Twin Menace

Just after lunch, traffic is semi thick and rather viscous. I stay in first and second gear, mostly, as I crawl from light to light in the summer heat. Halfway up the hill, my radar detector delivers a staccato of beeps and its female voice warns, "K.A. band detected!"

I’m not surprised. They usually swarm here, in what they proudly call the ‘bad part of town.’ Spend their days ticketing busy motorists and their nights harassing teenagers and persons of color.

There is a pair of them today, huddled on enormous Harleys like malicious insects, side by side, drunk on their own power. A shield in front and wide-set handles make their shoulders appear broader. They hover at the light, feet planted firmly, helmets with face shields turning left to right like terminators, scanning for life forms. The connection between them is so tangible, even I can sense it. The presence of a partner enhances their power exponentially and swells chests and penises, as they revel in each other’s magnificence. I suspect they crave one another, perhaps entertain secret fantasies, which they suppress and sublimate with simultaneous revving of engines and perhaps twin fierceness in their pursuit of hapless offenders.

I could run them down easily. I have enough horses in my black Stang and once downed, they’d struggle a while to get the heavy bikes back upright. But I suspect there is a swarm of them, ready to attack, wasp-like and angry, eager to riddle my car with bullets - so I desist.

They spot a young girl in a blue Chevrolet and set out after her, communicating with scarcely a nod. She’s pretty and frightened and tears fill her eyes as she pulls over, caught like a criminal. They secure their bikes and swagger toward her car, circling from both sides. They are bad boys on the right side of the law. Shaky girl fingers hand driver’s license and insurance papers through a window. Large fearful eyes stare at the pursuers. She craves her cell phone and wants to call her mother.

They take their time, savoring endless moments of intimidation. They wish they could rape her, taking turns, but it’s too public. So they revel in making her cry. They caught her red handed, speeding in daddy’s car. She’ll be grounded for a month. They have raised their face shields, revealing stern expressions in brutal faces. They bark orders in unison with rough voices. They posture self-importantly, while they write her ticket. When they finally let her go, she stalls the engine twice, trying to get away.

They strut back to their Harleys and mount with self-importance. They nod at each other and give a triumphant ‘thumbs up.’ Together they start the mighty engines. Together they pull out in front of me and veer off to make a U turn. I can’t stop myself: I rev up the Stang to out-rumble the Harleys. Once I hear the guttural sound of my car, I feel better, as if I just cleansed the air of their presence. In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of them; they ride side by side, blocking the whole lane. I catch up with the girl at the next red light. Pale and tearful, she talks frantically on her cell phone. She looks as if she had just been raped.