Vignette: Frisbees and Harleys
A Summer's Day Tale in the Inner City
The sun is scorching hot, it's summer, and we're in El Retiro. Not a leaf is stirring. On the Paseo de Coches, people hide from Lorenzo (the name we give in Spain to the Sun). Meanwhile, my brother, my father, and I are playing frisbee.
I've learned a new way to throw the frisbee, putting my index and middle fingers on the edge and using a wrist action, the momentum makes the frisbee reach longer distances. I'm proud of the distances I achieve. I've also learned a move that involves throwing the frisbee against the ground, making it bounce, and passing it to the other person. I've been practicing all summer and I've gotten the hang of it.
My father shouts, "Throw it, damn it!" I throw the frisbee and it reaches his hands without him barely having to move. On the ground, he has a backpack full of beers. It must be around noon, and I know at this rate he'll be drunk in no time. Foreseeing the consequences, I shake my head and try not to think anymore. "Just play frisbee," I think laconically.
My father throws the frisbee back, the throw is clumsy. The frisbee falls to the ground and rolls towards the other group playing frisbee.
One of them picks it up, looks at it as if he's never seen one like it before, and says, "Damn, what an awesome frisbee." My father looks at him, menacingly. The guy throws the disc back, and my father catches it barely stretching his arm. An optimal throw. My father observes the guy, and for a moment I think, "Here we go again," but my father responds, "Thanks!" almost enthusiastically.
"This is weird," I think. Suddenly my father grabs the backpack and approaches the other group of guys, striking up a conversation. My brother and I are further apart and can't hear what they're saying, we look at each other, wary, and stay in our positions.
My father laughs and keeps chatting with the group, there are five of them, they seem relaxed as they converse. "This is very strange," I think. After a few minutes, I see the guy my father started talking to pass him a lit cigarette. My father takes a drag and opens a beer, which he offers to the others. One of them takes a sip, seemingly out of courtesy. My brother and I keep looking at each other, apart from the group.
After a few minutes, my father calls us. "What are you doing over there? Come closer." My brother and I slowly move towards the group. My father looks at me, throws me the frisbee, and asks me to show them my new way of throwing. I hesitate but do it. The frisbee reaches the hand of the guy who was talking to my father. He smiles and says, "Damn, that's awesome." After a while, the group, my father, my brother, and I are playing frisbee. My brother seems tired and somewhat bored and sits on the edge of the road, pulling up grass. My father seems to be in a good mood, he laughs and even seems proud to see me play. "This is very, very strange."
The game goes on for about an hour, after which the guys collect their backpacks and leather jackets and try to say goodbye. I notice my father's tone changes in the conversation, I don't hear well what they're saying, but without further ado, my father starts walking behind them, turns around, and calls us.
We follow them to the exit of El Retiro on Paseo de Uruguay. When we arrive, there are five motorcycles parked in a line. My father seems enthusiastic, and my brother and I look at the bikes with wide eyes.
They're Harley Davidsons, big, black, and decorated with flame shapes, snakes covering the tank, and leather saddlebags.
One of them smiles, points at me, and says, "Your father says you like motorcycles, want to ride?"
I look at my father, trying to establish if I can or can't, and if I can refuse, the equation is the common denominator of any decision to avoid consequences that I can never foresee.
My father makes a gesture with his eyebrows indicating that I "must" get on.
Reluctantly and shaking, I nod. After a minute, the guy puts me on the back seat of the bike, sits on the main seat, grabs the handlebars, and starts the bike. "Vroom, vroom," the unmistakable sound of a Harley engine reverberates, and I tense up, getting scared.
My father bursts out laughing, "Don't be a sissy, grab Pedro's waist and don't let go or you'll get killed, and if you get killed, I'll kill you." The sound and the threat terrify me even more.
I'm on the verge of tears, the rest of the group look at each other uncomfortably and look at my father. They know something's wrong but don't say anything.
Pedro turns around, looks at me, and says, "Don't be afraid, you're going to love it, it's like being on a plane without wings, hold on tight, we're going." I squeeze his waist tightly.
Pedro lets out a groan and a laugh and accelerates. "Vrooooom!" The Harley accelerates with a speed that catches me by surprise. I'm wearing a cap that disappears in the wind the moment we accelerate, and for a second I think "Oh no, if I lose the cap there'll be trouble"
Terrified and somehow also excited I stay holding onto Pedro who drives the bike to the end of the promenade, brakes, turns, accelerates once more and stops in front of my father.
When I get off the bike, I'm shaking, Pedro looks at me with his sunglasses, makes a face, and says, "Did you like it, kid?" I look at him and nod.
My father slaps me on the back of the head and says, "What do you say?" I look at Pedro and say, "Thank you..."
My father talks to Pedro again and asks him to let my brother ride.
My brother refuses and starts crying, terrified.
The group of bikers, very uncomfortable with the situation, slowly get on their bikes, look at Pedro without saying anything, and wait.
Pedro looks at my father and says, "It seems the kid doesn't want to, and in any case, we have to leave, we're going to Valencia and we're running late." His voice has no ups and downs or tone, but I perceive that he's grown tired of my father's company.
My father insists once more, and grabs my brother's arm with a rough gesture, my brother tries to pull away from my father but can't and, as expected, receives a slap. "Stay still, for fuck's sake."
Pedro looks at my father and says, "Come on, leave the kid alone, if he doesn't want to, he doesn't want to."
My father looks at him defiantly and says, "Don't tell me how to treat my son." Pedro looks at my father for a second, looks at his friends making an almost imperceptible gesture, and calmly gets on his Harley.
"I didn't mean to," he responds, dryly, with a veiled censure.
"What's the matter, you think you're better than me because you have a fucking Harley?" my father responds.
Pedro ignores the bitterness, turns around one last time, looks at me, smiles, and says, "Good luck, kid."
He starts the bike and like a storm "vroom, vroom, vrooooom" the five Harleys disappear down the promenade, while my father throws a beer bottle at them and shouts, "Go fuck yourselves!!!!!"
"One day I'm going to have a motorcycle," I think.
My father didn't sleep at home that night.