A Knight in Black Leathers

“Hold on tight. I’m your friend, not your lover,” David said, as he revved up his hog. Trepidacious, I looked him in the eye as he adjusted my helmet, tightening the strap for good measure. He glanced down, making sure I was wearing the tall leather boots and jacket he’d dyed black for me, and patted me on the leg.

“Now remember, lean into the curve and it’ll all be fine. We’re going for a ride and you’re going to love it!” With that pronouncement, David Candlemaker, Hell’s Angel, dismissed my unstated concerns, pushed the kickstand up, and took me on a run that I’d remember for the rest of my life.

At sixteen, I was unwilling to get my driver’s license but my father was determined that I needed a set of wheels for my own independence. We reached a compromise and, instead of a vehicle, I soon became the proud owner of a Honda scooter, 50CC. Since no one knew how to ride it, despite my father’s long-time fantasy of ferrying his children about in a motorcycle replete with sidecar and driving goggles, my mother enlisted her friend David’s help.

For weekends on end, David came over and set up complex obstacle courses spanning the length and width of Moishe’s parking lot, Montreal’s most posh steakhouse, that happed to occupy the other half of our block. As the parking attendant who watched me grow up looked on while silently agreeing to look the other way as to our antics, David gave me detailed lessons on what to do and what not to do, before proceeding to make me navigate increasingly complex obstacle courses.

Only once David was satisfied that I could do what he wanted, when he wanted me to, and could theoretically make the right choice in a complicated set of circumstances, was I allowed out of the parking lot and onto public streets, but not without strict instructions as to where to go. Naturally, David followed me, block by block, stop sign by stop sign, and intersection by intersection, grading me along the way.

Eventually, I proved my worth and got the green light: According to David, I could take my scooter out whenever and wherever I wanted. I was no longer a clear and present danger to the public. As a parting gift, he reminded me to always wear my leathers, rain or shine, something I was careful to do, never wanting to violate David’s trust.

Being sixteen, I loved to ferry my friends around, bringing them to bars late at night where I would watch them drink cheap pitchers of beer and drive them home afterwards to save them cab fare. In those crisp dark evenings and early morning hours, the wind on my face tasted like freedom, as if a piece of adulthood were already in my pocket.

Although my little red scooter was my joy, it was the bane of my private high school administration’s existence. While they had established strict dress codes and comportment codes, no one had ever thought to prohibit driving on a moped while in uniform and it made them mental. As my brother likes to recant to my son, “Your mother would leave the house each day in her short tunic, high black leather boots and jacket, and matching Shoe helmet. As I walked down the block, your mother would leave me in the dust, her tunic flapping behind her in the wind.”

Regardless, I continued to ride my moped until the weather turned and Montreal’s usual slate of wind and ice made it too dangerous to continue cavorting on my motorized wheels. I reluctantly retired my scooter, wheeling it into our makeshift covered driveway which was where horse and buggies used to be stored in our centuries old home. Locked behind doors and covered by a tarp, I regularly visited it over the winter months, dreaming about when I’d be able to take it out for more adventures.

That spring, however, my father flew into a rage, threw my large Shoe helmet at me, and tore up my registration papers, all while yelling at me that I’d never be allowed to ride again until I apologized. With that final outraged condemnation, he stormed out of my mother’s house, slamming the door behind him, leaving my mother and I standing in our tiny vestibule, shaken to our core.

My mother brought me upstairs where our inverted floor plan housed our kitchen and livingroom and, forgetting I was only sixteen, poured a vodka for each of us, passing me mine silently. As we sat down on our old brown velour couch, a fury began to stir inside me and, as I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t apologize or talk to my father until he admitted to his own wrongdoing, I sketched out a plan and enlisted my mother’s help. She, in turn, called David who, once he understood what had transpired, was more than happy to help.

And so, not long after, I found myself, as instructed, holding tightly onto David and leaning into curves, as we flew down the highway, with the wind on our faces, aiming like heat seeking missiles towards the dealership in the burbs that had originally sold me my scooter and held a copy of my registration papers.

Just as I was beginning to relax into these newfound sensations, David made an unexpected detour. He exited into an unknown suburbia, eventually pulling into what I would now describe as a McMansion but, back then, was a rarity in its monstrosity.

“Let’s go,” David said. “I need to pick something up. You come with me.” I dutifully hopped off the bike and followed him into the house, nodding hello to the aged housekeeper standing in the marble tiled foyer. “Go on in. He’s expecting you,” she told David as she ushered me into the kitchen, asking “Would you like something to eat or drink?” I shyly said no, asking to use the washroom instead.

I emerged to see David walking towards me, accompanied by a well-dressed older man. He briefly acknowledged me and the two quickly finished their conversation, emitting pleasantries as we headed out the door. Soon, we were back on David’s hog, and I re-entered a trancelike state as we made our way to the dealership.

There, David, dressed in black leather from head to toe, removed his helmet and let his long silver mane fly free as he approached the manager on the floor to explain our needs. Whatever David said was enough to ensure that I quickly had an official copy of my registration in hand, a guarantee that I would be back on my own motorized saddle by end of day.

I don’t remember much about the ride home except that my fear of death by motorcycle, ever present since the days in which my father threatened to ferry us about in one despite his lack of any relevant skills, died a subtle death. By the time we reached my house, I was relaxed as could be, happily holding on tightly, caught between the wish that our ride never end and my desire to resume being in the driver’s seat.

As I disembarked and handed the passenger’s helmet back to David, he casually asked me, “Aren’t your curious about where we stopped and what I was doing?” Being in the middle of my teen years and an expert on navel gazing, even I found it hard to say no given David’s clear desire to tell me. “Well, maybe a little,” I said.

David gave me a look, glanced away, and then casually said, “It was the head of the Mafia. I had some important business to attend to with him,” as he patted his inner chest pocket containing a visible parcel.

As his words landed and I absorbed their meaning, David capped it off by saying, “Don’t worry kid — your dad won’t bother you again,” as he winked and swung his leg over his bike’s seat. With his hands firmly on the handlebars, I stuttered a thanks. “No problem. You know how to get ahold of me if you need anything. Anything at all,” he underlined. “And if you ever feel in danger, don’t hesitate to call. Remember, I’m your friend, not your lover.”

With that, I went back into my home, called the insurance company to reinstate my captured papers, glad I had bested my father despite his poor behaviour, pulled my scooter out of storage and gave it a shower, all before night’s end.

While I never had to call on David for help, it wasn’t the last time I saw him. My mother would occasionally bring me by his home, where he would always greet us with a welcoming hug, an offer to use the bathroom, and an invitation to sit down for a drink. Although David always maintained his motorcycle and outer appearance so as to look neat and dapper, his home told another tale, one of dim lights that aimed to hide poverty but illuminated it instead.

When I asked my mother why David lived like this, in a manner that indicated little regard for comfort or care, my mother told me that David was not only a Hell’s Angel but a Vietnam vet who had been very politically involved after the war and had slowly descended into alcoholism out of frustration and desperation. Back then, the language of PTSD was largely unknown, and as I watched David’s slow descent into jaundice, liver failure, and decay, my teenage mind found it hard to fathom how someone so alive could fall prey to disillusionment and, eventually, death.

For years after David’s passing, I would think of him every time I donned the leather jacket he had dyed and given me, a jacket I kept well into my thirties. When the jacket eventually became too tattered to be respectable, I gave it away to another teenager who wore it proudly, like a badge of coolness. While the jacket’s been long gone, my memories of David are crystal clear, along with the lesson he seared into me: never judge a book by its cover because kindness and hearts gold can lie in the most unlikely vessels.