THIS CHARMING LIFE
Free men
I would be lying if I said that I came to Charming for a simple matter of chance.
The small town of Southern California, which according to the latest census did not reach fifteen thousand habitants, had something to hook it up. A kind of magnetic force that made even those who had decided to live their life far from their borders, end up returning. Progress was making itself felt in the surroundings, shops and businesses prospered little by little, as if they were inlaid in a transparent dome that provoked that what was new in other states, took a long time to become a novelty in Charming.
A quaint and conservative place. A small town lost on the great map of America where life passed by without anything remarkable happening to most people.
Well... that's not what happened to me.
After spending my two and half decades of life with my mother, she decided that her obligations with me were over. Always suffering from nervous breakdowns, unable to find happiness or satisfaction with anything he did, he began to distance himself from me gradually. First only in spirit and then in physical form. His last bomb was to let go of my biological father's identity, a request I had been making without success since I was eighteen, receiving in return evasive, nervous comments and gestures of mortification.
—I doubt you want to meet him. And much less relate to him, —she told me, with no more information than a name and address more than twenty years ago. —I had a good husband and he raised you well at least the time you were with us. The other guy, your father... looks nothing like what you know until now, and the best thing that could happen to you, would be not to find him if you decide to go look for him.
I remained silent, remembering my stepfather and little anything in common that I had with him. He had died in a work accident and my mother was never recovered. Sleep pills, and more pills to stay awake, finished by admitting, speechless, than her relations with men was marked by bad decisions. However, she gave me the information I needed, and after leaving her where life tooks her (because we had never been close enough to tried to stop her), I went my own way.
Did I want to find my father? To that unknown man whose name my mother had never wanted to utter? Maybe I just need to look at him, see if by looking at his face and seeing his eyes, I felt rooted to someone for the first time in my life. Maybe he was just trying to fill an empty space and then move on. I did not know, I was just clear that I wanted to feel under my feet the ground under which my roots grew, to breathe the same air that my mother had in her lungs in the only time in her life when, apparently, she was happy. Connect with her somehow, even if I did not use much.
I arrived in Charming on a Wednesday. In the middle of a week I had nothing special. With my old Volkswagen Beetle green filled with a meager amount of luggage, because all my material belongings fit into a few bags. I had never felt attached to the place where my mother had gone after getting pregnant, just as I did not regret the loss of friendships for changing schools. I had always considered myself... something like a comet's thread, rocked by the wind, comfortable where it would fall until a new gust made me fly.
I was running from Charming in search of more, or perhaps, returning to the home he had never had time to miss. I escaped from many things, disappointments, lousy decisions and the emptiness of a person whose most basic family ties are as thin as a pair of shoelaces. What would it be like to settle close to my father? What kind of man would it be? Would I dare to look for him, stand before him and tell him...?
—Hello? Excuse me, are you lost? You are parked in the middle of a zebra crossing and this one is a shopping street.
I looked up from the hood, where I had entertained myself by consulting a pathetic map of the town and found myself facing a tall man with short, well-combed brown hair. He was wearing a uniform and a plaque. His kind smile relaxed me, although for some strange reason, I prepared myself to show a defensive attitude if necessary. I had never felt comfortable with established authority.
—It's David Hale, Deputy Sheriff, —he introduced herself, holding out his hand.
—Hi. —I squeezed his hand with the proper formalism, taking advantage of a few locks of loose hair behind my ears. —I'm sorry, I just got here and I'm not sure where I should go.
—Are you coming on a study or vacation trip? It is possible that you have confused yourself of town and in fact, you are looking for Lodi. I can escort you to the border if you want.
Escort me? I thought, with a grin on my lips. And from whom? Of the Girls Scout who sold oatmeal cookies? That place seemed so peaceful, that leaving the car standing in the middle of a half-deserted road was not bothering anyone.
—I'm in the right place. Charming. My mother lived here when she finished high school and she... gave me some notions about picturesque places to visit. —And possible parents to look for, though I kept it for the moment. —She keeps in touch with a friend of hers, she's on the road now and rented me her apartment. Sherry Floyd.
