I’ll preface this by saying, “Much love to all bikers. You make my day. Ride free, ride safe and enjoy!”
I saw a sign today at a tiny yarn shoppe in town. I don’t know what you would think if you saw this sign, but my mind works in mysterious ways. Follow me.
I pause just outside the entrance to the shoppe. Through the display window, I can see behind the counter where there is a burly, biker with a shaved bald head, long scraggly graying beard, and skull cap. Dressed in a leather vest, black denim jeans, and dusty black boots, a mandatory skeleton-rider tattoo covers his chest while flaming skulls emblazon each of his biceps.
I refer to them as biceps but really, they are testosterone-filled clubs attached to long, rough forearms that extend to thick fingers, dry and roughened by brawls. A massive sterling silver, demon pinky ring commands attention while chain link bracelets encircle each wrist.
Propped open, the old wooden door lets the summer breeze in and beckons window shoppers. The biker spies me looking curiously at the neon pink sign.
We make eye contact.
“Need something?” he grumbles.
“No, thanks, just looking at your window display,” I say.
“Come on in,” he replies.
Hesitant, (I don’t even knit) I enter the narrow shoppe, surprised to see the contemporary displays juxtaposed with the original wooden floors, embossed copper ceiling, with bulky crown molding intricately carved, and built-in shelving along one long wall. Probably 200 years old, I guess.
To the right corner I see a semi-circle—a handful of men, seated in a meeting area. A ceiling fan swirls slowly above them; the five blades are metal scabbards that appear to contain swords, the hilts carved skulls with ruby eyes. I wonder if it were running at full tilt whether the swords would fly out.
From my vantage point, I can see the men are doing something, perhaps playing cards, but I cannot say for sure. A display case blocks my view of them from their chests down.
I casually stroll along, half-pretending to be interested in the skeins of yarn arranged in patterns of color as I approach the circle of men. As I happen just beyond the display case, I see a sign set on the table before them which reads: Hell’s Angel Knitting Carnage: Knit-In-Public Day 2012. A skull skewered by two knitting needles , a stream of blood trickles from one eye socket, puddling beneath is its logo.
All bikers, the men glance up at me one by one. An awkward silence ensues. After a pregnant pause, one speaks.
“Care to join us?” he says.
“No thank you. I don’t know how to knit,” I reply.
He glances aside at the others, shaking his head. Leaning toward another he asks, “That’s not your old lady is it?”
Then, he mutters in a deep voice, “Chicks.”