I was 17 when I had my first, and hopefully only, encounter with a member of an elite gang. They were powerful and even more so feared. Standing at about 67 inches tall, roughly 140 pounds, wearing only the most threatening pair of “Levi’s,” I have seen, he strolled over to me scowling, his eyebrows furrowed, and asked, “Do you know Joel, from Hell’s Angels?” I scanned him, looked the man straight in the eyes and said, “No,” while slowly turned to the girl next to me hoping she'd have an answer. “Laurie, this guy, uh-” I was cut off by the man with a forceful, “ask her the question,” he paused, looking back and forth between us, “Come on, ask her.” Vexed, I mumbled to Laurie as my mind raced to muster up something to say, “Do you, uh, know