—Floyd? —Deputy Hale scratched his forehead. He held out his hand and pointed to a shop just behind him, adorned with large glass windows. A barber shop. —Sherry is the owner's daughter, she does not live here more than a few months a year. The available floor is just above.
—Great! I closed the map as a gesture of triumph. I tucked it into my shoulder strap and rummaged through the car keys. Then I'm in the right place.
Hale's grimace did not seem to agree with my hurried words, but he did not have time to express his disapproval. Neither did I move from the site. The dull, recognizable sound of the Harley Davidson engine broke the silence. It was as if a sharp knife cut off the quiet, calm atmosphere of that quiet street. Hale moved a few imperceptible inches, almost covering my eyes, in a clearly defensive pose that I ended up ignoring, because what was happening in front of me was much more interesting.
Four bikers surrounded the street and stopped, civically, at a red traffic light. They all wore a Harley, although the ornaments in the form of serigraphs differentiated them. The lollipops that looked, cut like leather vests, were embroidered with insignias that despite the distance, I could read: Sons of Anarchy. In the center of her back, the Death face smiled, holding her scythe high, waiting.
I kept my eyes on them, gazing at them all as a strange foreboding was born in the pit of my stomach. The two bikers that went further back seemed to be in their forties. One was white, with his half-hearted mane and sole, floating around. The other, lean and taller, had dark hair and something curly, visible in spite of the helmet. At the head of the march was a man with dark gloves and a square jaw. He was also wearing glasses and helmet, but he turned his head slightly in the direction of Hale and I could see his profile. There were badges on the front of his vest, but I could not read them.
Something urged me to stare at him for a few seconds, with a growing uneasiness on my chest, until the bike that was just to his right, a few feet behind, accelerated slightly to rise to his height. It was led by the youngest member of the group, a blond-haired man whose long locks protruded above the waistcoat. His arms were bare, for the white T-shirt he wore was short-sleeved. He had no gloves, but long fingers covered with rings.
The headman made a gesture and he turned his face in our direction. He nodded once, and when the traffic light turned green, he did not continue the march with the rest, but he made a turn in the adjoining street and was lost sight of... until the engine of his Dyna became audible to our left, Approaching to where we were the deputy and me.
—I can still escort you to Lodi, —Hale told me, before putting on his sunglasses and facing the newcomer with a pose that seemed more ready for a round than to chat peacefully.
A very white sneaker hit the ground when the bike stopped a few meters from us. He, without removing his helmet or glasses, smiled. Had very blond facial hair and his arms were marked by a series of muscles. He was tall and athletic, probably because of the number of hours he spent on the road, making miles on the huge machine he now held with the weight of his body, with no apparent effort. In one of the arms, engraved in dark ink, he was allowed to see a tattoo. A kind of memorial, a tombstone with a name I could not read.
I did not know it at the time, but part of my fate had just been sealed off. And I did not know either, but with the passage of time, the sound of the motorbikes approaching would become the only balm able to calm me in the worst moments. I would also learn, over time, that the seat of that Dyna would become a second home for me.
—I heard about the explosion in your warehouse, — Hale was saying, raising his left foot with all the intention of placing it threateningly on the front wheel of the motorcycle, but he thought it better at the last moment and not did. —It was planted with shells, something tells me it was a weapons depot."
—That's out of your jurisdiction, deputy.
His voice reached me deep, to places of my body that had not been seen by anyone so far. It seems absurd, doesn't it? How can the voice of an unknown man mean anything, just like that? I have no way of explaining it, I only know that I looked at him, totally inappropriately, and I let my eyes study him. He, that unnamed biker, kept exchanging words of intent with Hale, who were all answered on a plaque and a position that apparently had to be less respected than he should. She did not appear to be nervous or intimidated, in fact, smiling, with one eyebrow arched, visible and blond on the sunglasses.
