Dream: Beer & Bikers

Movement. Strange colors approach and quickly pass to fade behind me. Vibration. Loudly felt and loudly heard. Am I asleep? A sharp discordant sound wakes me fully and I swerve quickly into the empty neighboring lane.

Bah! I was falling asleep on my motorbike! Above me the stars twinkled in gossip. On my right, the full moon was already high. I need to pull over.

The freeway stretched out before me, due north, only a few vehicles shared my direction. Slightly more are headed south, but it didn’t matter. I was very tired, and I needed to rest.

There is an exit up ahead, but no sign to announce where it leads to. I can see neon signs, a gas station, fast food. At the least, I can get some coffee if there is no motel. I take the off ramp. The freeway disappears into the darkness behind me.

I top off the gas tank, go inside the gas station to pay up. I ask the clerk about a place to stay. He tells me a motel is down the road a bit, and they cater to bikers. “But you should wait for your friends, being alone is not good.”

I thank him, and start for the door. Somewhat concerned as I have no friends to wait for. I’m riding alone. I pause with my hand on the handle. “Say, what’s the legal drinking age around here?” The clerk looks up from his magazine. With a cocksure smile, he says, “21, if the cops outnumber you.” I go to the cold case, and look for worn handles. Sure enough, one case door has more wear than the others. I look through the glass at the shelving behind the worn door. One shelf has more nicks and scrapes than the others. I open the door and grab a cold 12-pack from the overly-nicked shelf. I make no notice of the brand.

When I pay for the beer, I start to pull my ID out of my wallet. The clerk says lightly, “Got the popular brew, eh? Paying cash? I see no cops. Just choose carefully who your new friends are.” “Are you a new friend?” He laughs. “No, I have to stay sober.”

I pack the beer carefully in my backpack, distributing the original contents into the hardsides on the rear of the bike. I look towards the freeway, the on ramp is barely visible. The darkness of the night is palpable and viscous. I look down the road past the gas station. The bright neon sign of the motel beckons, broken pieces and all.

At the motel, there are motorcycles of every brand and era. I managed to find an empty solitary parking spot near the entrance. Most everyone was clustered in groups. The few solitary riders were on edge, watching the bigger groups as they watched me. Inside, there is a mockery of a front desk, with an equally derisive clerk attending.

Before I can ask, the dour man growls at me. “There are no open rooms, you’ll have to share a hostel room. If you’re tricking, I get half or you get the police. The dirt outside is as free as it is dirty.” I blink twice at the man, and decide he is most certainly NOT a new friend.

Once I get outside, I realize I was holding my breath from the putrid smell within. I am greeted to snickers and not subtle laughs. “I thought you were new!” A thin man strides up to me. “Don’t let the bastard get to you. He only has domain over what’s behind his doors.” He slides his arm around mine and pulls me gently to the right. “Come hang out with me and mine, we won’t bite.” He starts to walk off towards his group, but I plant my feet and refuse to move. Removing my arm from his, I say quietly. “Yes, I’m new, so you’ll understand if I don’t run off with the first person to say ‘Hello’.”

His smile freezes in place. Behind him, I see his associates look at me with a strange hunger. He speaks softly and firmly. “You’re fresh meat, dearie. I’ve watched it too many times. There is no law here. You have no kin here. Alone, you won’t live to see daylight. Yes, there is a price to pay for our protection, but it won’t be sex, I promise you. You have the scent of Other places, and it is a scent that me and mine would love to touch.”

I look at him, his eyes glinting strangely. I smile. He smiles. I look at his clothes, at the shadow of a moving spider. Calmly, I say, “You have a spider on your shoulder.” He shrieks in terror, batting at the quickly moving spider. “Get it off, get it off!” He falls backwards to the amusement of all watching. The spider flees into the surrounding darkness. Something about the spider is familiar.

I follow the spider’s advice and retreat myself. I’m too tired to get back on the freeway, I know this. I have to rest here tonight. I go back to my motorcycle, a place no one else seems to want to approach. Something the thin, fey man had said… I have the scent of Other places. A memory teases at my mind. The spider teases at my finger.

Such an odd spider. Red and black. Large legged but small bodied. I hold still, and allow the spider to explore my fingers. It looks much like a small knot of charcoal, with charcoal-black legs that taper to thin fire-red points. As if a piece of firewood escaped the pit on still burning legs. I blink twice, and hold the spider up to my face. I smile warmly. I know this spider. And I know who it is. I whisper to it, “You damn Faggot. You got me into this mess, the least you can do is point the way out!” The spider traces a leg down my nose. I feel a hot line in the leg’s wake. “Bastard!” I whisper endearingly, tossing the spider to the ground.

The spider scurries quickly away into the darkness, leaving a thin wisp of smoke in its wake. I lean over my bike to observe and place my hand in something sticky. Faggot had left some webbing on my beer loaded backpack. The webbing, I note, is in the shape of the rune Ansuz. I grip the webbing in my left hand, letting the spiderweb melt and soak into my hand. I get a glimmer of thought, that I am dreaming, but the glimmer fades.

I close my eyes, call on Ansuz, and seek wisdom and insight. Self-blinded, my hearing sharpens extensively. I hear the thin, fey man from earlier. His associates are telling him to approach me again, and not to allow me to escape his grasp this time. I hear other groups, biding their time, waiting for me to bed down alone. Even other groups, determined to not allow me to join them, making resolution to hand me over to a hostile group should I seek shelter with them.

