Now They Call Me Gunner

by Thom Whalen

  * * *

  We arrived at Syracuse in the thick of rush hour.

  Riding in heavy traffic introduced me to a whole new level of terror. Most drivers don’t watch out for motorcycles. They barely look out for other cars. Every intersection was another close call.

  It didn’t help that Randal wove around cars as though they didn’t concern him in the least.

  I kept hearing my mom whispering in my ear, That machine’s a deathtrap, and Randal’s going to get you killed.

  “You don’t know the half of it, Mom,” I whispered back as Randal squeezed between a semi and a city bus. Lanes mean little to us motorcycle outlaws. I followed Randal on pure faith, wishing that I were back in the Adirondacks.

  I think the end of my handlebar marked the side of the bus, but I didn’t dare look down to see. I needed every bit of my concentration to keep control of the bike.

  I don’t know how Randal found the Pioneer Bar. Maybe he had spent time in Syracuse; maybe it was dumb luck; or maybe Randal had been riding in circles looking for it and I hadn’t noticed, my full attention being dedicated to trying to stay alive while keeping him in sight.

  The rustic-looking, faux-log building was centered in an oversized gravel parking lot on the edge of town.

  There was a line of bikes in front of the bar: all Harleys, as nearly as I could tell. The bad biker’s ride of choice.

  I’d heard stories about brawls in biker bars. Fatal brawls that left people maimed and dead.

  One of the windows in the Pioneer was broken and blocked by a sheet of plywood. Testament to the truth of those stories.

  Randal dismounted and began walking toward the door.

  I knew that I was about to die, but I trotted after him anyway. That was what his gunner was supposed to do – follow him into the pit of Hell and watch his back. I watched it all the way across the lot.

  It was dark inside the bar; it took my eyes a minute to adjust after enduring the glare of the sun on the highway for so many hours.

  I heard the roar of conversation subside to an eerie silence, broken only by the clunk of a mug against a plank tabletop.

  When my eyes began to serve me again, I saw every eye in the bar starting back at Randal and me.

  I never felt so out of place in my life.

  Every man in the bar was wearing a leather jacket over a white shirt and rep tie. Their hair was short. They looked like they had been scrubbed clean. Bucks would have fit right in.

  A man at the nearest table said, loudly, “Are you with Everlife?”

  Randal shook his head.

  The man beside him said, “Then I’m pretty sure that you need comprehensive life with double indemnity for accidental death and a guaranteed annuity at sixty-five.” He waved a business card at Randal.

  Everybody in the room laughed and shouted that they could offer a better deal and waved business cards at us.

  “Lord save us.” Randal turned toward me. “We’ve stumbled into a gang of insurance agents.”

  All the agents simultaneously lifted their mugs of beer and shouted, “To life!”

  Randal and I took seats at the bar.

  A large, homely woman shoved two mugs of draft beer at us. We hadn’t ordered, but that didn’t make any difference to her. Nor did it make any difference that I was three years shy of legal drinking age. Nor that I didn’t look a day older than I was.

  Randal threw a couple of bills on the bar. The barkeep scooped them up and replaced them with a few coins. Randal left the change lying there for her tip.

  A man sat down one seat over from Randal, leaned toward him, and said, “Seriously, if you want to talk about your future, I’d love to give you some options. You’re young so you can get a great deal on a comprehensive policy.” He shoved his card down the bar.

  Randal sighed. “Who are you guys?”

  “Agents from Everlife Insurance,” he said. “We have our own in-house motorcycle club that gets together once a month when the weather’s good.”

  “You’re all wearing ties.”

  “We feel more comfortable that way. We’re the other one percent.” He looked at me. “How about you guys?”

  “No affiliation. We ride independent.”

  “Freedom of the open road, eh? That must be the life.”

  “Yeah. It’s great.” Randal didn’t mention that he worked as a short order cook six days a week and was spending his one day off trying to keep from getting convicted and sentenced to life in prison for a murder that he hadn’t committed.

  “You ever see a television show called Then Came Bronson?”

