Red Cove

Auto-fiction about Hell's Angels

Photo by The Free Birds on Unsplash

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Red Cove

 I see why they call this bar a cove: Dim red light glows; it closes in and permeates the walls—it's inside of me and Kurt.

Bikers, aging muscle-men with ponytails and leather jackets, slump on their bar stools, hold onto their women.
             Kurt muffles a cough, burps. I wink at him, swerving my head and smiling. I still couldn’t believe he fucked Gloria last week—she’s the only girl I’ve ever been loyal to. But Kurt and I’d grown up together; he was surrogate family, plus the only guy in town who kept up with my drinking. I’d pretended to forgive him. For now.
            “Ahhh don’ worry buddy, we’re fine. Ain’t nobody gonna’ do nuthin’ man. C'mon,” I say.  

He looks around. Black eyes search for an answer to my bravado. His energy almost carries a vestige of an apology.

My mind isn't on Kurt – it's on women. I scan the place. They’re everywhere—mostly older, mostly taken—the taken ones wearing their men’s leather jackets.

I zero in on one.

She’s standing alone under the bright light of the pool table, practically begging someone to come over and talk. Hell’s Angels all around, but none talk to her or even pay attention. I slug what’s left of my beer and slump up to Johnny, the bartender, and order another. I toss back half the pint and slam the glass.

           “Kurt, my man, I’m gonna go talk to that woman. That’s right, I’m gonna rock her world.”
           Kurt’s eyes laser in on mine: the vestige has disappeared.

          “Man, you go over there—it’s all over. You hear me man? All over. There’s more Angels than lights on a Christmas tree over there.”

I gulp the rest of my beer and hammer the table. Kurt reaches for my arm, but I fling him off, plant one foot in front of the other across the room. Up the two steps to the pool table the light brightens; a new white aura surrounds me, replacing the red, resonant glow. She catches me out of the corner of her eye.

          We're locked in.

          She nudges her nose with her finger. Something is wrong.

          “Hey,” I say. Some trace of warning.

          Her pupils magnify into cannons then shrink back to pin points. I notice, close-up, wrinkles on her face and bad make-up. A sharp pulse rips through my spine at terrifying speed. The mixture of harsh light in the room and her stare throw me off balance.

         “Look darlin’, I 'preciate you sayin’ that an’ all—but I’ll say—you better get going beca –”
         A huge hand clutches my shoulder.

         I shudder—turn—expecting to get plowed in the face with such force that death would feel better.

         It doesn't happen. His face is mean; blue eyes blaze. Face is wide, cheeks far apart, separate, as if they had been ripped apart at birth and stitched together afterward. Six-foot-three, 250, bulging out of his leather jacket: “Hell’s Angels California.”

       “Hey you sonofabitch! That’s my wife, motherfucker. You better ‘ave a damn good excuse fer botherin’ ‘er, kid.”
        Everyone is suddenly still. The whole bar watches. Still at the booth in the corner, Kurt sits paralyzed, a drunken gleam in his eyes, his two-toned hair disheveled, mouth open, face transfixed. Gloria…
     “Well boy, what the hell ya have ta say fer yerself, huh?”
     “Wait," the woman interrupts.  “He didn’t mean no harm, Bill. I think he’s just drunk... he’s just a fuckin' kid anyhow, barely old enough ta drink... what’re you...twenty-one?”
     I gulp, look at Bill. I notice for the first time a pool cue in his hand, balanced in the air. A patron coughs. I startle. Angels hold their positions. The woman stands motionless.
     “Shit,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’ realize what I was doin… I just didn’ know. I’m…I’m kinda loaded—”
     “Johnny, close the door,” Bill yells out, surprising me.

     Bill stares straight at me.
     The bartender swallows, eyeing Bill. There is a tense moment of silence. It seems Johnny yearns to say something, help me. But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps around the bar, slowly, everyone watching now, and steps to the door. Every step he takes echoes around in my brain, the sound of hard boot soles against concrete. It’s like being in seventh grade again, an impending fistfight, all the boys crowded around you, approaching chaos, adrenaline surging. Only this is adulthood. Real life. Johnny knocks the deadbolt home. He returns to behind the bar. All eyes are back on Bill. Out of nowhere Bill smashes the cue stick in half on the pool table—a riotous, discomforting sound—still holding the bottom portion, splinters projecting.

