We had taken a room in a Bed & Breakfast place in this small Southern California mountain town. There were a few shops but only one restaurant and we needed dinner. Not a free table, the maitre d’hotel assured us. There are two places left at the bar however, he said, next to that gentleman there, in the back.
We took one look at that “gentleman” and the saliva in our mouth went dry. What we saw was a man of sturdy build, scrubby hair, full beard, and a biker’s helmet in front of him on the counter. Hell’s Angels, we both thought. No way will we sit there. But we were hungry. I looked at my wife; she looked at me. Forward then. Mustering my most nonchalant self I pulled up our two bar stools, smiled at the bearded gentleman and gave him a friendly “Good Evening, Neighbor”. He responded in the most welcoming way and I could tell right away from the way he used the English language that he was a highly educated man masquerading as a rough biker. Not only that but he and his charming wife, he explained, had biked in from Big Bear to celebrate her birthday, which made us all break out laughing because it so happened that we had driven in from Newport Beach to do the same thing, it being my wife’s birthday too. Never was ice faster broken.
Needless to say, the conversation soon turned to motorcycles. Our new friend and his better half each rode their own machines. I forget what make or models they had but we did talk a lot about the merits, advantages and disadvantages of various brand names and of bike riding in general. At that point I just had to inform the gentleman that I hailed from Germany and that, when I was still an infant, my father not only had a motorcycle but that it had been an American make, an Indian. At the mention of that fact a new burst of excitement broke out in our corner of the restaurant. Our table neighbor was particularly fond of that old type of bike. He pronounced the name “Indian” as if it were something holy, something that stirred memories in his mind.
He and his wife had already finished their dinner when we arrived. When our food was brought they were ready to leave. We all got up, shook hands all around, told each other what a pleasure it had been, and parted in high spirits.
How wrong you can be, we thought, when you rely on appearances. You just can’t judge a gentleman by his helmet . How could we have mistaken a professor — at least we thought that is what he was — how could we have taken him for a Hell’s Angel? We still had a revelation coming upon leaving. A gentleman, the cashier said, had already paid our tab.
(c) 2017 by Herbert H. Hoffman
Picgture credit: Morguefile
Herb, I enjoyed your motorcycle story — my dad also had an Indian motorcycle, in the later 30’s. My mom and he toured on it prior to WWII.
Hello Bob: I am obviously very slow in learning how to manipulate this blog. I find out that I must do two things, “approve” a comment as well as “reply”. That tells you why I am so late in thanking you for your kind comment on the motorcycle story. Other people are slow, too. See “On Scrolling Down”… Herb