mrzablowdowski

The first tattoo I saw, a tarantula crawls to the large gapping hole of a belly button, on a guy they called the animal. It was the animal being pushed into the back of the police car, pictured in newspaper, the day they broke up the club house. Not a club house more than a garage with plywood for windows. Not bikers more than boys with party, girls, and bikes in mind. The boys laughed at the breakfast table. Bad animal.

There were four of the boys at the table. Ryerson Knight. Gary McDonald. Bob Chamberlan. And my brother. Room and board at my mother's house.

A memory of Ryan singing Only the Lonely as Roy Orbison. Drumming the dry wall of the stairs to the basement. Sharply dressed. Black boots shined. A dab of Brylcreem. Even then out of fashion. Like a dusty record collection even now.

The last memory of Gary was a bus ticket to Yellowknife, after caught sniffing glue. Or, after crashing a car into the rear of the Hinton RCMP cruiser. Or, thumped by the bouncers for a tile knife in the Klondiker bar. Sinking ship, to be bailed out.

Lastly was Bob. Bob was the quiet one. Married a girl named Moe. Moved to a trailer park after that.

My brother. A tinker. Raced. Raced bikes. Raced snowmobiles. Small motor mechanic. Tore their bikes apart in little room left by the four beds stacked in the corner of the basement. Strongest memory is the smells down below. Dance wax. Remember the twist. Gunk. The lifes blood of a small motor.