Collective Mind (16 page)

“Now
listen, Isaac. You talk about fantasy and creativity. Everyone who isn’t a
Veggie wants to express himself, not everyone tries, but they all want to.
Musicians express themselves through music, scientists through science and I
express myself through my motorbike!” Bikie went hyper. “It’s more than just a
piece of machinery. It’s my alter ego! I can’t sell it or swap it. It is me! I
wouldn’t sell me! We bikers aren’t like that.

“There
was this guy in the bar who had a sports bike and he was summoned to court for
speeding. He managed to convince the judge that at a speed of two hundred and
seventy kilometers an hour it’s impossible to read a speed limit sign. The
judge who used to be a biker himself once awarded him the minimum fine and just
gave him an official warning instead of confiscating his bike. That’s the way
we do things.

“My
Harley is my membership in a big family, my attachment to people who aspire to
freedom and don’t rely on rules and authority for this freaking system that we
fight against… It’s my comrade-in-arms. Do I have to lose my comrade for the
sake of the struggle? What would you choose, Isaac? We’re not them, we’ve got
hearts!”

Bikie
talked on and on, discouraging himself more and more and cursing the situation.
He turned sullen and angry, realizing that he had no way out.

“All
right Isaac, let this freaking system choke on my Harley. It’s decided, I’m
selling. It won’t be a sacrifice, it will be an iron bone stuck in their
throat. Only I can’t do it myself. I’ll send you to a friend of mine, he’s been
asking about my bike for a long time. He’s bound to buy it. Better let him have
it than some other creep, even if I’ll have to give him a discount. At least
he’s a straight up guy. My brother will be in reliable hands.”

Isaac
nodded without speaking. He knew firsthand what it was like to sell a part of
oneself.

The
next day Isaac called the prospective buyer for the bike and they agreed to
meet in the evening. In the meantime he set his eye on a roomy American-made
van. It was a hell of a machine, working on the archaic fuel combustion
principle, guzzling gas like a crazed horse. But then, the only windows were in
the two front doors, on the driver’s and the passenger’s sidesso you could
carry whatever you liked in the back and no one would see it from outside.

Before
setting out to close the deal he dropped in to see Peter and outlined the
situation.

Wolanski
was upset for Bikie he couldn’t buy the bike, it would have been a violation of
his father’s will, and they couldn’t put off the journey until he received his
money.

“There’s
an operational Volkswagen in the garage. If you guys can find a way to destroy
it – burn it or smash it up – I could buy the van to replace it. But that’s a
couple of weeks’ hassle, or maybe ten days, and extra risk for you. You
decide.”

“I
feel sorry for Bikie. As soon as I get my first payment, I’ll buy him a new
Harley.”

“Don’t
be in a hurry to sell the rights to your V-Rain, Isaac, I’ll soon be in the
money and the situation will have changed: you’re no longer a crazy stranger to
me. Let’s see, maybe we can agree on a partnership. I had time to think a bit
about your invention and take a closer look at you. I am ready to do business
with you. As for Bikie’s Harley, let’s do this…you agree with the buyer that
you have the right to buy it back within two or three months to be on the safe
side with a mark-up of twenty or thirty per cent. Bluff him and say you won’t
sell otherwise. I think he’ll agree.”

“All
right, I’ll try it. Thanks Peter! Bikie will be insane with happiness. He’s
desperately miserable right now and gloomy as night.”

When
Bikie heard about Peter’s idea and his willingness to buy back the motorbike he
went gaga with joy. He went back to his room and asked Wolanski to come over.
Bikie didn’t know how to express thanks, but it was a very long conversation,
and Isaac could only guess what he said. When he came back to the living room,
Bikie had a serious air and declared that Peter was like a brother to him now!

With
that burden off the shoulders of the partners, things started moving to a
different rhythm. Bikie changed his mind and went with Isaac to close the deal.
At first the buyer was upset at the idea of losing his purchase, but he agreed
to the buy-back condition and promised to be very careful with the bike

The
van they bought turned out to be pretty good. Bikie bought a fuel combustion
enhancer at a car dump and attached it to the engine. The gas was heated by air
oxygen and entered the engine at an increased pressure that cut the fuel
consumption by a third. An essential, albeit short-term gain: in this way the
motor wore out sooner and various rubber gaskets and old spark plugs burned out
more quickly.

Isaac
provided for their everyday needs and with the rest of the money from the
Harley he bought a couple of sleeping bags, some blankets, a little stove and
other bits and pieces that might come in handy. They were intending to work,
cook and sleep in the van and they had no idea how long the trip would last.

