Becoming A Son

by David Labrava

  Below fifth street is the cooler part of town. Especially if you know a little of the history of Miami Beach like Joe’s Stone Crabs, the dog track and the fishing pier. All long gone by now and replaced by night clubs and revamped art deco apartments, with huge parking structures to accommodate all the new people that are moving onto Miami Beach every day.

  I had been back about a week and I was restless. I wanted to get something going. It didn’t take long to get another chopper. In fact I got my old one back that I had sold Albie when I left Melbourne. He never even put it in his name. It was still registered to me. I just had to do one collection and he gave me the bike. I even got a quarter of the take. I usually get half. Albie never even rode the bike. It was cool to have a bike and a chopper at that, but now I wanted another FXR.

  Some friends of mine had a bike shop that my pal Alex and me hung out at and they let me use the bench to do whatever work I wanted on my bike. Albie had this stretch tank put on the bike and had it painted flat black but other than that it was the same. The first thing I did was take the bike apart, put on a smaller tank and paint it royal blue with some candy in it. Bike looked sick with a 230 series tire. Nothing but motor, paint chrome and rubber.

  It didn’t take long to get my divorce papers in order but I still had to wait the year before I could apply again. So I started promoting parties. Everyone does parties in Miami Beach. Mine was called ‘Local Party” which was the SBU party.

  “Whenever you have a party every waitress in town tries to get the night off.” One of the club owners told me. We had some wild parties with surf films, guys doing live graffiti, local and out of town bands and DJ’s would come through. The SBU parties just got bigger and bigger. It became the biggest baddest party in town. I did it once a month. My pal Jim Pep always helped me put these together. Like I said before everyone in town thought he was my real little brother, he wasn’t, we just acted that way. Like real brothers. We would get girls to skate up and down Washington boulevard handing out flyers. Everybody in town came to the SBU ‘Local Party’. One night before one of my bigger parties I had dinner with my mom. I had been back about a month.

  ‘They made you a better man.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t want you to go, but they made a man out of you. Your motorcycle buddies. Wherever you went it worked.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean you seem calmer. More focused. I can see the change in you. It’s a good thing, not a bad thing.”

  It was really cool to hear my Mom say that. Especially since I knew she didn’t want me to move so far away in the first place. She was happy I was back. She was proud. And that has a price tag on it money can’t buy. I didn’t know how long I was going to stay put in Miami, but for now it was fine. I had almost a year to waste until I could go back to Holland.

  66

  The Chopper was fun but I started saving and looking for another FXR. I had so much fun on that bike in Holland. I saved every dime I made and looked every day of the week for one. FXR’s are the best bike Harley ever made in my opinion and for some reason they have the lowest resale value. At least in Miami you could pick one up cheap. I wanted a 1994, the last year they made them, so it had the least amount of wear. That was also the year of the bike I had in Holland.

  All my friends hung out at the same motorcycle shop and worked on their bikes. The shop itself was huge and we covered every facet of motorcycle customization.

  Me and Alex hung out there every day. They had this real big Pit Bull. Probably weighed ninety pounds. Me and that dog had a special bond. I would always show up with a bag of cheeseburgers for him. I was the one who gave him a bath. Everyone used to say,

  “Epstein is your dog D.L.” and he was, even if he had a mind and a spirit all his own. He would roam the streets all around Overtown and the surrounding areas. The warehouse I lived in was a few blocks away. Epstein knew how to get there and back himself. He knew the route.

  I finally found the FXR of my dreams. A ninety four with low miles. The guy only wanted six thousand three hundred for it. I had been seeing a girl for a few weeks and she give me a ride there. It was up by the Broward County line. That’s where Florida changes, right on the Dade County and Broward County line. Once you cross that county line it becomes Redneck city. Below that line it’s like living in Cuba. There are places in Miami, like little Havana where if you don’t speak Spanish you’re not getting served.

  The guy met us on some side street. He had a big new Impala. Like the cops drive.

  “Follow me.” He said as he took off. He drove like a nut. Fast and reckless. We had a hard time keeping up.

  “Hurry up.” I said.

  “I’m not getting a ticket.” She said taking her damn sweet time.

  “You’re gonna lose him.”

  “No I’m not.”

  We were about five cars behind him. I think he saw that cause he slowed down a little.

  He pulled up to a house and parked. In front of the house was a Broward County Sheriff vehicle. We sat in the car and he walked over to us. He was a very big man. At least six foot six and three hundred fifty pounds. He had a gun on his side and a police academy T shirt on.

  “He’s a cop.” The girl said.

  “A Sheriff.” I said in amazement. He drove like a psycho.

  “Let’s have a look.”

  I got out of the car and walked over to his garage. A lady came out of the house in a cop uniform.

  “This is my sister.” He said. They were both cops.

  “This is the bike.” He pointed to one of two bikes in his garage. It was beautiful. I could see it was well maintained.

  “We get our bike’s serviced every five hundred miles so this is in great shape.”

  I walked around the bike and gave it the once over. It really was in great shape.

  “Sixty three hundred?” I asked him.

  “How about six grand.”

