As is my tendency, I showed up way too early to pick my kids up from camp. My days in college working at a bank informed me: if you’re 15 minutes early, you’re 15 minutes late. I pulled into the only parking lot in this predominantly farm area. It turned out to be a biker bar. A guy and his girlfriend pulled up beside me on a Harley Davidson as I smoked and read a book. He struck up a conversation with me. His name was Curly, and his girlfriend was called Half-Pint. He seemed very impressed by the fact that I was a social worker. We joked, exchanged stories, and he ended up inviting me into the biker bar, where he introduced me enthusiastically to his friends Violator, Roman, Gator, and Tito. We all talked and laughed and joked, and they seemed to appreciate the idea that a ‘city guy’ wasn’t afraid of them or uncomfortable in their environment. We ended up singing ‘Keep on Rocking in the Free World’ with the band on stage. Everyone had liquor on their breath. Now I’m outside of the boys’ camp—that has a very rave like feel—waiting for their end of camp dance to end so we can get home and get enough sleep to get up early for the pride parade tomorrow. What an unexpected night.
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