I walked outside to have a look at the bikes and I saw Monroe with two other younger kids from school.
“What are you doing here? You’re not even old enough to get inside.”
“Big John is at Froggy’s. With his brother. You said you were gonna make this right.”
I looked at Monroe with his sad eyes. He hadn’t been the same since this happened. He was sort of broken after the beating he took. He wasn’t ripping down the motors in class as fast as he used to. And he was my friend. I got him a job at Choppers inc. so we spent a lot of time commuting together. When your friend calls you answer.
“Hang on. Wait right here.”
I turned around and went into the bank and walked up to my crew. They were drinking with a bunch of hot chicks and having a good old time. Daytona can be REALLY wild. I looked at my friends.
“Remember that guy I told you about? The one that jumped my friend Monroe? He’s over at Froggy’s. I’m gonna go handle it.” I turned around and headed through the crowd to the front door. It was a packed house just like every other bar in Daytona is during Biketoberfest. As I got to the front door I looked back to see all my buddies were behind me, all putting on gloves. My Pals. That’s what pals are for, backup when you need it. I didn’t need it though. We walked down the block and across the street. Behind all my buddies was Monroe and the other two kids. We got to the front door and the bouncer waved us in.
“Wait over there.” I told Monroe. He knew he couldn’t get in the bar. He was too young and he looked it.
As I walked through the door at Froggy’s and made my way through the crowd I zipped up my hoodie and slipped my leather gloves on. I knew I had to see Big John before he saw me. That was very important. The bar was as packed as a rock concert. Froggys was indoors and outdoors and probably held about a thousand people. We made our way to the back in a single file line with me in front. As we passed different people they would see us and say ‘Don’t fight’. You could tell we were on a mission.
We got to the back of the bar and I saw Big John. He was standing with his back to me talking to a girl and drinking a beer. I looked to the right and saw my entire school class standing together. There was about twenty guys left in the class at this point. I looked at my buddies.
“Just keep the Brother off me.” I said.
Then I walked over to Big John. The girl saw me coming and her eyes lit up and John saw that and turned around.
“Back for more?”
I had momentum on my side and blasted him in the teeth with a right cross. He was standing on the edge of the patio and hit the ground hard knocking the wind out of him. My friends made a semi circle around the fight keeping everyone away. I jumped on Big John’s chest before he could get up and beat him till he was unconscious. He took a real beating. Then we stood up and left just as quick and quiet as we walked in. We took our hoods off and our gloves off as we walked out. Big John laid on the ground bleeding and unconscious. Bouncers were running to the back.
“There’s a fight in the back.” My buddy said to one as we walked past.
On the way back to the Bank I decided to make a conscious effort to use everything I see and feel and experience as a lesson applied to my personal goal. Which was to graduate and get my chopper and the new one I was building back to Holland plain and simple.
Monroe waited outside and I came back out of the bar. We walked back over by Froggy’s and in the alley we could see the ambulance with the red lights flashing and Big John all bandaged up.
“Thank You.” Monroe said real quiet.
“That’s what the whole thing’s about. Sticking up for your friends. Your friends come hell or high water.”
I had been building my second bike after work. Every dime I made went into the bike. My boss Billy was getting in different motorcycle magazines more often and one of them was called the Horse Mag and it was run by a guy named Geno. He drove out to the shop one day for a photo shoot and I told him the story of what happened in Biketoberfest.
“You should be a writer in the magazine. We need a fiction writer.”
“That wasn’t fiction.” I said.
“I’ll pay you two hundred bucks an article.”
“What would I write about?”
“Whatever you want. Or I can give you assignments. Write one about packing for the run.”
“Two hundred bucks?”
“Two hundred bucks.”
“Deal.”
This was a challenge that I was really into. I don’t know why but I really liked the thought of getting published in the motorcycle magazine.
