John Burns September '09 Print E-mail
I don’t go into my local “multi-line” motorcycle parts department a lot, but I do go in there from time to time and am as nice and polite as can be, oh yes I am, in spite of episodes from the past including them ordering Mikuni jets for me instead of Keihins then refusing to take them back. Etcetera, etc. The parts guys are always nice up to a point, but I always sense a slight edge-of-patience condescension if I take too much of their time. Do I get preferential treatment as a slightly well-known semi-motojournalist (harrumph)? I don’t think they know me from Adam’s housecat, as the old saying goes, and even when I tell them my name or give them my credit card so they can order me the next wrong thing, there’s never been any spark of recognition and I’m cool with that.   A couple years ago I met this really easy-on-the-orbs, lovely girl who wanted to learn to ride motorcycles. I helped her pick out a sweet used bike, and one Saturday she wanted to check out some gear too. We hit a couple of big dealers including the local Cycle Gear, then stopped by the local dealer, who carries not a lot of gear but some, because it was on the way home anyway, you know?

It’s a pre-economic meltdown Saturday, and the tiny parts dept. is packed with customers. My friend “L” is the kind of person who gets good service maybe because she expects it? When I dine out, I usually just order something; L wants to know if the milk comes from cows treated with RSBT, and will pursue that line of questioning even if it means bringing in the cow for interrogation. We’ll waterboard you if we have to, Flossie... Then she wants the dressing on the side and some fresh steamed vegetables instead of French fries. Then she wants me to pay. Sometimes it’s a great bargain.

Anyway, before my little friend L can get the first jacket off its hanger, two parts guys have made it around the counter (one may have vaulted over) and are providing a Wikipedia interpretation of the term “bow and scrape” to help her into the jacket. They want to know how it fits, how it feels, how they can assist? We seem to have stumbled into a fine Savile Row tailoring shop. No, we don’t have any ladies’ sizes but we could order anything! But how about some boots! Here try these on! I’ve got other sizes in back, I’ll check! Do you need gloves? A helmet?! How about a backrub or pedicure!?

I’ve never seen such a sickening display, and was shocked, appalled and jealous. The normally taciturn gatekeepers of the Sacred Parts had frothed into Teen Idol contestants before L had even opened her mouth. Fine. Whatever. All I want to know is: How is little L, a fledgling motorcyclist, ever supposed to learn proper parts-counter decorum if they treat her that way?

Driving home, she enthused about what great guys they are, and couldn’t imagine why I didn’t like to buy stuff there. I told her her experience was almost the complete opposite of mine. She said and I quote, “Well, Johnny, you can be kind of an asshole.”

Here’s where I’m going with this: The uproar with Henry Louis Gates Jr., the Harvard African-American studies professor who was arrested in his own house a few weeks ago and kept the media humming for quite awhile (hummmm, hummmm…) got me wondering. How can you tell, if you’re a member of a minority group or a woman, whether you’re an asshole or not? I mean, how could your gauge ever have been properly calibrated if people have been giving you special treatment your whole life? If I found myself clapped in irons after a confrontation just like the one Gates had with the arresting officer, at some point, probably a few hours later while cooling my heels in jail or maybe the next day, I’m positive I would eventually think to myself, Dammit I’m an asshole. I wouldn’t think I’m an asshole because I’d think I was wrong—and I’m 90 percent in the Gates camp on this one. I’d think I’m an asshole for not having anticipated the likely response of my adversary the cop. Have you not encountered one before?

A few years ago I mowed my yard one summer morning, drank a refreshing Budweiser to commune with my ancestors who mowed their lawns and drank a Budweiser, and hopped in my truck to drive to my local auto parts store just a few surface-street miles away. On the way there, an officer pulled me over for not having my seat belt on, then asked me if I’d been drinking. “Why no, officer, but I did have one beer this morning.” Is honesty not the best policy?
Within about five minutes half the Costa Mesa PD was on scene, including a dog, a couple motor officers and the helicopter overhead. Naturally, as a taxpayer I wanted my full money’s worth, so I cooperated fully, watching the pen, walking the straight line, touching my nose, chatting amiably, etc.

Joe Glydon (RIP, that guy was a writer) wrote a column in here once where he spoke of something like, “the unseen partner riding shotgun in every police car—sadism.” The Costa Mesa PD was really just getting warmed up. Keeping one eye on me, the officers confabbed just out of earshot, laughing heartily oh ho ho ho now and then just like the high school football guys used to do when I was on the tennis team. One of them eventually ambled over to me in his motor officer boots, helmet/Ray-Bans and moustache and said, “How much HAVE you had to drink anyway?” Big smirk.

At that point I was beginning to wonder if I was Burt Lancaster in The Swimmer, if alcohol had so impaired me over the years I’d lost touch with reality and maybe in fact I had been drinking like a fish all morning or for the last 20 years, and just forgot?

Finally the breathalyzer specialist cop showed up in yet another shiny new car, and after explaining to me at great length how to blow into a tube, had me blow into a tube. Then wandered off with the football players for awhile, then came back all somber and serious to report that they always take two samples, for confirmation, so blow again please, which I again do. Another confab with the footballers, then shows me the reading—0.02—which is about what you expect from a guy who’s had one Budweiser. They finally let me go but seemed really disappointed, and nothing remotely approached “we’re sorry for the inconvenience, sir, but just doing our job.” In fact the guy gave me a seatbelt ticket.

At first I thought, what a bunch of assholes. But that was soon replaced by dammit, what an asshole I am for not just wearing my stupid seatbelt in the first place. And to circle back round to where I started out, if you think they’re out to get you because of your color or gender, how can I possibly ever convince you that they’re just out to get you period. They’re in fact out to get all of us, including their fellow Caucasians. Wait?! Is it because Burns is Scottish?! Or Irish? Or whatever it is?

All I’m saying is, I feel for you, minority discriminated-against guy. And I’m also jealous of you, because I wish I had something simple to blame it all upon. Other than not having a really nice rack.

John Burns confesses to being one of the biggest assholes in motojouralism, off and on, for like 20 years now. And he feels bad now because he just got his first warning instead of a ticket from a remarkably humane officer. www.johnburnswriter.com
 
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