Dear Grandma and Grandpa,
I’ve always wondered, when you get to Heaven, are all your aches and pains gone? How old are people up there? Is everybody, like, 25 years old and in perfect health? Are there motorcycles up there? Is there a change of seasons, do y’all still have to pay taxes? Do all the women look like Marilyn Monroe? Hopefully I’ll find out for myself someday in the way distant future.
Things are pretty crazy at Strokers Dallas right now. It’s the middle of summer and everybody wants to ride! Every year, just before the Sturgis, Daytona, Republic of Texas and the Lone Star rallies, we get slammed with bikes for us to get ready so customers can ride to the events. I don’t know why all these guys wait until the last minute to bring their bikes in, and then they want to go to the front of the line. Oh well, that’s the way it’s always been in this business. We do the best we can to get ‘em all ready on time.
We get all kinds of people at Strokers Dallas. Some people call my bar a “biker bar,” but I don’t look at it that way. I mean, sure, we get lots of bikers, but we also get lots of people who ride bikes who aren’t what I would call bikers. Some people might call them RUBs (rich urban bikers) or they call them other things like Rolex Riders or Credit-Card Bikers.
I don’t care what “they” call those cats, I call them customers and I’m dang glad to have them. I don’t care if they come riding a Harley, Big Dog, Victory, Honda, BMW, Vespa, Ford Pinto or they rode the freakin’ Dallas City Bus, just so long as they get here.
I have always believed that you should not judge people by what they look like. I can’t tell you how many times Sue and I have gone out to eat and were seated in the back corner of a restaurant. Sue will say, “You know why they seated us back here, don’t you?” “Yes, honey, it’s because of the way I look and the dress, and I figure that’s their problem, not mine.”
Maybe it should bother me. But I try so hard not to be judgmental to people like these narrow-minded pricks (sorry, Grandma) are to me. I know that people look at me and they think I’m just a minimum-wage knucklehead at best. Boy, would they be shocked to know that I am actually making nearly $10 an hour. (continued)