Irving Penn – Doug, Hells Angels (San Francisco), 1967. Appeared in Look magazine, January, 1968.
This autobiographical sketch was prompted by the Flash (non)Fiction challenge at Chuck Wedig's blog: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2015/10/02/flash-nonfiction-challenge-tell-a-story-from-your-life/
“Quick, hide behind the pool!” My mom said to my brother and me after she hung up the phone.
“Why? What?” We asked her, lips trembling.
“Robin is coming over. You have to hide!” She rushed us out and pointed to some bushes behind the pool where she wanted us to go. “Stay there. Do not move no matter what you see. Only come out if I say so, or if the police tell you so.”
She didn’t want us to be seen and she didn’t want us to see what was about to happen. The house had very large windows all the way around, though, so we could see what was happening quite clearly. We saw Robin pull into the driveway and break down the door. We saw her point a gun at our mom. We saw our mom and Robin having a heated discussion. Then, to our great relief, we saw the police arrive and handcuff Robin before she could do anything. We then saw our mom fall onto the couch, sobbing uncontrollably, before wiping her eyes and retrieving us from out back. We were only 6- and 7- years- old, and we saw it all very clearly.
Robin was 26-years- old and dating my grandfather. Robin was not a good girl. She rode with a tough group and she was an outsider to that small California mountain town. Her friends had convinced Robin that my mom wanted to break up the relationship with my grandfather. In retaliation, Robin (who was probably drunk) called my mom that night and told her she was coming over with a gun. My mom immediately called the cops and hid the kids.
Justice wasn’t always served too well in that town, however, as Robin was out of jail the next day and no charges were levied. Again seeking retaliation, Robin waited until my mom was off her bartending shift, then she and her gang cornered my mom on the street and punched her square on the mouth. My mom’s friend picked us up from school that day and brought us back to her house, where she was looking after my mom.
My dad arrived several hours later – after he was off of work. I know my mom’s friend called him and explained what happened, but he finished the work day nonetheless. My grandfather, I learned later, was having a beer with Robin at the very moment my mom held an ice-pack to her face. I didn’t know what to make of that. I didn’t know what to make of any of it. Seeing my mom bruised, bloody, and tear-soaked would scar me for life, much as the scar from the punch would remain on my mom’s lip until her death.
I only sort of understood what was happening at the time – as much as a 6-year-old girl can understand such things about relationships, violence, and family. And I was made to understand things that I neither wanted, nor was I ready, to learn. For example, I learned that dads don’t always act like a hero, and grandfathers sometimes choose their girlfriend over their daughter. I learned that the woman who I trusted because my grandpa liked her, and because she gave me a color-changing lipstick, would point a gun at my mother. I learned that my mom was great at protecting her kids, but not so great at protecting herself. And I learned that the criminal justice system is not always just.
Justice was still served, however. My mom was a very popular bartender, and when some of her more lethal patrons (read: Hell's Angels), heard about the sucker punch, they ran Robin and her girls out of town. I don’t know if they hurt Robin in any way, or if they just threatened her with enough panache to scare her off for good. My mom pretended to be proud of her protective patrons.
When I got older, though, I knew what had to have been on her mind: why didn’t my husband do anything to stick up for me? Why did my father make excuses for her and not look out for his own daughter? Those had to have been her questions, because they certainly were mine. I never looked at my grandfather or my father the same way after that. When you’re a kid, you naturally put your parents and grandparents on pedestals; it’s heart-wrenching when they have to be removed from their great heights.
My family never really talked much about that event. It changed me, though. At 6, that was the first really traumatic, really relationship-altering experience of my young life. Ever-after I wanted to protect my mom because I thought no one else would, except maybe a biker gang, of course.
“Why? What?” We asked her, lips trembling.
“Robin is coming over. You have to hide!” She rushed us out and pointed to some bushes behind the pool where she wanted us to go. “Stay there. Do not move no matter what you see. Only come out if I say so, or if the police tell you so.”
She didn’t want us to be seen and she didn’t want us to see what was about to happen. The house had very large windows all the way around, though, so we could see what was happening quite clearly. We saw Robin pull into the driveway and break down the door. We saw her point a gun at our mom. We saw our mom and Robin having a heated discussion. Then, to our great relief, we saw the police arrive and handcuff Robin before she could do anything. We then saw our mom fall onto the couch, sobbing uncontrollably, before wiping her eyes and retrieving us from out back. We were only 6- and 7- years- old, and we saw it all very clearly.
Robin was 26-years- old and dating my grandfather. Robin was not a good girl. She rode with a tough group and she was an outsider to that small California mountain town. Her friends had convinced Robin that my mom wanted to break up the relationship with my grandfather. In retaliation, Robin (who was probably drunk) called my mom that night and told her she was coming over with a gun. My mom immediately called the cops and hid the kids.
Justice wasn’t always served too well in that town, however, as Robin was out of jail the next day and no charges were levied. Again seeking retaliation, Robin waited until my mom was off her bartending shift, then she and her gang cornered my mom on the street and punched her square on the mouth. My mom’s friend picked us up from school that day and brought us back to her house, where she was looking after my mom.
My dad arrived several hours later – after he was off of work. I know my mom’s friend called him and explained what happened, but he finished the work day nonetheless. My grandfather, I learned later, was having a beer with Robin at the very moment my mom held an ice-pack to her face. I didn’t know what to make of that. I didn’t know what to make of any of it. Seeing my mom bruised, bloody, and tear-soaked would scar me for life, much as the scar from the punch would remain on my mom’s lip until her death.
I only sort of understood what was happening at the time – as much as a 6-year-old girl can understand such things about relationships, violence, and family. And I was made to understand things that I neither wanted, nor was I ready, to learn. For example, I learned that dads don’t always act like a hero, and grandfathers sometimes choose their girlfriend over their daughter. I learned that the woman who I trusted because my grandpa liked her, and because she gave me a color-changing lipstick, would point a gun at my mother. I learned that my mom was great at protecting her kids, but not so great at protecting herself. And I learned that the criminal justice system is not always just.
Justice was still served, however. My mom was a very popular bartender, and when some of her more lethal patrons (read: Hell's Angels), heard about the sucker punch, they ran Robin and her girls out of town. I don’t know if they hurt Robin in any way, or if they just threatened her with enough panache to scare her off for good. My mom pretended to be proud of her protective patrons.
When I got older, though, I knew what had to have been on her mind: why didn’t my husband do anything to stick up for me? Why did my father make excuses for her and not look out for his own daughter? Those had to have been her questions, because they certainly were mine. I never looked at my grandfather or my father the same way after that. When you’re a kid, you naturally put your parents and grandparents on pedestals; it’s heart-wrenching when they have to be removed from their great heights.
My family never really talked much about that event. It changed me, though. At 6, that was the first really traumatic, really relationship-altering experience of my young life. Ever-after I wanted to protect my mom because I thought no one else would, except maybe a biker gang, of course.