  “Deal.” I took out sixty hundred dollar bills and handed them over. He counted them immediately.

  “This is an FXRP. It’s the Police special. You can’t put on as many attachments but the frame is beefier, way stronger. And this is bike is fast, real fast. It’s made for pursuit.”

  “Cool.” I knew right away I was going to take this police special apart and rebuild it into an outlaw right away. I hit the button and it turned on and purred like a sewing machine. It was a little too quiet for me. Going to have to change that exhaust, among other things.

  “You gotta be careful.” The cop said to me.

  “I know how to ride. I’m a five diploma Harley Mechanic.”

  “I got that. That’s not what I mean. I’m big and fat, you’re pretty skinny. That bike is REALLY fast. You got to be careful. That’s all I’m saying. ”

  We filled out the title, shook hands and I took off. He wasn’t kidding. This bike was fast. When I stabbed the throttle one time it almost took off from underneath me.

  I took it to the bike shop the next day and started taking it apart.

  “Why are you going to take apart a perfectly good motorcycle. Why don’t you ride it for a while first?” One of the mechanics asked me. “Cause I’m gonna make it my own.”

  I knew I wanted take that bike completely apart, put in a chrome bolt kit, tap every hole thread every bolt, polish the jugs, put on a chrome Thunderheader exhaust with chrome eighty spoke wheels. That’s what it’s like customizing your own bike. Not only was I going to get the bike I was exactly dreaming of but after you put it together, I would know every inch of it.

  It took me about two months to get the bike completely done. I painted it black with Red flames and a white pin stripe on them. Only one overlap, old school style. All chrome with twelve inch risers. It wasn’t every day you saw a completely custom FXR. Most guys kept those bikes stock.

  The guy who owned the motorcycle shop was named Johnny and he had been on the run for six months. I’m not sure what he did but he knew
he had to go inside for a while so he avoided the cops at all costs. It became this game of Cat and Mouse and somehow Johnny was always two steps in front of the cops. Everyone at the shop got used to the cops strolling in twice a week looking for him. They never looked too anxious. Like they knew he wasn’t there and it was just a formality stopping by.

  The day I finally got the bike finished I took it for a test ride around the neighborhood. The bike was clean and fast. One big thing out of the way, I got another FXR. All my friends rode choppers, I was the only one with an FXR. Until my buddy Al rode it. Then he got one too. Of my SBU crew in Miami Al was the only one with a motorcycle besides me. It was just our method of travel. We ride bikes.

  Me and Al were in front of the shop after my test ride adjusting the clutch on my bike.

  “FREEZE.” Someone said behind us. We slowly turned and there was about twenty cops in face masks and full riot gear approaching us with their guns drawn.

  “PUT THE WRENCH DOWN NOW. GET ON THE FLOOR.” Everyone who was standing in the front of the shop got on the floor. Even the customers. The cops started making their way through the shop to the back. Johnny was standing in the back of the shop there smoking a joint when one of the mechanics opened the back door.

  “They’re here boss. For real this time.”

  Johnny started to run, then he just stopped.

  “This was coming sooner than later. Might as well face the music.” He hit the joint one more time just as the cops reached the back.

  “ON THE GROUND. NOW.”

  Johnny was put in handcuffs and led out. The cops were gone just as fast as they got there. The customers got off the ground and all left. Me and Al went back to working on my bike but I couldn’t stop thinking how my own clock was ticking. I had somewhere else to be. I got my bike and all my tools out of there and never went back. The shop closed about a month later. It’s a car stereo place now.

  67

  You always have to be able to recognize the green lights and the red lights in life. You can’t let any opportunity go by without extracting whatever you can out of it. And the only way you can do that is to have your eyes open.

  Everything was moving along according to plan. I had already gotten divorced from the Dutch girl I had married and not seen in eighteen years. I hired an attorney, paid him and in about a month I was divorced. I still had about eight months to go until I could apply again at the Dutch immigration office, so I was just letting time go by. Miami is a cool place to let time go by. I got to see my Mom all the time which was great and hang out and go riding bikes with Al, just like we were kids. I had a chopper and an FXR so I alternated bikes all the time.

  There was a bunch of thugs my buddy Red was getting a name building custom choppers, but he kept building them and selling them so he only had a bike once in a while.

  South Beach Underground was really taking off. We were making T shirts and stickers and every one wanted them. I was putting the locals that I grew up with on the shirts. I had my own t shirt press and the shirts came out real nice. Everyone was wearing them. SBU stickers were all over town. On every car, every street sign and every door way on the beach.

  The second time Hollywood got near my life I was a little more aware than the first time. A lot of water had passed under the bridge. Many lessons. Not only was I aware of opportunities coming my way, I was looking for them at all times.

  I was having lunch at Big Pink which is this jam packed restaurant one block from Teds Hideaway the local bar me and my friends hung out most nights. Both places are usually always packed to capacity and today was no exception. I had made some real good money at last nights SBU party, and I was taking Red to lunch. We had to wait about twenty minutes to get a table and when we got it, we were jammed in between two big tables each with parties of six. One table was Cuban and one was Haitian. It was kind of funny, everybody trying to talk louder than the guy next to him. It was July fourth weekend and the place had a line out the door. I was in an especially good mood because the party took in over ten grand the night before. Making money is always exciting.