    “Bill—” the woman starts.
      “Now listen boy—you and yer faggot friend go stand in the middle of the room.”
      I stagger and motion Kurt. We stand. My heart is beating like a machine gun. Angels walk over, forming a semi-circle around us, barring the doorway, as if the dead bolt wasn’t enough. I suddenly smell the stench of dried sweat, piss and ancient beaten leather. It smells like the road, like freedom, like the opposite of my life, which feels too safe, too soft, too contained, too middleclass.

      “Look, you little maggot-piece of shit. I could beat you so bad you’d never walk again. I could kill you. Shit, I can do whatever I want man, I’m a god-damn Hell’s Angel, fer Christ sakes! Nobody fucks with an Angel, you got that, motherfucker!”
      I nod. Life is precious. I’m living a movie, but a movie I did not sign up for, at least not consciously. I think about my childhood for a brief instant, skateboarding and surfing with Kurt since we were little, my overprotective mother and distant, distracted, unemotional father. I’d grown up protected from all the anarchy of real life in many ways, and yet I’d always—perhaps because of this—doggedly chased, eagerly pursued this chaos. I wanted to break down the walls of my middleclass life. I wanted to hurl the red existential brick through the thick starry glass window of society. I wanted truth, dirt, freedom.

            But I didn’t want this.

     “…Nobody fucks with me, you stupid sonofabitch,” Bill continues, bursting my intimate moment of reverie. I stare at Bill, this massive bastard who has the power to easily, casually terminate my life, extinguish my pathetic existence. He points the broken-in-half pool cue at me, his blazing blue eyes like machetes already cutting through the jungle that was my soul. “Did I say you could talk to my motherfuckin’ WIFE?”

            Gulping, sensing the crimson creeping into my cheeks, hearing my heart banging against my chest like a tiny angry child is inside my chest attempting to slaughter his way out of me, I reply, “No, sir.”

            Some mild grumbles mixed with a few chuckles emanate from the Angels surrounding us. Kurt…Kurt…where the fuck is KURT?

            Suddenly his wife grasps his gargantuan arm; I hear the crunch of leather from his nappy jacket. She says, “Bill. Baby. Let the kid go. He’s just some dumb drunk college kid.”

            Bill smiles a sinister grin. Slowly, his arm with the broken cue lowers to his side. For the first time he averts his gaze from me. I feel like I’d been violated and now rejected somehow. All I want is to go. And to get Kurt. Run. I feel an urge to speak but what can I say? Words seem ominously pointless now.

            Bill shoves the woman away, off his arm. It seemed like a violent gesture. She crashes hard against the edge of the pool table. A yelp emits from the woman’s mouth. Then Bill gazes one by one at each Angel surrounding us.

            Finally he faces me once more.

“Tonight’s yer lucky night. I’m gonna let you and yer queer friend go. That’s right. But don’t ever come back to The Red Cove, ya hear me boys? Never! I hear ‘bout you comin in an’ real shit’s gonna happen…you won’t like it. Am I making this clear, boy?”

Bill slides his right hand into his jacket and pulls out a shiny silver revolver. Jesus H. Christ. Is this actually happening?

“Yes sir.”
     Bill looks at all the Angels one more time, as if seeing whether they’re taking rigorous notes, then at Johnny. Slowly, Bill nods to the bartender. Johnny practically hurls himself over the bar and unlocks the door, throwing the dead bolt back. Johnny has fear in his eyes. I notice his hands tremble.

        Then Kurt is suddenly by my side. His eyes hold pure terror in them. His whole body seems to be vibrating.

       The red peeling paint of the door reflects in the moonlight outside. I smell sweaty, broken-in leather again as we tremble past each Angel. It’s like we’re walking through the gauntlet. I keep waiting to be punched in the jaw, tripped, pushed around, roughed up.

