Leader of the Pack

Leader of the Pack 2153 words

Bill, Gary and Chuck were the Tigers. They rode their cherished motorbikes, wore their fringed leathers and swept past lines of traffic, with arrogance – and not a little aggression.

What do all those jerks in tin cages crawling along the Interstate know about living?

On their big two-wheelers, customised with top-of-the-range, after-market extras, studded rawhide saddlebags and a stash of bolt-on chrome garbage, they wove through the gridlocked queues causing one small vehicle to brake hard, veer off the road. Two terrified children stared out, white-faced at the nearness of the monster machines. The Tigers grinned, gave the finger, roared off.

But there would be no caning it today, even outside the city limits. No lane splitting. Every mile along the main highway the Heat were parked up. Patrol cars, cherry-tops flashing. Always there - waiting to spoil a citizen's enjoyment of the Super Slab – those miles of flat concrete, ripe for the taking

Bill swore to himself. The memory of the financial grief, last time he had been issued with a Fast Riding Award for his performance along this long straight slab of roadway, made him kill his speed. He flicked his turn signal and led the group off onto the canyon road leading towards the twisties in the mountains.

Away from the traffic, the Tigers roared round the bends and ate up the straights, slaughtering the silence of the California afternoon. Birds, startled by the engine noise, screeched and flapped up through the branches.

Flickering light and shade blurred Bill's vision as the sun starred

between the tree trunks of the ancient redwoods, throwing parallel shafts of insect dancing air across the highway. Great to get away from the turgid crawl of the city! He loosened his grip on the 'ape hanger' bars of his machine and slewed over and back across the central twin yellow lines. He was flying.

Invincible.

Omnipotent.

He chanted their mantra - TFFT - Tigers Forever, Forever Tigers.

But deep down Bill knew it wasn't always forever, forever. Too many brothers had parked horizontally, gone dirty side up, bitten the asphalt. Greg, Todd, Waylon - and the rest - they'd all joined the big Ride Out in the Sky. Christ I miss them! Must be getting old thinking like that. He throttled back – raised his arm - slowed - so Chuck could pass and take up Ride-Captain position in front.

Grabbing the opportunity, Chuck gunned his machine to get maximum volume from the baffle free straight-pipe. The sound always gave him a hard-on. He acknowledged Bill with a sun reddened forearm, and carved off up the canyon.

Bill sucked in air through his teeth, tasting the heady mix of pine resin and muffler fumes. He pushed the morbid thoughts to the back of his mind. Live for today. Speed always made him feel good. The rushing wind was sensual, arousing, and the forest shade made the temperature more bearable. His bike purred under him. No point looking back. Life was good. Adrenalin was high. But in the padded jacket and his favorite side-laced leather pants, he was hot – and he needed a leak. He shifted his ass, stretched out his legs to ease his ham strings.

Some miles further up, at a signpost saying DINER, Chuck slowed and turned in the saddle to mime downing a beer. Bill signalled back to Gary. The three bikers pulled over and roared across the wide parking

lot, revving hard to make the throaty engines snarl their arrival.

At the back of the lot, against the dark grid of tree trunks, the diner looked pretty run down. No action. No other bikes. A pink neon sign blinked in the window. The place looked deserted.

Scattering gravel, the Tigers clamped their brakes to slew the machines round in controlled burnouts to form a perfect line-up, a little distance away from the building so they'd be able to see the bikes from inside.

The sun glinted on the chrome of the handlebars, the mirrors and the rainbow steel of the exhaust manifolds. It was great to ride - to be seen - but it was also great to stop - to attract attention. Fearful, envious or irritated - who cares?

But today there was no audience. Just the settling dust, the abrupt silence, and the smell of fried onions. The only other vehicle on the lot was a cement covered twelve-wheeler truck, stinking of hot rubber and burnt oil, probably from the quarry they passed a while back. What stupid jerk would drive that for a living? Some loser from a cheap trailer park. Just a jerk!

Bill hung his brain bucket on the bars and took off his aviators. He wiped the sweat from his shaven head with a greasy neck-rag. He was a big guy, running to flab now, perspiring in the heat, but still their leader – now that Todd had gone. Chuck lit up and passed the pack around. His biceps glistened with the heat – and massage oil. Gary took a drag and looked at the snake's head tattoo on his hand. The reptile's cleft tongue on his finger appeared to curl around the cigarette. He spat in the direction of the truck and turned up the cuff to reveal more of the design which stretched up his arm. He'd had the snake tat for a long time now. Some guys were turned off by it - but most were turned on – that - and the bike, the leathers, the speed.

The tattooist had been expensive. The best. But it was worth the extra. It was always worth the extra to get it right. Like the hand-painting on their colors, the snarling tigers. He'd seen to that. Cost a fortune – but worth it.

Inhaling the smoke, the trio squinted back at the road and the pine woods. The birds had settled. After the throb of the bikes, the silence resounded. Tangible. Oppressive. Pierced only by pinging contractions from the overheated metal of the engines.

Bill grinned at his cronies and strutted off towards the diner. The sun gleamed on the gold lettering 'TROY COUNTY TIGERS' which arced over the fierce head of the big cat painted on his jacket.

Sensing entertainment in the offing, like hyenas sensing blood, Chuck and Gary smirked at each other through their mirrored lenses and followed. Together the TIGERS were invincible.