  “Nope. Can’t say that I have.”

  “It was on a couple of years ago. About a guy who gave up his job and rode around on his Sportster having a different adventure every week. It was great. I love selling insurance. Don’t get me wrong. I love it. But I’d dump it in a second and hit the road if I didn’t have a wife and two point five kids at home.” He laughed. “She’s pregnant, you see. That’s the point five.”

  Randal laughed as though the man had said something clever. Then he looked serious and said, “Some day, I’m going to settle down.”

  “But ‘til I do, I won’t be hangin’ ‘round,” the man sang. “Goin’ down that long, lonesome highway. Gonna live life my way.”

  Randal looked confused.

  “That’s the song. The theme song to Then Came Bronson. You sure you never saw it?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Great show,” the man said. “If they ever show it again, you should make sure you catch it.”

  “Sure thing,” Randal said.

  “How about you?” the man asked, looking past Randal to me. “You got insurance?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “You ought to think about it. You’re what? Nineteen?”

  “Eighteen last March.”

  “Eighteen. Even better. You know, the younger you are, the lower your rate. You could get full life right now for practically nothing. And once Everlife sets the rate, that’s it. You’ll never have to pay any more. You wouldn’t believe how little it’ll cost you every month for a hundred thousand dollar policy. A song. And you don’t have to die to collect. When you turn sixty-five, we start paying you. It’s like free money for your retirement.” He shook his head in wonder. “God, I wish I was eighteen again. Do anything you want. Not a worry in the world. You’re a lucky guy.”

  I nodded, thinking about spending my days bent over a hot grill at Elsa’s; enduring my unfortunate condition of virginity; constantly terrified that Randal was going to flip out and go ‘Nam on me; hanging out with outlaw bikers who would stomp me to death if I said the wrong word. Yeah. I was one lucky fellow. I wondered what the insurance salesman’s life was like. Boring. I guess boredom is worse than terror.

  The bar was getting noisy. Insurance salesmen are a boisterous lot – extroverted – and they laugh loudly. I had to strain to hear Randal.

  “You come here often?” he asked the agent.

  “The club comes here about once a year,” he replied. “We rotate towns for our meets. My office is just up the road a ways, so a couple of buddies and I come here more often.”

  “You know if there’s someone named Warts Weber around?”

  The agent shook his head. “Never heard of anyone by that name. Warts? Is that his legal name? Pretty sadistic parents that would name a kid Warts.”

  “I expect that it’s a nickname.”

  The barkeep returned with a burger for the agent. There was more meat than bun to it and hot processed cheese slid down the sides like lava. Grease had soaked through the bottom half of the bun and was pooling on the plate. It was half covered by a mound of onion rings that were shiny with hot lard.

  I had little appetite for that but the agent attacked it like a starving man. This was not his first burger at the Pioneer.

  Between bites, he waved at the barkeep. When she came over, he said, “Hey, Wanda, you know someone named
Warts? These guys are looking for Warts Weber.” He looked down at us. “That’s right, right? Warts Weber?”

  Randal nodded.

  “I gotta pull some beer for your buddies. I’ll get back to you on that.” She strolled toward the taps.

  Randal looked at me and rolled his eyes. I knew what his expression meant. If Warts were the name of an important connection in the drug trade, no one would answer questions from strangers about him. Randal had intended to approach the barkeep less directly so as not to arouse her defenses. Now, the agent had burned her as a source of information.

  I expected that we’d never hear a word from the barkeep again – or get served any more beer – but almost half an hour later, she surprised me. She stopped in front of Randal and said, “Come back at midnight. We can talk then.”

  Midnight? If we stayed in Syracuse until midnight, waiting to talk to a drug dealer, it would be almost dawn by the time we got back to Wemsley and we had to work tomorrow. If we got back at all.

  Randal tapped me on the shoulder and nodded his head toward the door.

  On the way out, half a dozen insurance agents shoved their cards at us and promised to write the most wonderful policies ever, especially for us.

  Randal and I ignored them.