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Bud Grossmann’s
Words of the Week
for the Week of
June 4, 2006
Published as Family History
in a Gramma Letter dated June 4, 1996.
© 1996 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
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Cuffs & Harley Patch, 2004
© 2004 by Bud Grossmann
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DRESS CODE VIOLATOR
Tuesday, June 4, 1996
Dear Gramma,
Twenty-five years ago today, I turned twenty-two. On that day, my soon-to-be bride gave me a gift I had long wished for: a snug-fitting, blue denim, Levi’s-brand jacket. I still have it, and I can tell you, Gramma, it has aged about as well as I have.
The copper-clad zinc buttons—six of them up the front, four more for the waistband adjustments, and two more to secure the breast-pocket flaps—these dozen buttons are as dark as old pennies. The jacket’s multitudinous seams and darts have lost some of their stitches. The fabric is faded, frayed, and sweat-stained.
One item of ornamentation remains in perfect shape—low on the back, Frances had sewn on a patch designating the make of motorcycle I drove when I was twenty-two. The patch is a finger-length, gold-edged pair of silver wings with the name Harley-Davidson. Someone looking closely at my jacket in good light today will see shadows—not-so-faded denim—where other decorations once graced the garment during its years of service. Those decorations, more than once, got me into trouble. One time they nearly got me banned from Disneyland.
When Fran and I were attending law school in Los Angeles, we took a break from our studies one evening to go see Mickey Mouse and his colleagues in Anaheim—an hour away by motorcycle. Some out-of-state friends were visiting, and we had arranged to meet them at Fantasyland at seven o’clock. As we arrived in Anaheim, I admired the pretentious promise on an enormous sign: Disneyland—The Happiest Place on Earth. Well, I certainly was feeling jolly.
We parked. While Frances went to pay for our admission, I secured our motorcycle with a heavy chain and padlock. I soon caught up with Fran. With our tickets in hand, we joined a line of people moving slowly toward the entrance turnstiles. Suddenly I felt a touch on my shoulder. A security guard, in blazer and necktie, asked me to step out of line. “Sir,” he said quietly, “our park’s policy prohibits the wearing of gang colors.”
“Excuse me? What are you talking about?” I asked.
“The insignia of your motorcycle gang, sir. On your jacket. We have had some unpleasantness in the past.”
I couldn’t believe it! I began to argue. “But... but... but this is a Christian motorcycle club! We aren’t troublemakers!” I took off my jacket and pointed to the large combined Greek letters Chi-Rho. “This is the symbol for ‘Christ’! And this...”—I pointed to three words in Germanic print stitched red-on-black on a banner spanning the shoulder area—“...this is a quotation from St. Paul’s Letter to the Philippians!” I didn’t explain the words, Angst für nichts. They could be translated “I ain’t afraid of nothin’!” and, in the context of a motorcycle jacket, they might sound a tad agitational. I also skipped over my matching patches reading “MC” and “l%”—similar patches commonly appear on the backs of true tough-guy bikers.
“You may come into the park, sir, if you leave your jacket outside. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but this is our policy.”
The evening was already growing chilly, and friends were waiting. I didn’t like the thought of having to keep myself from freezing by purchasing a sweatshirt bearing the likeness of a grinning big-eared rodent. I persisted in my attempt to reassure the guard. “Listen, there are only four guys with colors like these, and the other three aren’t even in California. They’re in St. Louis, in a seminary!”
The guard looked pained. He was trained to be a Nice Guy. “Well...I guess I can let you talk with the Captain of Security....”
And so, Gramma, we did at last get in, jacket and all. Frances and I stayed out of fights with other motorcyclists, but we managed to have a pretty pleasant evening, nonetheless.
♦
Since this is my birthday, I must say I’m glad you made my dad. I phoned him and Mom today to thank them for making me.
Love,
Buddy
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