that she wasn’t allowed to go on the expressway. She was almost nineteen, and Chevy was going to be twenty-eight in a month’s time. He was a man. He owned his own home. He wouldn’t respect a girl whose mother wouldn’t let her go on the highway in the rain.
Girl drove herself over to Right Chevy’s house to get suited up in a leather jacket, helmet, and oilskin raincoat, though the rain had stopped. It turned out he thought it was a date.
“I wasn’t sure if you were pretty or not,” he confessed. “I’ve never dated a girl with short hair. But Tina thought you were pretty, so I looked at you again and decided she was right. I think you grow on people. Like algae.”
“Algae?” Girl repeated, offended.
“You are a diamond in the rough—just like me. That’s what my mother always said about me—I was her diamond in the rough.”
It wasn’t exactly flattering, though algae sounded better than mold. Chevy explained that his girlfriend had moved out that month. He hadn’t known until the morning of their ride that she had dated his brother, but he wasn’t concerned. There had been a lot of overlap in the three Chevy brothers’ lists of ex-girlfriends. It was no big deal, he said.
They met up with Sharon and some friends to play cards, and Samson was loud and dorky and irritating. Every time he started to lose, he cheated, but so obviously that everyone called him on it and the hand had to be re-dealt. He laughed too loudly and rubbed his hands together like he was trying to start a fire, or thumped the person sitting next to him on the back so hard they cringed. But when the rain started on the ride home, he covered her hands with one of his to protect her from the needlelike drops of water, and that made up for all of his shortcomings.
The next weekend they rode to the locks on the Erie Canal, and Samson put his arms around Girl and rocked back and forth as they talked—he was a man who could not stay still, and she was a girl who had longed to be held and swayed. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I rock when I’m happy.” The night was dark. She could just barely see the water glimmering in the moonlight. Samson smelled of oiled leather and warm skin. Later, he picked Girl up and carried her over his shoulder without a grunt or change in breath. It was the first time she had ever felt dainty.
A few days later, Samson took Girl to Red Lobster and bought her a yellow rose wrapped in fragile cellophane. So far in life, the most romance Girl had received was dining in at Pizza Hut and a half-dead rose from 7-Eleven. Samson seemed so strong and grown-up with his full-time job. Ten years before, he had been the captain of his high school’s hockey team and a star in football. For the first time, Girl was finally accepted by the cool kids, even if it was a decade too late.
Samson talked loud, rode fast, and vowed to protect Girl from the world. She had been scared of so much for so long. Broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, now completely bald with a goatee—he lifted weights, loved to fix things, and laughed about how stereotypically male he was. He knew he was a caricature of a man as much as Stepmother was a caricature of a lesbian, but he just thought it was funny.
Girl and Samson Chevy spent the summer riding around on the motorcycle while he applied for loans and opened lines of credit at various banks. Girl didn’t really understand why, but she figured he was a grown-up and knew what he was doing. It probably had something to do with homeownership. He bought Girl thigh-high leather boots and a leather miniskirt. No guy had ever taken her to the mall and bought her things before.
One Sunday they went to meet some friends of his in Syracuse, about an hour away. It was cold and the bike wasn’t running right so they took Girl’s car, because Samson didn’t own one. Samson always drove when they took her car, but she didn’t mind. She’d only had her license for a year, and she didn’t feel entirely competent yet. As with so many things in life, she preferred to let someone else be in control.
The car ahead of them was driving too slowly, so Samson honked and crept up closer and closer, until their bumper was a mere six inches from the car in front. He was yelling out the window and flipping off the other driver the whole time. Girl had never seen someone act this way—as crazy as Stepmother was, there were limits to what she would do in public.
Both men pulled their cars over and a screaming fight ensued. Girl cowered in the car, the doors locked. Grown-ups do not act like this! This is my car, mine! Girl thought, her fear turning to rage and pushing tears to the edges of her eyes, where pride refused to let them fall. Samson swung his fists a
t the taller stranger, who jumped out of range and dashed back in his car, speeding away as fast as he could.
“The secret to street fighting is to hit first and not be afraid to be crazier than they are,” Samson said when he got back in the car. “When I was a kid, my father always said, if someone hits you, hit them back. And if they are too big for you to hit, hide behind a tree with a stick. When they walk by, hit them with the stick from behind, but walk around in front of them and make sure they knew you were the one who did it.” He rubbed his hands together as he laughed.