I tried writing a story. I was never a big book reader. I’ve read some books just not too many. Mostly when I was locked up. I knew any story I wrote had to have a beginning a middle and an end. That much I knew. I remember my dad telling me how ‘A book was something that takes people where they have never been.’ I thought about that. I stared using the Billy’s computer after work to write my story on. I didn’t even own a computer yet. It took me a couple of days and I wrote my first story. I thought the best thing to do was to write what I know, at least at first. So I wrote about me and my buddies, on out choppers, then breaking up the bar, just like we used to do.
‘A Night at the Deuce’ got published and everyone dug it. It was one of the times I think my father was proud of me. We weren’t the best of friends, but getting published was a big one to him. He passed away shortly after that. I was always happy he got to see that before he left this plane of existence.
I started writing for the magazine every issue. I was definitely hooked. It was cool to see my words in print. Geno the publisher made a car magazine and offered me the space for my own article. I got the last page of every issue. I created a new character called Jimmy Carbone and my own column called ‘Burnin’ Rubber with Jimmy Carbone’
Jimmy Carbone was a drunken Hot Rodder, a completey screwed up motor head. Writing those articles was all fun. I always waited till the last day of the deadline or after Geno had called me two or three times to start writing. I learned I work best under pressure. I was getting addicted to accomplishing things.
After a year and a half the probation officer eased up a little. Like he didn’t follow me into the bathroom anymore, but I still had to report, piss in a cup, show income and all that shit. Everything else was going smoothly with graduation approaching. My chopper was almost done and I was really looking forward to getting it on the cover of the magazine. That would be a huge accomplishment for me. That’s what I wanted. By now Billy had many bikes on many covers. I just wanted one cover.
My life was motorcycles twenty four seven. Working at Choppers Inc. at the time I did was really cool. The whole Chopper thing was really taking off. Jesse James was big on the West Coast and Billy and Indian Larry were big on the East. It was very cool to be graduating from MMI and working at the Premiere Chopper shop at the same time.
Thirty six guys started in my class. Eight graduated, I was number three in that order. All my friends showed up and were yelling and screaming when I got my diploma. This was a great day. It had been about a decade since I had done dope. That feeling will never go away and I knew it. I had been exposed. But a decade had passed and I was on my way to achieve my real goals.
After school things got real slow in Melbourne. REAL SLOW. I started calling it ‘Melbouring’. I got put on summary probation meaning I no longer had to report. I had paid my restitution which is usually what it’s about anyway. I was no longer working at Choppers Inc. so I was assembling my Chopper in my living room. I didn’t have cable so every day I would put on Scarface and play it over and over while I assembled my chopper. I did all the body work on the frame it the drive way, then one of the local painters sprayed it in his shop.
I started seeing this really cute waitress from Hooters named Jenny and she moved into my place within a week of knowing her. Probably not the best decision but after the first ride she was both hooked. I still had some hookups that we
re paying off but my money was running out. Jenny always wanted to go out and spend money and party and I was saving to get the hell out of Melbourne.
Problem was I really liked Jenny alot. And it was screwing up my thought pattern. It was making me lazy. I wasn’t working on the bike fast enough. I got complacent. I started stagnating. When my new bike was almost done I really needed money and I sold my old chopper to my friend Albie.
I was sitting in my front yard working on my new Chopper. I had just finished it and I was getting ready for the photo shoot which was in a week.
Albie walked up drinking a beer and smoking a joint. He was successful, relaxed and he loved to party. He wasn’t really into bikes, he just had money and everyone had choppers so he bought one. He was maybe going to ride it twice a year.
“Nice bike.”
“Thanks.”
“Where you coming from?”
“Hooters.”
“You saw Jenny?”
“Nope.”
“She’s working till closing. That’s what she said.”
“I didn’t see her there.”
“How long were you there? Ten minutes? It aint that big.” Albie squirmed with discomfort.
“We had three pitchers of beer and watched the game. If Jenny was there I would have seen her. Don’t you think?”
“I’m gonna call.” I went inside and dialed Hooters number. They picked up right away.
