My first impression of Tree Stump was that he was a forced to be reckoned with; he told stories of his years as a biker bar bouncer, showed us his Kevlar-knuckled riding gloves, and proudly showed off his tattoos and nipple rings. Even though his demeanor seemed menacing at first, it was soon obvious that this grizzly bear was equally a teddy bear (especially when he spoke so lovingly of his ole lady and her daughter). We asked about the various symbols and pins on his vest which prompted him to talk about the different rules of biker gangs.
I don’t know about you, but culturally taboo subjects like this completely fascinate me! What amused me most was how he spoke of biker gang “etiquette”. All I could picture was an Emily Post-type bound book of rules—possibly “how-to’s” for sending other gang members proper thank you notes for having your back in a bar fight. (I imagine it would something like, “Dearest Snake: I couldn’t have chosen a better ally in last night’s scuffle! Your imaginative uses for defending me with those broken bottles are much appreciated. Consider these brass knuckles a token of my sincerest affection. Forever yours in Brotherhood, Meat Hook”)
Apparently, there are a ton of inherently understood rules for biker gangs. For example, I learned that if a member moves to a state that doesn’t have an active chapter of his gang, he can’t wear his vest there (unless he gets permission by the local controlling gang’s powers-that-be). I also found out that you can’t take pictures of gang members for any reason unless they give you special permission.
Tree Stump spoke of the guidelines for attaining membership to a biker gang. “Do they recruit you with muffin baskets? What’s that process like?” I wanted to know. He said that to join a gang like The Enforcers, you must go through a 6 month probation period. (I believe he said the probation limbo for becoming an official Hells Angel was something like 7 years! Talk about selective!) What seemed to be common knowledge (and something I, of course, didn’t know) is that you never approach a gang for membership—they come to you. I immediately imagine an awkward middle school dance scenario where grown men are decked out in their finest leather chaps, silently praying that one of the Gray Ghosts would pick them as the next Firehouse song begins to play...
All in all, I learned a ton of valuable information from my new, gigantic friend, but the absurdity didn’t hit home until the next day when I attended a baby shower with Katy. I’m not sure if the alcohol I consumed at The Gingerman was to blame for my voluntarily agreeing to attend the baby shower for someone I had never met before. Only the wine knows. (I have to really love someone to attend a shower! I’m glad I went, though—I met some very lovely people.)
Katy and I arrived over an hour early since she was one of the hostesses; we pulled up to the sprawling estate and were greeted by the home’s owner (who probably wasn’t too excited to have to open the door to us since she was drying her hair at the time.) Because we were left alone to wander about, I noted all the decorations that pop up at showers and how the layout was similar to ones I’d seen before.
The other friends of Katy’s who helped host arrived later on and were all adorable. Only one seemed like the kind of person to go toe-to-toe with someone who didn’t follow orders. As we were all gathered in the kitchen, I noticed how most of the girls instinctively knew how to arrange the spread—as though they had been given a different set of unspoken rules, much like the ones Tree Stump spoke of the night before. Everything coordinated; the games would be played in a certain order; every girl had her responsibilities. I couldn’t help but to draw parallels from a gang like “The Bandidos” and the women who so seriously abide by the strict social constructs of rituals like the Baby Shower. It didn’t seem like that much of a stretch for men like Tree Stump to want to fit in just as much as it would for Junior Leaguers with equally bizarre names like “Muffy” and “Bitsy”. The mental picture I now had in my head was of all these proper women wearing their studded vests covered with pins from different garden projects, killer Galas, and other scandalous exploits. I still wonder who has the more bizarre stories and more heinous hazing rituals…
Maybe we really are all in this together—just needing a reason to “belong”…I suppose we really aren’t all that different after all.
However, I still think our chances of being killed were greater at that baby shower. ;)
