He was here. New York, New York. The city so fabulous they had to name it twice. It was here in Greenwich Village that Jacque felt most at home dispite having just flown in from Paris. It was June 28th 1969 and it was a great time to be alive! The air was thick with electricity, even in the quiet corner of the "Oscar Widle" Bookstore Jacque knew that something was going to happen.
Lee was just a punk ass little snot nosed army brat. At the tender age of 18 he got kicked out of the house he lived with his Mom, step dad, and younger brother. He could still feel the sting of the old mans words "Fucking litlte Faggot, get out of here. I am not letting no prancing little homo in my house!"
He finally managed to get into Stonewall. What a lucky break. Usually the bouncer turned him away, much to the chagrin of his friends.
"hey Lee, how did you get in?" Dave called out, his signature 20 gallon stetson still on.
"You know you look goofy with that thing still on."
"Yea, but at least I don't look like I'm trying to look biker tough!" Dave retorted.
The youths laughed, danced and revelled in the glory of the night. Sure it was tough being a couple of street kids living in Christopher Park, but the booze and the 'ludes flowed, and the music was divine.
Jacque drank in the multi-racial and multi-colored crowd. Stonewall was truly an expression of liberte, egalite, et fraternite. Most definately the latter. But that young kid in the leather jacket really caught his interest. There was something magnetic about him and he couldn't put his finger on exactly why. He wanted to meet him and maybe to hold him, but he couldn't summon up the courage.
Finally, just as the night was really into full swing, Jacque had summoned up enough liquid courage to ask the young biker for a drink. But that's when it all went sideways. As was the usual the cops were doing another raid. This time things got ugly. He herd someone yell "Let's pay them off" and saw the shower of coins and then the riot really broke out. Staying in his dark corner he just prayed that he would be able to stay in the shadows.
Maybe it was the cheep vodka but when he saw that young biker get stomped and beat by the police it was too much. "Zut Alors!" he yelped as he tried to help out; but when he felt the sharp pain against the top of his skull he knew his mad plan to help him was nothing more than a pipe dream, shattered by jack-boots. Everything went black.
Waking up in the corner of the small bar, It was a small wonder he didn't get deported then and there! Counting his blessings that he only had a lump on the back of his head he high-tailed it out of there and got onto the next plane to France. He vowed never to visit this crazy country again, let alone think of that young boy with the jacket.
It was almost a decade since Jaque visited Greenwich again. After a decent stint as a producer in The City of Brotherly love, he decided to visit the old village again. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. Apparently after he fled during the uglyness in '69, the village became even MORE brohemian, more accepting, and more—for lack of a better term—gay. When the butchest construction worker he had ever laid eyes upon handed him a flyer to a night at "Les Mouches" he knew he had to go.
The macho here was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
But when he saw the Little biker boy, who as all grown up—and out—he knew he made the right decision. His handlebar mustache was elegent yet manly. The dark glasses he wore suggested mystery and a pain that had witnessed more than the jack-boots and billy clubs from taht night in 69. But the uniform was a thing to behold: the leather was almost shimmering it was so shiney, studs glittered and shone almost as much as the disco-ball in the spotlights of the club. His thick leg muscles practically bursting from the chaps.
No. He was now a biker MAN.
And he knew from that moment that he would be HIS biker man.