And one lone voice, barely audible. I can not hear his opinion of me. Only his last words of the matter. “… she writes her Wyrd this night.” My eyes snap open. In vain I try to peer through the thickening darkness. If I don’t find shelter soon, it will be moot. “No tricks right now.” I whisper to the spider, not knowing if he hears me. Eight points of red glow come from the shadows. Faggot, the spider, is before me. As quickly as he appears, he disappears. I grab the bag and beer, and follow swiftly behind him.

We dodge this group and that group. A woman comes out of the shadows to confront me. My glare causes her to back down hissing. Further and further from the bike I am led. Yet I know I am safer facing the unknown than to remain near the thin fey man.

The darkness suddenly dissipates. A campfire is before me. This group of bikers wear leather jackets with metal adornments. Long hair. Long beards. Dirty. Stank. They have been hard on the road, and on each other. A dozen and a half men, with some sturdy women beside look up at me warily. Quietly, we study each other.

Under stained shirts, I see glimpses of tattoos on most present. Among the images of swords, axes, and barely healed wounds are valknuts, helms of awe, and Tiwaz. Roughly stitched are patches declaring a memory to a fallen brother, an oath to a distant father, a dedication to a life partner. Among the adornments were hammers, miniature renditions of spears and shields, spikes and pendulums. Every last man and woman at this camp is Caucasian, with fair skin and various shades of blonde hair.

Here I stood. Sleek riding gear, with neoprene and Snell approved helmet. Remnants of bugs flaking off my stain free jacket. No adornments, no tattoos, no patches. A purty weekend rider. My mixed black and Hispanic ethnicity as obvious as my teeny tiny afro.

The silence between us is loud. The faces settle from curious to observant to steel-set. I look from face to face until I am staring at the man directly across from me. Streaks of gray in his loose hair and beard. An odd tattoo over his right eye. Scars and shadows course randomly across his face and hands. Covered in grime and dirt, hanging from a short chain, swings a pendant, marked with Ansuz.

“Hail, Sir!” My voice rings loud across the fire. “I come with no weapons, but with closed hands. Am I free to open them here?”

A few heads tilt as if in unbelief that I speak. Unblinkingly, he responds with a thunderous voice of his own. “Are you here to cause trouble?”

“No, Sir. I seek shelter for the night.”

“And what would you offer to us for what you wish us to offer you?”

“May I open my hands?” I am insistent on having permission.

He smiles. “Yes, you may open your hands here. But what you hand out can be returned to you.”

I nod and kneel down with the bag. A few of the men instinctively reach for concealed weapons. A few others lean forward to see. I slowly unzip the bag, and pull out the repacked beer. Still cold, and not too jostled, I hold up a few as offering. “I have to ride in the morning, so it is too late for me to indulge in these. Surely, they won’t go to waste?”

“Do you offer them freely?” “I do, Sir.” “And what if I were to take them, and turn you out into the darkness?” He stares at me with a rough face.

I return the stare. “What have I done to you, Sir, that you would dishonor you and yours? Are you capable of this dare? Indeed, you are. But I would hope that Odin’s Man would give me a modicum of respect at least for daring to stand before you.”

The stare deepens. He growls at me, “What do you know of honor? You bear the scent of Laufeyson.” Weapons barely concealed are brought out into the open. Hostility scents the air.

I bow at the uncovering. “Indeed, I do. At times, Firespit delights to annoy me, and at times I delight to annoy him in return. But I am my own. And I walk on my own. If you wish to test me physically, I will fail. I am no match for the least of your men. But I know this of honor, I will defend those that walk with me. And I treat all strangers as my equal, until they prove otherwise. If this is not adequate, I will leave. But the beer was offered freely, no matter what, it shall remain behind.”

Tense seconds pass. I pick up my helmet, and turn towards the darkness. As I move my leg for my first step away, I hear, “Then sit beside me. And take the Bastard’s cup. I’ll hold you only for your own actions.” I turn back to face him, and the fire. In the fire, I see Faggot, resting daintily among the flames. His men return their weapons to concealment. I walk around the seated men and women, and sit at the space that has been made for me.

I am handed a beaten cup. Not a single smooth spot upon its shape. Not a single clean spot to be seen. The gang leader opens his canteen, and pours water into the cup I hold. “Behave yourself, and you are welcome the night. We ride in the morning.”

“Which direction, if I may know?” On the water, floats a greasy sheen.

“North.” He produces a second cup. This cup also, is battered and grimy.

“I am headed north as well.” An instinct makes me pause before drinking.

He pours water into his cup. “You are free to ride with us, Fire-Blood, as long as you hold the same honor you challenged us with.” He raises his cup to drink, but I grab his hand. His men look at me warily as I pull his hand towards me. I smile at him with slyness and guile. In his eyes, I see him question his decision to welcome me. Verbally, I sing Laguz over his cup and mine. The water sparkles with strange clarity. I release his hand, and raise my cup in toast. “For honor?” I ask.

“For honor!” He bellows. Together we drink as the beer offering is passed around his men.

And in the flames, Faggot settles down for the night.

*fin*