*

The diner was timber-built, aping a pioneer shack. It reeked of sun-baked wood-preservative, which mixed uneasily with the fried onions. Bill took the steps in a leap, strode over the verandah boards and kicked open the door, blinking at the dimness of the interior. The burger-greasy air was, strangely, both welcoming and repellent. A hick joint. Silent.

Bill stood and waited to feel the static, the tension that their arrival usually generated. The only customer, the jerk from the parked truck, a small guy in faded denims, was hunched over a table. He looked up as the door crashed against the wall. His pale eyes held the Tigers' stare, taking in the tattoos, the fringed leathers, the aggression - but his face showed no reaction. He switched his attention back to his fries and his

comic book.

The girl at the bar was perched on a stool, reading a magazine.

Her eyes widened at the sudden disturbance, her lips parting in a scarlet O. She glanced out at the parking lot, affected a bored expression and began wiping down the counter top. Her knuckles showed white as she gripped the cloth.

Gary went to the jukebox and dug in his jeans with his snake arm for a coin, 'This dump needs waking up.' He watched the carousel rotate, the arm select the disc and the turntable begin to revolve. 'Here it comes'.

The opening strains of Bill's favorite track - Leader of the Pack – started up. Gary leaned back onto the curved glass of the machine, as the voices of the Shangri-Las, the familiar comforting harmonies – and the engine revs, filled the room. Tapping a foot in time to the beat he looked across at Bill for approval. No response. Bill's eyes were on the girl, who was fixedly intent on her magazine.

Bill rearranged a table and chairs with his feet and sat, legs spread, facing the jerk of a truck driver. Chuck, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, turned a chair round and sat as if still on his bike. He hugged the back-rest with forearms covered in ginger fuzz. 'Three beers!'

The girl raised her eyes, kept her face blank, waved towards the cooler unit. Gary left the jukebox, sauntered over for the beers, jolting the truck driver’s table with his metal tipped boot. 'Clumsy me.'

The jerk put down his fork, mopped up the spilt Pepsi with a paper napkin, but said nothing.

Gary banged the cans down on the table in front of the other two. He sat, with a grunt, and hoisted his boots onto the table next to theirs. The three guys cracked the pulls in unison, sucked at the cold shock of the beer and kept their eyes on the girl, like cats watching a cornered mouse.

Bill got up, went towards the men’s room. On the way, he stubbed out his cigarette, in the pool of ketchup on the jerk’s plate. The man blinked, clenched his teeth but, apparently, made no response. He said nothing. Did nothing.

Chuck scraped his chair back, expanded his chest. After bikes - body building was his thing. The sleeveless Tee showed off his toned muscles. He opened and closed his fists. His hands, in fingerless leather, were like bears' paws. He grasped the jerk's comic book and threw it to Gary. 'No time for reading little man. Eat up! Body like yours needs filling out.'

The man pushed his plate and the unfinished food away. His pale eyes looked straight into Chuck's, held the big man's gaze, but he still said nothing. He picked up his jacket, left some money on the table and walked towards the door.

Chuck was briefly fazed. Losers like that never looked him in the eye. He could always feel their fear. Loved it. Needed it. He twiddled the gold tiger-head ring on his middle finger and looked to the door of the men's room. The fat metal of the ring was warm, solid, reassuring. He swaggered over to where the girl was reading and leaned across the metal counter to stare down her front. Under the pink nylon overall she had a good body. Maybe she worked out.

He snatched the magazine. 'Real Life Romance.' 'How about a bit of real, Real Life, Doll?'

She got off the stool. Her eyes flicked over Chuck's shoulder to the diner door as it closed quietly behind the truck driver. She looked back at Chuck and her face paled against the scarlet gash of her lips.

She grabbed the magazine from him. Hugged it to her chest. Glanced out the window at the truck starting up. 'How about paying for the beers?'

The door of the men's room clanged, releasing a waft of urine and disinfectant as Bill joined Chuck at the bar. The girl, wide-eyed now, backed as far away from the two of them as she could. There wasn't much space behind the counter. She bit her lip, looked out at the truck backing up across the lot. Her eyes flicked over to Gary, as if for help. Boots up on a table, truck driver forgotten, Gary was enjoying the fun, mouthing the lyrics and then slapping his fist on the table top in time with the engine revs on the disc as the music reached its ear splitting crescendo. The jerk's comic book vibrated off the metal surface and fell to the floor with the violence of his slapping.

All three bikers leered at the girl enjoying her mounting unease. Chuck leaned nearer. She winced at his body odour and tobacco breath. Too much. Too close. The Shangri-Las too loud.

'Don’t expect you get to see a physique like this round here much?' He shouted over the wailing notes of the track. 'That truck driving jerk don't look like much of a man.'

As the disc reached the fatal finale, the girl avoided Chuck's stare and glanced out the window again, beyond the pink flashing neon, at the parking lot. The scarlet lips twitched. She put down her magazine. Breathed out slowly.

She smiled.

‘Don’t look like he’s much of a truck driver either.’

*

Outside, all that remained of the three motorbikes was a flattened heap of mangled chrome, its strange contours highlighted by the sun. A cloud of dust hung in the air over the wreckage as the big truck crawled off up the highway, belching out black smoke as it went.