Arcade by Drew Nellins Smith

Author:Drew Nellins Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781939419910
Publisher: The Unnamed Press
Published: 2016-05-30T00:00:00+00:00

40

THERE WAS A HARLEY-DAVIDSON MOTORCYCLE PARKED BY the door when I pulled into the lot, and I got the idea that I had to connect with its owner. He was easy enough to spot once I was inside. It’s never a mystery with those guys. They’re all such brand junkies. Everything Harley-Davidson. The whole basis of the culture is supposed to be this anti-corporate rebellion and free-spirited journeying out into the world of adventure and unpredictability, but these guys are absolute slaves to the brand name. All of their clothes say Harley-Davidson on them somewhere. Their credit cards, wallets, baby clothes, teddy bears, coffee mugs, shot glasses, Christmas ornaments, their pocketknives, pencils and pens. It’s not sufficient that everyone in the family is labeled, they must be tagged from head to toe in apparel sanctioned and produced by Harley-Davidson, Inc. No other adult fashion phenomenon rivals it.

The part that gets to me most is that the whole thing suggests a tremendous amount of disposable income, which flies in the face of the working man image of motorcycle culture I had growing up, in particular as portrayed in the 1985 based-on-a-true-story film Mask, starring Eric Stoltz as Rocky Dennis, a teenager afflicted with Craniodiaphyseal Dysplasia, a disorder that made his skull grow in unusual ways, so that his head was enormous and oddly shaped. In the film, Cher plays his mother, a biker chick surrounded by her biker friends. Outsiders themselves, Cher’s gang of biker friends serves as an unconventional family for Rocky, accepting him without reservation despite his radical deformity. The same movie could never be made today. The guys with Harleys would be weekend warrior types in the highest tax brackets. They might attend a benefit for Rocky, but would never become a surrogate family to him or even otherwise acknowledge his existence.

The Harley guy at the arcade was mid-forties, relatively fit, short hair. He looked like the kind of guy who might hold season tickets to his college football team, who drives an expensive pickup that he washes obsessively when he isn’t on his bike. He was wearing a Harley t-shirt, naturally. When I found him among the racks of movies in the store and asked the time, he checked his Harley-Davidson wristwatch. He was actually a little too classically good-looking to be my type, but he was close enough. We went to the hallway and found a booth. He touched me a bit and I touched him. It was always an uncertain moment. No one knows where things are going at first. I could tell he wasn’t getting what he wanted.

“To be honest,” he said, “I just came out here to get a blow job. Would you mind?”

He was so attractive and unusually well-mannered, I considered it for a moment.

“Actually, I don’t do that out here,” I told him finally, getting myself back into my pants. “You won’t have a hard time though. You look great.”

I meant what I said, that it wouldn’t be difficult finding someone willing to go down on him even if it meant no reciprocation.

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