Spaghetti Joe

Don't you just love the name? It actually is the roadname of a biker who used to read children's books to me when I was a little girl. What is a roadname? It is a nickname given to a biker. It is a name he inherits, usually from one of his club brothers. His roadname, if it sticks, is embroidered onto a patch, which he proudly wears on his cut (vest). I'm thinking Spaghetti Joe was Italian.

One of my earliest memories in life is of a night, complete with fear, family, security, and confusion. This vivid memory is one of a collection of memories which planted internal lies, identifying who I thought I was over the next thirty-something years. Picture two little girls, all of about four and five years of age, sitting in a car, right smack in the middle of a biker brawl. Well, it was much more than a biker brawl. It was an all out war.

My sister and I were seated in the back seat of my mother’s car, while a family friend read a story to us. Mom was a wild flower child and drove a baby blue Comet. She was a bit eccentric and pasted large Daisy decals all over the outside of the car. The storyteller was a very dear family friend who reeked of greasy Levi’s, mixed with the earthy scent of his black leather vest. His hair was long and his face, unshaven. The other men from his motorcycle gang called him Spaghetti Joe. I used to giggle at the mention of his name, no matter how often I heard it. I just loved saying it.

His eyes were friendly and his voice low and raspy as he nervously and quickly read through the pages. I recall him distracting Jami and I from peering out the car window at what was going on all around us. It was dark, and we were parked in front of King’s Drive-In. I remember King’s being a popular spot on the strip through downtown San Jose. There were always dozens of motorcycles and loud, fast cars parked in front of the place. We usually stayed in the car with one of Mom’s friends while she was inside grabbing burgers for us, or hanging out with the club.

This night was very different from the others though. We were afraid, as we were told not to pay attention to what was going on outside. Telling a child not to pay attention to something just made us all the more curious to press our faces against the windows. It was fun to fog up the window with the warmth of our breath and the cold of the air. I suppose it was good the windows were fogged.

I heard men yelling and cursing. One man fell onto the back of our car. Spaghetti Joe continued to read to us with more urgency in his voice. I put my arm around Jami and moved in closer to Spaghetti Joe. The car was shaking from the fighting taking place all around us. They were swinging large steel chains and beating each other. At one point, I heard several cars honking their horns on the main drag, then tires screaching. One of the men had thrown someone from the other club out into the traffic!