  Me and Red were in deep conversation about when to do the next party and where. I always moved it around town. Never the same club twice. A table of four sat across from us next to the Haitian table. It was an older guy with a younger couple and a real tall guy about thirty five years old. The old guy had a camera siting in front of him on the table. After a few minutes this guys slowly moved the camera so that it pointed at me and turned it on. I could see the little red light go on and I knew he was filming. And I didn’t like it.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him kind of aggressively.

  “I would just like to film you for a minute if that’s ok.”

  “What do you wanna do? Film a guy eating his lunch in this packed house?” I was being sarcastic. I didn’t like that he put the camera on me I turned back to Red and we kept brainstorming the next party. After about six minutes I turned back to the guy with the camera.

  “You got enough?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  Right then the food came and we chowed down. When we finished I gave the waitress a huge tip.

  “That’s a pretty big top homie.” Red said.

  “You gotta throw the money around like that or it stops coming to you.”

  “Yeah. Ok.” Red wasn’t into throwing money around. He worked real hard for his dough. I was kind of superstitious. I walked up to the old guy with the camera. I had to squeeze past the customers siting at the table next to us.

  “You can send my royalty check to Outcast Talent management.” I said to the guy.

  “Could I? Could I find you there?” he was excited. You could tell he was a somebody. He wasn’t there vacationing.

  “If you were looking. That’s my friends agency.” I bent down and bumped one of the diners next to me at the Haitian table.

  “Watch it.” The guy said to me. It was crowded and I almost knocked his plate over.

  “What do you do?” The with the camera asked me.

  “I tattoo in the oldest shop in town, Tattoos by Lou. It’s here on the beach. I just read for the Bad Boys movie that they are going to film here but I don’t think I’m gonna get the part. I don’t read for parts too much. My buddy got me to go. A bunch of my friends are in it.”

  “You’ve got it. I’ve seen you on film and you’ve got it.” He said.

  I stood up and hit the Haitian guys, girl’s chair knocking over her water. She was not happy. The Haitian guy stood up fast.

  “That’s it.” He said. I backed up like we were going to fight right in the restaurant.

  “Excuse me.” He said as he took an extra chair from the table next t us. He placed it in front of the guy with the camera.

  “Sit down man. The man wants to talk to you. Sit down here and talk to the man man.” He said in a thick Island accent. He had heard everything.

  “Thank You.”

  I sat for a few minutes talking to the guy and his crew and when their food came I split. On the way out I paid the bill for the Haitian table. They must have freaked. It was over a hundred dollars.

  I got on my bicycle and rode around the beach for a while. I had this beach cruiser with ape hanger handle bars. I went and found some weed and smoked a joint while I was riding along. Just a chill life.

  I turned the corner and I saw the guy from the restaurant with the camera and his crew loading up a van with lighting and camera equipment. I rode up to them. The big guy was loading the van and the older guy was adjusting his camera. The man and woman who I found out later were married were producers.

  “Wanna smoke a joint?” I asked as I rolled up on my bicycle.

  “ We don’t smoke joints.” The guy with the camera said.

  “I write.” I said.

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah. I write pretty damn good.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “Yeah. I write so goddamn good that if we write a movie together it�
�s gonna sell about a million tickets.”

  “I’m sure it would.”

  The big guy who was the camera operator looked down on me like I was insane.

  “Do you now who he is?” he said to me with disgust. I looked up at him like he was insane. He was tall. Like six foot ten. I had to really look up.

  “Do you know who I am? I am motherfuckin D.L…. Ask ANYONE around here.” I looked back at the old guy with the camera. I could tell he was in charge.

  “Wanna see something I wrote?”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Five minutes. I live two blocks away. You gonna wait?”

  “Five minutes.” He said and with that I took off in the other direction pedaling as fast as I could. I ran up my stairs and grabbed three magazines I had stories published in. I had been published at least twenty times at this point in the Motorcycle Magazine ‘The Horse’ at this point. I grabbed three articles I really liked. Then I rode back as fast as I could to where they were loading their van.

  When I turned the corner they were standing in the middle of the street waiting for me. The old guy had a small Panasonic hand camera, probably state of the art for the day, and the big guy had a larger camera on his shoulder. I was riding up thinking to myself, ‘You get a break in life right now. Cards are being dealt.’ I knew opportunity was pulling me over again. Somehow I just knew I was being dealt great cards, RIGHT NOW.

  I rode up and handed him the magazines and the lady producer walked up and grabbed the magazines. He started interviewing me, with both of them filming me. The big guy kept still and the old guy would move his camera in and out and take different angles.

  “So what do you do?”

  “I’m a tattoo artist. I ride a bike have fun live life. That’s it.”

  “Are you from Miami?”

  “Born and raised. I went to California when I was fifteen.”

  “What’s next?” he asked me while he kept moving the camera around.

  ‘What do you mean?”