Girl was so enraged she couldn’t speak. How dare he? She wanted to get away from him right that minute, but they were seventy miles from home. She couldn’t just leave him at the side of the road—he’d have no way back. It would be cruel. She told herself that she’d break up with him the moment they got back home. People didn’t get into fistfights with strangers for driving too slowly—not people Girl knew. It wasn’t rational, and in Girl’s world, acting rational was more important than anything else.
They had to stop for gas, and Girl discovered that the envelope containing her pay for the week (which she had foolishly left lying on the back seat) was gone. They had had the windows open and her cash had blown out the open window, all eighty dollars of it. She was going to throw up. She hadn’t brought her ATM card, had no way to get money, and they were out of gas. She couldn’t breathe, she didn’t know what to do. Her head was filled with condemnation: she was such an idiot, she was always doing stupid things like this—she didn’t know what was wrong with her, how she could have been so dumb? She was supposed to be smart, but she was such a moron. She just didn’t think. Why wasn’t she using the air conditioning anyway? Why had she insisted on rolling down the windows, so much less convenient than just turning on the air? What was her problem? Why hadn’t she just put the envelope in her purse like a normal person?
Samson took his last twenty out of his wallet and filled up Girl’s tank.
“I’ll just have to be careful grocery shopping this week,” he said. Suddenly Girl wasn’t so mad anymore.
They moved on from the incident like it had never happened. Samson and Girl became inseparable, spending nearly every minute together outside of work and school. Although she still had her apartment with Sharon, Girl only went home to grab clothes and read the nasty notes Sharon had left and write self-righteous ones back. Sharon thought Samson was irritating and stupid; Girl thought Sharon was too needy and demanding of her time. After a year cohabitating, Sharon and Girl could no longer see what had made them best friends in the first place. Sharon would get furious with Girl for not being there for her, once hurling a chair across the living room. Girl met her passionate feelings with icy silence. Girl withdrew, refused to talk, pretended that she didn’t know why Sharon was so upset—that it was totally acceptable to vanish on her best friend now that Girl had a boyfriend. She started hanging out at Samson’s house while he was at work, watching TV with his brother until the shift change released him at midnight.
They fell in love in the dark. Every night at midnight Girl picked him up from the factory and they’d drive back to his house. After work Samson always had a weird metallic smell and black grease deep in the folds of his skin. Fine metal dust would cling to the top of his head. As soon as they got home he’d shower while Girl sat on the bathroom floor—she didn’t want to be away from him for even ten minutes. They rode to the grocery store on the motorcycle, her arms wrapped around his waist and her cheek pressed against his back in the warm summer air. Night surrounded them like a cocoon, the bike’s headlight creating a bubble of space just big enough to keep the dark from getting too close.
They had midnight cookouts: grilling steaks, corn on the cob, and potatoes on a charcoal grill in the driveway, eating cherries while they waited for the meat to brown. He taught Girl how to season a steak, how to grill corn, and how long to cook a foil-wrapped potato over open flames. They talked and laughed while he tinkered with some project in the garage. When Samson revved the bike’s motor too loudly the neighbors would knock on their bedroom window and he’d be quiet for a while, until he really needed to listen to the engine run.
When she met him, Girl could make Hamburger Helper and homemade whipped cream, but that was about it. Samson was Italian, and taught her how to make spaghetti sauce from scratch, alfredo sauce, and homemade macaroni and cheese. They bought ham on the bone, and made soup with the bone the following week. He worked alongside Girl, teaching her how to cut carrots with a rocking motion, instead of chopping like the knife was an axe. She learned to sauté vegetables instead of boiling them, how to time a meal so it would all be done at the same time. She even learned how to light the pilot light in the old stove without too much anxiety. Samson was a patient teacher and always complimented her on her results, no matter how questionable. Occasionally Girl would melt a bowl or burn a pot beyond recognition, but he never yelled. Afterward they cleaned up together, and he’d try his best to rehabilitate the pans she decimated, filling them half-full with soapy water and simmering them on the stove.
When they were home, they were never more than three feet apart. Girl read books in the garage while he worked on his bike, and she was happy to make dinner for the various men who were always appearing in the garage. Girl was proud of her subservience; she kept her thoughts to herself and never interrupted the men. Samson’s slogans were “I’d rather have a broken-down Harley than a woman who doesn’t know the meaning of silence” and “If it has tits or wheels, it’ll give you problems.” Girl tried her hardest never to cause him any problems.