The
two friends packed their things in silence. Bikie was still sulking about
losing his Harley, even though temporarily, and he didn’t talk much. They just
exchanged occasional remarks about important things… that was all.

Bikie
was worried that the bike would end up in an accident or break down, he
imagined someone blithely racing it too fast with the engine roaring, so every
now and then he started grumbling like an old man with gout venting his bad
feelings on his friend.

“Don’t
forget to take your ski boots, Isaac!”

“Don’t
forget your pink bathrobe, Isaac!”

“Will
you survive a week without any porn sites, Isaac?”

Isaac
tried to ignore the gibes and focus on essential things. He realized that for
Bikie traveling to Sardinia was a blow, especially talking the ferry, and going
for a long time and not on a motorbike. It was like a senior VP of Boeing
flying on business in an Airbus.

“Isaac,
take the umbrellas,” Bikie gibed yet again.

It
seemed he just couldn’t calm down. Finally said he was going to write a song
about a proud Kenyan marathon runner — an Olympic champion — serving in the
army in big, clumsy boots.

“That’s
it, Bikie. Stop it right now. I tell you what you love everything American,
don’t you? So look, we are traveling in a classic American van, we are going to
live in it, and I agree to listen to nothing but rock’n’roll the whole way. How
about that?”

“Okay,
damn you, on those terms it’s a different matter!” said Bikie suddenly breaking
into a smile. “You surrendered easily after holding out for no more than an
hour!”

They
hooted with laughter and never mentioned the subject of vans, motorbikes or
marathon runners in boots and swim fins again. Bikie packed a full box of
rock’n’roll discs, enough to last them for a year on the road. There was no
point in objecting, the old van didn’t have any slots for modern phones or
memory cards, and there was no time to look for an adapter.

By
evening they were ready; they downloaded maps and made some notes on them, set
out their route and went to celebrate a job well done at McCarthy’s. Michelle
was surprised that Isaac had chosen an unromantic bar for their next date, and
invited his friends but she agreed to come anyway.

Bikie
persuaded Wolanski to come along. Michelle arrived a lot later than the others
putting Isaac through some serious turmoil. When she finally showed up she
looked absolutely devastating with her hair done in a ponytail emphasizing a
long neck, minimal makeup and lips just touched slightly with a lipstick. Her
look was completed with a stylish biker jacket of soft leather. Isaac clutched
at his heart melodramatically, but Bikie immediately outdid him by putting his
hands over his fly and starting to slip slowly under the table, groaning and
gasping. Wolanski spluttered with laughter. Michelle gave him a scornful look,
folded her hand into a pistol, set it against Peter’s head and said “Boom!”
Theatrically blowing away the smoke of the shot from the barrel, she glanced
smugly at the scene and asked:

“I’m
not sure, should I stay here?”

They
all instantly came to life and started jabbering that of course she should.

“I’m
mortally wounded, but I’m still alive.” Peter exclaimed solemnly.

“And
no one has ever died from an orgasm!” Bikie added.

Bewildered
by this torrent of compliments for Michelle Isaac couldn’t think of anything to
say. He kissed Michelle on both cheeks and moved her chair closer to him.

“I’ll
sit beside you, I hope you don’t mind?” Michelle indicated to Peter.

“Sandrine
would mind, only she’s not here,” Bikie responded merrily.

“Why
not beside me?” asked Isaac.

“Because
you’re punished!”

“For
what, Michelle?” asked Isaac, falling straight into the trap.

“You
invited me out… to a bar! You could have chosen a restaurant, a café, a
park, anywhere at all. Who asks a girl on a date to a bar with a bunch of
guys?”

“Um,
well, “ Isaac found nothing to say.

“Please
forgive him, Michelle,” said Bikie, intervening for his friend. “I agree that
he is a moron, an idiot, a blockhead and a fool with his five stars having been
someone’s screw-up. But then that’s his personality. I won’t be able to bear
his sour face tomorrow; it takes almost twenty-four hours to get to Sardinia.
And what’s more, today he saved my iron buddy’s life, so now I’m simply obliged
to come to his rescue.”

Isaac
was not even slightly amused by all these jokes, he felt despondent and
miserable at his blunder. He had imagined Michelle as his girl and then bungled
their first date so badly – in the fuss and bustle of packing he hadn’t even
thought that it was a real date.

“Okay.
Quits! Let’s say we’re even for the way you helped me that time in the bar.”

Michelle
moved over to Isaac, who, delighted at his redemption, tried to put his arm
round her waist.

