“Hey.”
One night, Larry and I were at a bar – one we’d visited a hundred times, with the live country band and all the old people dancing. I got up to use the restroom.
Larry had learned to occasionally follow me when I headed off. Otherwise I sometimes did cocaine without him, or I passed out on the floor and he couldn’t figure out where I’d gone, or I walked out the back door and got locked out. Any number of things could happen.
So Larry was following me to the restroom, as he sometimes did. We walked past two booths that were tucked just outside the restroom hallway, where people were sitting, laughing, drinking. It was dark and loud and I barely noticed the tables.
A biker looked up as we walked by. Bikers were very easy to identify, thanks to their unruly facial hair and leather vests. Being Larry’s ol’ lady meant that I felt confident in what I did next.
“Hey,” I said with an easy smile.
“Hey,” said the biker with an easy nod.
Larry and I continued into the hall toward the restroom.
As soon as we’d rounded a corner, Larry grabbed my arm – hard.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he growled.
“I’m going to the fuckin’ bathroom,” I said. I thought he understood our current mission.
“Back there! What were you fuckin’ doing with that guy?”
It felt odd, after all the cheating I’d done, that Larry was going to be upset about the word “hey.”
Confused, I stammered, “He’s a biker?” I thought we said hi to our own kind. Plus I thought saying “hey” was socially acceptable. Heck, Larry said “hey” to everybody!
Still holding tight to my arm, Larry shook his head. “He’s a fuckin’ Hells Angel! You don’t fuckin’ talk to a fuckin’ Hells Angel! Don’t even fuckin’ look at a Hells Angel!”
I knew that “Hells Angel” meant “biker” but I had no idea what made that particular biker different than all the other ones. Nor did I know how I was supposed to know the difference, since all bikers looked pretty much exactly the same.
“Okay?” I said tentatively.
Larry was still in panic mode. “He coulda pulled a knife on you! Or fuckin’ shot you right where you fuckin’ stood!”
“Why would he …” I stopped myself. Larry was completely out of control, detailing the horrors that could have happened because I said “hey.” He went on and on and on.
He concluded with: “Don’t ever fuckin’ talk to a Hells Angel! Got it?”
“Got it,” I said. “Never fuckin’ talk to a Hells Angel.”
I still had no idea what I was supposed to do when confronted with the dreaded creature I’d just seen, and I was baffled as to how I would ever recognize the difference between that bearded man and all the other bearded men, but it was no use discussing it with Larry any longer.
I went into the bathroom, walked out of the bathroom, and walked back past the table where the Hells Angel still sat. I did not turn around.
But as soon as I got back to my table, I stared at the man who could have killed me for saying hello. He was chatting with his friends, just like everyone else in the bar, drinking his beer, smoking a cigarette. I looked for some kind of sign that identified him as The Devil Himself, but found none.
From that moment on, I just didn’t say “hey” to any bikers who didn’t say “hey” to me first.
Problem solved.