Girl loved the smell of his sun-warmed skin, the feel of wind on her shoulders as they rode the Harley. They made up silly songs and sang them off-key together as they rode down random country roads, not caring who heard them or where they wound up. Girl became a fixture at the bike shop as well, where the storeowner would flirt with her outrageously and she would blush and smile back, too shy to say much of anything in return. One of Samson’s friends humped her leg every time she saw him, another said things like, “I’d love to bend you over right here.” Girl was flattered. It made her feel like a real girl, sexy. It made her feel pretty.
The bike broke down nearly every week, it seemed, and for some reason it always cost $300 to fix it, never $189, or $310, but exactly $300, every single time. The only thing that helped Samson feel better was making the bike go faster. That way he wasn’t spending money to just fix stuff, he was improving it. When the bike broke down Samson was volatile and unpredictable. One minute they would be having a normal conversation in the kitchen and the next he’d be screaming at the top of his lungs, provoked by some random comment. Girl never knew what would set him off, and she had never seen anyone go from calm to furious so quickly. She came to view the repair bills as necessary for his mental health, and gave the Harley precedence over all other expenses, paying for groceries and gas with her own money, even though they weren’t living together. She wanted him to be able to pour all his earnings into the bike, if that would let him be the happy, laughing man she fell in love with.
Samson didn’t just swear, he raised it to an art form. “Mother fucking son of a bitch!” echoed out of the garage, and Girl would know that his rage-o-meter had gone through the roof. She always ran toward the screaming.
Sometimes Girl yelled back, slamming doors and storming off. This was a surefire way to break his mood. The sight of Girl standing up to him, “like a little mouse yelling at a lion,” as he said, made him laugh and calm down, instantly breaking the tension.
a quick lesson in motorcycle clubs
Samson was in a bike club called the Fifth Chapter. It was started by a group of people in AA who helped each other stay sober and who talked to treatment centers to help spread the message of sobriety. The name referred to the fifth chapter of the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, which details reaching out to the newcomer. Samson and Girl both went to AA regularly. Samson had been sober a year longer than Gir
l, although she followed a stricter adherence to the twelve steps than he did. Members of his club went on camping trips and bike rides together, and Samson was always expanding the club by starting a new local chapter, so the two of them went to a lot of planning meetings, where women and non-members sat outside and waited. Girl learned to always bring a book in her purse. The Fifth Chapter members all had “biker names” like Doobin, Mutt, Butch, and Hound Dawg. Samson’s name was Bookkeeper, though everyone called him Chevy. He picked the name from an old western movie—it had nothing to do with recordkeeping.
For those who don’t know anything about bike clubs, it is the official term for what most people call gangs, and “club” can mean outlaw bikers like the Hell’s Angels or the Outlaws, or it can mean a tame group like the Fifth Chapter. If you wanted to start a bike club, though, even a sober one, proper protocol entailed going to talk to the dominant outlaw club, which in our case was the Hell’s Angels. The Angels had to give permission for clubs to wear “colors,” as they called the patches on the backs of their jackets, and no one wanted to be in a club that didn’t get to wear patches. Hell’s Angels–approved patches were really cool to a lot of people. Interestingly, Hell’s Angels themselves rarely wore patches in public, because it would mark them to rival gangs and the police.
Before Girl met Samson, he was very active in a local chapter that was inclusive of all people who rode motorcycles or trikes of any manufacture, and where women and men were treated equally. Apparently, Samson got into a heated fight with one of the founding members, a heavyset “butch” woman married to his sponsor. (Later Girl learned that this particular type of woman triggered the worst of his temper.) The fight was so bad that Samson left the club to start his own chapter. The two chapters he founded when Girl was with him both had the same rules: no female members, no foreign bikes. New prospective members had to “prospect” for a year, during which time any full member could ask them to do anything they wanted and they had to do it—mainly washing bikes and giving up comfortable chairs at meetings. Although the members that Girl knew were mainly married older men, they had specific rules about women. For example, if someone wanted to date someone’s ex-girlfriend, they had to ask their permission and give their biker brother two dollars in exchange. Samson’s ex, the one Girl had met previously, was riding around with one of his biker brothers and the man had failed to give Samson the courtesy of the two-dollar payment, and Samson was livid. Worse still, the guy was only a prospect.
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