     Bill comes out behind us, arms at his waist, then gives us a shove.
     “All right faggots, hit it… get the hell outta here!”

     Kurt and I collide, trip on ourselves before getting our balance. We are finally outside. The cool night air hits me like love, like the warm arms of a woman. It’s like going from one portal to another, one universe to a different one, planet A to planet B; from Mars to Earth, or from Earth to the moon. I feel like weeping I’m so glad to be alive. Shakily, we begin hobbling up the street.

    That’s when I hear it—hear the thing—an obscure click. I look back.

    Bill has the shiny silver gun. He’s point it at us. A grotesque, villainous smirk covers his face. Moonlight beams off the silver metal. Is this a nightmare? Am I even actually awake? Is this really happening? Have I blacked-out? Am I imagining the whole goddamned thing? Are we existing in the Matrix? I glance over at Kurt and he ogles me in cold realization.

     “Fuck man,” Kurt says, half crying now. “I don’t want to fucking die.”
     “I said run you filthy maggots, RUN!!!” Bill screeches, his deep, low bass voice.
     We start running, almost colliding again, but this time running fast, fast as we can, swerving all over the road. We’re on a residential street, the edge of a suburban tract.

     I hear the first shot. The noise is deafeningly loud. It makes me think—irrationally—of being sixteen with my two best friends years ago in Baja on the Fourth of July, letting off M-250 firecrackers down on the beach at night, the tourists scrambling for cover, the sound of the gentle waves crashing beyond. That had been an incredible trip, the last one before the loss of innocence, just before the hard drinking and the womanizing and being expelled from high school. How had things turned out so strangely?

     We run faster. Shots continue, each one seeming louder, louder, louder. I put my hands to my ears, cover them, sweating. I sprint past Kurt, breathing hard, panting, spitting bits of bile from my stomach. Kurt’s slowing. I keep running.

     Another shot. Somehow I increase my speed a notch.

     The street curves. I try to bend with it. I feel the alcohol pounding in my brain. It’s clear I’ll fall. I hit a bump and crash. My palms slide out, skin shredding on asphalt. My head hits the ground. Blood everywhere. Searing pain. Jeans ripped, skin raw, dirt and rocks in my mouth. Get back up: adrenaline pumping. Where is Kurt?

     I hit Ocean Avenue, hook a left until I reach 1678: Andy’s house. I run up to the door, fall on it, pounding. I hear yelling, moving. Are his parents home? Probably not. Maybe. Who knows. I don’t care. Not now. Not this time. Andy comes to the door; he looks pissed. He rips the royal-blue door open, the door I’d opened so many times during normal days. He’s wearing his old ratty orange bathrobe. It’s obvious he’s barely awake.
     “What in the name of fuckin—”

     He sees the blood from a glint of moonlight.

     …Jesus H. Christ, what happened dude?”
     “Lemme’ in man, shit! I need…jus’ fuckin’ lemme in dude!!!”
     He lets me in. Shuts the door behind him with a gentle slam. I stomp down the hallway. I head for the bathroom. Andy follows, sees my wounds in the light.
     “Holy shit man, you need medical assistance,” Andy says.
     “Can’t afford that shit, ya bastard.”
    “At least let me bandage you up. We have gauze and medical tape in here, lemme look.”
    Andy orders me to shower, bandages me up. He says I’m damn lucky to be alive and makes up the spare room, pulling the bed out and putting sheets on. Luckily his parents aren’t home.

    He and his girlfriend go back to whatever it was they had been doing before I showed. Probably screwing. The lucky bastard. I wish that’s what I had been doing, instead of running from the god-damn Hell’s Angels.

    I turn off the light and crawl into bed, trying to get comfortable. My body hurts in every position. The windows are open, curtains pulled back. A satisfying moon hovers above palm trees. Glancing at the phone, 911 flashes through my mind—Kurt might be in serious trouble.

    I think about dialing but remember what happened last week. Gloria. If it had only been a kiss. Then it might have been forgivable. Redeemable. But it was more than a kiss.

    So, so much more.