“Hooters Melbourne. Can I help you?” You could hear the crowd through the phone.
“Is Jenny available for a minute?”
“Jenny’s not working today. Anything I can help you with?”
“No thanks.” I hung up and walked back outside. My mind was reeling with jealousy and suspicion.
“I told you.” Albie said.
“Shut up. I gotta go.”
I jumped in my beat up Chevy truck and drove over to Hooters. I parked across the parking lot by the grocery store. I had a clear view of the parking lot. The sun was going down as I pulled up. Jenny had said she was working till closing so I didn’t expect to se her before two a.m.
I sat in that truck real low and thought about what I wasn’t doing. I had gotten caught up and was not chasing my dream. I wasn’t chasing my dream because I got comfortable doing nothing. Nothing except wasting time and I couldn’t figure out why. I had gotten too comfortable.
I had a bad feeling in my head that Jenny was lying to me and a good feeling in my head that if she was I was leaving. It was my way out. I couldn’t say it was a good feeling, more of like a relief. I really liked Jenny a lot, but being from Miami, I never looked at a relationship all that seriously anyway. When you grow up in Miami you see new girls coming to model every year, year after year. So its safe to say the beach life party atmosphere was not conducive to relationships growing up. Girls would ask me,“Do you have a girlfriend?” and I would look around like I lost something.
“Why? Do I look like I am missing something?” I would answer. I always liked saying that. It’s a good feeling. Like no one can have you. Only you can have you. It’s a powerful feeling. Especially when you are young.
I wasn’t feeling that feeling now. Sitting in the dark watching people coming and going from Hooters, drunk and having a good time. All I could think about is who the hell is Jenny with? Who is bending her over some car somewhere right now? Honestly I had no idea. We didn’t have many friends in town. At least I didn’t. Jenny was from Melbourne, she had lots of friends when in town.
I sat in that car for hours. Until no one was left in the parking lot except the waitresess and the clean up staff. All of a sudden I saw a shitty little motorcycle pull into the parking lot with what looked to be Jenny on the back. I opened the door of my truck and started jogging over toward them. As I got close I heard Jenny say,
“That’s my boyfriend.”
The guy looked up at me and his eyes got real big. He had the look of fear.
“Get off. GET OFF.” He frantically said to Jenny who quickly jumped off the bike. She was a little too late. I hit that guy like a freight train. Him me and his bike hit the ground. The bike stayed running while me and the guy rolled on the ground punching it out.
“STOP. THAT’S MY BOSS.” Jenny screamed. It didn’t matter to me. I didn’t believe her anyway. We stood up and punched eachother toe to toe till both of us was tired as hell. Some cooks and cleaning crew came out and broke it up. Jenny walked up to me.
“Why’d you lie to me? You weren’tworking today?”
“What are you stalking me? Is that what you are doing? We are through.”
“You can believe that. Stay away for a day then you can come get your stuff. I’ll be gone.”
“Where you going? Amsterdam?”
“Don’t matter. Not to you. Not no More.”
“I’m coming to get my stuff tonight.”
“I’ll help you.” The guy said. Turns out he was the general manager. And he was banging Jenny.
“Yeah. That’s what you wanna do. Show up at my house with this guy. That’ll end up good. Stay away for a day. Do yourself and everyone a favor. That way I don’t get locked up and you and him get to keep on living.”
I looked over at the Guy I just fought. “Hey dude.”
The guy was looking at himself in his rear view mirror. He looked over at me through his beat up face.
“You can have her.”
I turned around and walked over to my Chevy, got in it and took off. I could see Jenny tending to his wounds. Sirens started blaring in the distance. I don’t know if it was for that or not. Either way I never saw any cops that night.
I woke up the next day, got a trailer for my bike, packed up my stuff and drove out of there by six p.m. Next stop, Miami.