With the closeness of the one I now enjoyed, I noticed the patch-covered waistcoat, and walked them one by one with care. Redwood Original. Vice president. Men of Mayhem. SAMCRO. All those words were still foreign to me, and yet... yet there was something in those letters that, like Charming himself, with that spell that I carried so implicitly in the name, called me. A strange sense of belonging.
—Who is the girl? —I heard the biker ask. The reference to me brought me out of my reverie, and I was opening my mouth to respond, when Hale again made a move to cover.
—She is passing. Her mother is a friend of Floyd's eldest daughter, Sherry. She's come to spend a few days.
I looked at Hale with skepticism. Few days? This was not a piece of information I would have given him. The biker scratched his chin, concentrating only on me. The certainty of his gaze made all the heat of the sun fall on me, warming my skin tightly. I was sure I had blushed, so I tried to look down and focus on anything else. I noticed that he was wearing jeans, a model that was quite wide in the legs. On one side of the belt hung a sheath, and inside, there seemed to be a knife. All a declaration of imminent danger. His complete appearance was a warning, a huge high voltage sign with an arrogant smile and leather cover.
I looked back at him, he smiled at me, then pointed at Hale.
—And she can't speak for herself, deputy? —I saw him smile, his forearms resting on the handlebars of the bike. He looked at me from top to bottom. He emphasized his smile, then nodded back. —Floyd is a good friend. Surely she loves to see you, especially if you have any news of your daughter, that passes here pretty little. I carry you?
—Careful, Jax, —Hale interjected again, pointing his finger at him. I dont' want trouble with civilians.
The blond biker looked at him, sly. He called him an assistant, emphasizing that word very much, which gave me to understand that there was a scheme of power that was escaping me. If David Hale was the assistant, there obviously was a Sheriff to whom he was accountable. But then... why that attitude to the driver? They looked like two dogs ready to mark the territory so that the other knew as far as he could reach to lift the leg.
The difference, I guessed right away, was that Hale was striving to show his supremacy. And Jax ... Jax just used it.
—I'm just proving to be a good neighbor, —he said vehemently. He shrugged and straightened the bike, taking hold of his feet. —And the offer was directed at her, Hale. Let the girl answer.
Hale did not like her addressing me, but I do not think it had anything to do with me, but with the fact that they passed over her person. Without knowing how, I had ended up in the middle of a pulse of force, and apparently had taken me as an excuse for a quarrel that came from afar.
—Chief Unser will retire soon, and I will take his place. —His tone was not threatening, but it contained many implications that I, as yet, did not know. —Unlike him, I will not turn a blind eye to The Sons, Jax. It's a friend's warning.
Jax started her Harley, which roared with a puff of black humor through the exhaust. He shrugged, as if none of it affected him in the slightest.
—We are free men protected by the Constitution, —declared, with such impudence, that made me smile.
With that look, Jax had the face of being everything except an innocent model citizen. The most intelligent thing would have been to decline his offer with education and let the respected member of law and order guide me on my first day in the pretty Charming, which apparently concealed more than I could see with the naked eye.
But as I said before... I have never felt comfortable sheltered in authority.
Jax made an eloquent gesture and I, who had not even checked if the Beetle was tightly closed, ended up walking the steps that separated me from the bike like the moth that flies towards the light, blind to any other external stimulus. With a smile, he settled into the seat to make room for me and with more grace than I could have imagined, I passed my leg over the Harley and straddled behind him.
—You do not have a passenger helmet, Jax.
—We'll just cross the street, deputy —He twisted his wrists, roaring the motorcycle loud enough for Hale's words to stay dim. —It will be a short trip. I'll take care of her.
It would not be the last time Jax had told me those words, but neither of them knew how important they were going to be. I, newly arrived and lost in a sea of secrets that I was not sure I wanted to discover, accepted the invitation of the unknown vice-president of the Sons of Anarchy because something that went beyond their evident physical attractiveness and that fussiness that oozed over the skin, pushed me to do it.
Jax was part of the magnet calling for me from Charming, and soon, we were both going to discover just how important that would be in our lives.
—Hold tight to me, darlin' —he whispered, before lifting his feet off the ground and accelerating.
And I did.