“Oh-oh-oh!
Don’t get too excited!” said Michelle, gently removing his arm. “Quits doesn’t
mean you’re completely forgiven.”

“Oh
come one, Michelle. You’re a real piece of work!” said Bikie. Turning to Isaac,
he added. “I don’t envy you, old buddy. But I envy you just as well.”

“OK,
then it’s a bar! I’ll have a Long Island!” Michelle kissed Isaac on the cheek
and said affectionately: “Bring me that, please. And you Bikie, tell me about
that iron buddy who was saved and why you are going to Sardinia.”

“Long
Island for me too, Mister Leroy” Bikie added solemnly, getting into a role of a
social advocate.

“And
me,” Peter put in.

With
every sip, Michelle’s anger with Isaac dissipated. Eventually he managed to put
his arm round her waist and bring her closer to him. She didn’t resist. Isaac
felt he was drowned in love for her. As soon as his panic was gone and the
adrenalin from the fright left his blood, the alcohol took effect and Isaac
suddenly got very drunk. As a matter of fact, they all got totally zonked on
the deceptively sweet, but very strong Long Islands, flinging out toasts about
individual freedom and fine creative gals like Michelle Blanche!

Wolanski
shelled out three grand in cash for the journey, for which Bikie promised to
take him on as the frame drummer in his Banksy-Band, the rock group he was
going to set up after the job was done in honor of the great English graffiti
artist who “bombed” the streets of cities all around the world with his witty
and acutely political paintings, and had never been caught. “And if you refuse
to be my frame drummer, you yourself will be drummed. If you don’t play rock I
will clean your clock!” he added laconically, tripping over his tongue.

They
talked a bit more about Banksy, his sense of humor and how distinctive his
works were, about the way he managed to remain incognito, the cunning way he
inserted his graffiti into the environment and how municipal boards, signs and
peeling walls turned into pop masterpieces once one of his drawings appeared on
them. The police had never once caught him at work, and they wondered why. Was it
because he thought out thoroughly how to avoid getting caught, or was it plain,
dumb luck?

“Anything
worth doing is worth doing right?,” Bikie quoted, “Hunter S. Thompson said
that. You know what about? Of course not. You’re not bikers. In the 1960s that guy
Hunter Thompson did something fucking awesome. Back then he had an old Jaguar,
no bikes, and he had absolutely zilch connection with bikers. But he found
them, I mean us, interesting. Normal folks have always associated us with
freedom, rebellion and real adrenalin.

“Those
were the days of motorbike clubs. One ferocious name competed with the next:
‘Gipsy Jokers’, ‘Grim Reapers’, ‘Galloping Geese’, ‘Pissed-Off Bastards’, and
so on. Brutal, leather clad dudes with tattoos all over them. They swilled beer
and roared along highways but one group among them really stood out – the
Hell’s Angels. They drove the law-abiding society crazy with terror. There were
rumors that they smear their bike suits with shit to make leather stiffer and
that they would rape all the women they came across. The newspapers constantly
wrote rumors about them. Well, you know how low-grade journalists can both
terrorize and confuse. The girls all squealed and waited for the Angels to
drive round and start raping them.

“So
Thompson wondered what this national bogeyman was really like. He had a friend,
a former Angel, some kind of a news reporter, a colleague basically. And
through him Thompson got access to the bikers’ get-togethers. It was useless to
tell the Angels ‘Hello there, I’m a journalist; I want to write about you’. But
Thompson was no goodie-goodie, he was a man who broke the rules. He got an
advance from a publisher for a book, bought a bike and spent a year riding with
the Angels, recording the way they lived. He stuck with the pack, cruising
round the cities, tearing along the highways, interacting like crazy, smoking
pot, lying on lawns, listening to cops ranting about his rights and ending up
in the slammer, he was beaten up with the bikers and he buried their gang bosses
with them. In short, he plunged headfirst into the subject matter. And when he
resurfaced, he published his book and it became a sensation. He didn’t just say
how much beer a biker drank a day, he dug deep and came up with the causes of
the confrontation between bikers and American society – he figured it was all
to do with the post-war period.

“By
the way, those damned Angels totally flipped out from all that fuss, they
started reading the news about themselves over their morning beer, and they
learned how to extort money for interviews, photos or videos. So when they
found out about the book, they demanded a share of the author’s fee and beat
the shit out of Thompson but that was nothing new for him. It wasn’t the first
or the last scandal in his life. Scandal drives the media. That was the way he
lived,” concluded Bikie what wouldn’t be his last story that evening. “A new
term was even coined in his honor – ‘gonzo journalism’ – he was a real heavy
guy. A legend.”