58
It took about four hours to get down to Miami from Melbourne in my truck. I went to my friend Judd’s warehouse, which is on the border between Overtown, which is the poorest part of town, and the design district, which is one of the richest parts of town. The warehouse was located right down the block from the Miami dopehole, where everyone could score dope. There was a crack dealer on every corner, some corners six or seven dealers deep.
I pulled into the lot and there seemed to be a commotion going on. I got out of my truck and Marko walked up to me and handed me a baseball bat.
“Let’s go. This piece of shit outside named Bubba has been breaking into this place every night. We gonna set him straight.” Marko is a serious customer. I grew up watching him bounce at every night club in town. I’ve seen him knockout countless people then toss them out of the club for misbehaving. That’s what bouncers do.
I took the bat and about six of us walked over to the gate. There is this twenty foot tall gate surrounding the warehouse with razor wire at the top. Just like a compound. A compound covered in graffiti.
“You guys ready?” Marko asked.
I looked at everybody’s face. They were way ready. People get tired of having their house broken into. Marko opened the gate and the six of us walked out on a mission straight towards Bubba and his crew who were standing on the corner, selling crack.
As soon as the gate opened and bunch of street people took off running. None of the street dealers did, but we weren’t after them and they knew it. They were all strapped anyway. Marko led the rest of us and we walked up. Bubba had four of his friends with him. They were all crackheads.
“Bubba.”
“What you want MAAARRRRRKO? HUH?” Bubba got in Marko’s face so I cracked him with my bat. He looked at me crossed eyed as he went down and everybody started swinging their bats. It was like a batting cage. I didn’t like his attitude and I knew he didn’t know me, so he wouldn’t see me coming. He didn’t. Bubba crumpled to the ground like a bag of chips. The crackheads all took off running. Marko stepped over Bubba and put a Glock nine millimeter in his mouth, but that’s it he didn’t fire that gun. Probably should have pulled the trigger. Bubba didn’t stop breaking into our warehouse or any of
the other warehouses in the area, until someone else finally stopped Bubba.
About six months after our run in with Bubba he was found with his head blown completely off at the jaw line. He was breaking into a warehouse that some locals were using to stash dope at. At this time there was no dope being stashed in the warehouse, just one lonely guard with a shotgun. He blew Bubba’s head off with both barrels just as soon as he saw enough his head to blow off. I don’t think there was much of an investigation. Just another dead crack head to the cops.
Judd had the warehouse as long as I can remember. He won it in a card game with a bunch of drunk Cubans he used to go fishing with. The guy owned the whole block and the warehouse when the neighborhood was even worse. When Judd got it when there was nothing but crackheads and Norwegian River rats that came in on the cruise ships. Big Rats. We cleaned up the whole place and the neighborhood more than once. He hung onto it through a lot of bad times when he could have sold it. Judd always gave me a place to crash whenever I came to town. Forever.
I got a job filling in at five different tattoo shops when artists had days off. My friend Ken owned five shops and I was the fill in guy. A couple of friends of mine lived in the warehouse also. My first motorhome was still in the warehouse yard with my old glass shop in it. That was cool to be able to work glass n the side. Anything to make money. I had a plan. I needed to save some money, and get my stuff over seas.
Miami is an easy place to get nothing done and have a good time doing it, especially if you are from Miami. Being a local I knew all kinds of ways to make money, not all of them legal, but that didn’t bother me. I never had a problem with smoking weed, or distributing it. If you were real good you just made the introductions and collected the dividends. Lets the grunts do the heavy work. Like my Jamaican friends would say, ‘Its de healin’ of da nation mon.’
I got my Chopper on the cover of the Horse Magazine shortly after I got to Miami. That was one of my lifetime achievements I’ve wanted that to happen since I was in high school. Junior high even. Just like everything else, it seemed so far away before it happened, then afterward I wondered why I took so long. I still wrote my monthly article for the Motorcycle mag, and now I was writing my own monthly column in the car magazine Ol’ Skool Rodz.
Becoming A Son Page 29