To the uninitiated, the common motorcycle rider can look like a rough-n-tumble biker, and quite possibly be an attorney, captain of industry or truly an outlaw. Walking into a biker bar on W 48th st in New York City, it's easy to find a common mix of all three. Weekend warriors out for a night of riding, partying and whore-mongering mix with the seedier side of the biker culture. This particular Saturday night was no different.
Atlas, a 6 foot 5 inch man of 260 pounds and chiseled in Greek God-like muscle, has been with the Vagrants Motorcycle Club since he was seventeen. Not being able to officially join the club until he was eighteen, Atlas was always around the clubhouse in Hell's Kitchen, drinking beer, and cleaning the place up for the patch-holders of the club. A patch-holder is a club member who has earned his full set of colors, having been a probate with the club for at least one year. Once Atlas turned eighteen, he was offered the chance to probate for the Vagrants, an offer he readily accepted. Having understood the unspoken code of loyalty and discretion, he was all-too-familiar with the possible aspects of being a probate. He may be called upon to for many things, from simply being humiliated for the amusement of the other members, to working 36 hour shifts at parties, running drugs, beating people up, or even going to jail to take the heat from a current patch-holder. None of these scared him away from the family he longed to join.
On this particularly hot and humid Saturday, Atlas stood near the door of the Twisted Spoke Saloon, his back to a wall and a cold beer in his hand. He was waiting for some of his club brothers to meet him there to attend to some long overdue business in Queens. While waiting, he noticed the cacophony of people that frequented this bar known as the biker's place to play. While out at these types of places, he was generally resigned to see yuppies dressed as biker tough guys for the night to impress the women. On occasion, he would find the lone wolf type sitting at the bar or in a corner, quietly surveying the crowd and keeping to himself. It was this type of person Atlas was always on the lookout for. Someone to talk to about joining the Vagrants, to expand their roster of members and soldiers. While the process was lengthy, often taking more than a year to become a full fledged member of the club, it had to start with a simple conversation.
Just as his brothers came into the bar, a loud, drunken woman standing near the bandstand pulled up her shirt to flash her ample bosom to the delight of the weekend warriors. You could always tell who they were, they were the ones whooping and hollering all night long. The real bikers would sit back and enjoy the show, having seen it many times prior at many other biker events. There was one such fella sitting at the bar, who looking in the reflection of the bar mirror, saw the lady flashing her ****. His quick smirk showed him to appreciate the environment, but keep himself under control. Atlas readily caught this and told his brothers he'd be back in a minute, he had someone to talk to.
Standing to the right of the bald, goateed man sitting at the bar, Atlas ordered another beer. Trying to size up the demeanor of the man he just watched smiling at the flasher, he made an offhand remark about how these weekend warriors get so worked up over one set of ****. The bald man half laughed and half grunted his agreement, silently whispering “**** weekend warriors”. Atlas looked the man over and offered his hand. “I'm Atlas, I'm with the Vagrants MC”. The bald man extended his hand, offering the name Duke, although it was not obvious if this was his real name or a nickname. After a few minutes of mundane conversation about the bikers in the bar, Atlas offered hollered to the barmaid to bring Duke another beer, on him. As the beer was being delivered, Atlas indicated he had to leave, but suggested to Duke that he comes into the bar frequently and would enjoy talking with him again sometime. With another quick handshake, Atlas and his brothers were off to Queens to take care of that long overdue business.