Gang bangin’

by RAF KATIGBAK

I’ve always wanted to join a gang. Maybe it’s a guy thing, or being the son of a Freemason thing, or a being different and desperately wanting to fit in thing, but the allure of being initiated into a secret society, that feeling of both otherness and belonging, has intrigued me ever since I can remember. It’s about being part of something that has its own rules, its own code of ethics, and possibly most important: its own secret handshake.

I started a gang when I was in elementary school. We were a rag-tag bunch of misfits, we were nerds, metal heads, skids and punks before we found that there were names for these things.

We called ourselves the Doodley Brothers. Okay, so having the name the Doodley Brothers may not have struck fear into the hearts of kids around us, but we weren’t really about having wars with other gangs. There was no strict membership policy, nor did we have any elaborate hazing ritual that involved drinking spit or shoplifting or breaking windows. Most gang activities involved things like helping our fearless leader Rich D chase girls around the yard, riding our BMXs super fast and doing jumps in the forest, and huddling around bootleg erotic Transformer comics and laughing at Optimus Prime’s poorly sketched telescoping penis. We all decided that to be a serious elementary school gang, you had to have an awesome secret handshake. It’s something the Doodley Brothers took great pride in. In fact, my favourite activity was making up new parts to our secret handshake and trying to teach them to new members. What started simply enough as a high five into a back hand slap followed by a full soul brother (a three-move procedure, beginning with a traditional, palm-to-palm clasp, followed in quick succession by a clasping at the hilt of the thumbs, and finally, by a hooked clasp of only the fingers, à la railroad couplers) turned into an elaborate five-minute ritual that may or may not have included: elbow bumping, making your hands into a dove, shaking each other’s ankles, high 10s and, if there were three of us, high 15s. There might have been a pirouette, I can’t remember.

Even through high school, I loved watching gang movies. It was the ’90s, so California was blowing up with wars between the Crips and the Bloods. When the film Colors came out, I had the Ice-T song banging on repeat on my Day-Glo Yellow fake Sony Sports Walkman. I liked Ice-T not just because his flow was way slicker than those NWA guys, but mostly because I figured he must have been extra badass to name himself after a cool steeped beverage for middle-aged housewives and golfers (it’s like having to do a few extra drive-bys so no one laughs when you introduce yourself as MC Rappuccino).

Lately, I’ve unwittingly found myself part of a secret society: the secret society of motorcyclists. I know what you’re thinking and no, I’m not talking about bikers like the Hells Angels (although my learner’s permit requires that I ride alongside another more experienced rider—it’s as if the Régie WANTS me to join a gang), but rather that owning a motorcycle gives licence to other motorcyclists to talk to you, for better or worse. The first instance was parking a bike and as another biker in a rice rocket speed bike approached, he gave me a nod. Hey, we’re brothers. We ride fast on two wheels, we’re speed demons of the same blood! Or maybe it was more like, hey we’re both paying out of our ass for insurance, I feel your pain!

It also gives other bikers the right to come over and talk shop. Recently, I was locking up my ride next to the Jazz fest when an older gentleman, mid-50s, came wandering by, balancing a lidless coffee in his right hand. He had tinted glasses, a carefully cropped goatee and a hat pulled low on his head. Right away I thought, “jazz musician.” I figured he was probably a hired gun, a session musician, probably some guitarist for one of those awful tribute nights that seem to be all the rage at the yearly event.

“Going to work?” he asked. I said no, and explained that I lived in the area. “How many CCs is she?” I replied that it’s a 750 and it’s a three-cylinder engine, which, from what I understand, is none too common. As I guessed, he was a musician and he was staying at the hotel across the street and he invited me over to see his bike, a futuristic BMW sport touring thing that looks like a Transformer. We hit it off, exchanged some passionate motorcycle talk and he regaled me with stories about riding down the California coast to Mexico.

Before we part, he says that I should come see one of the shows he’s playing and gives me his phone number to hook it up. I write the number and realize that I didn’t get his name.

“Danny” he replies. “Danny Lanois.”

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca