Springtime, Sunday, first day of daylight savings time and the regulars were in their usual places sipping their usual brews outside their favorite Port Costa gin mill. Frequent checks of the clouds amid intermittent California sunshine didn’t convince some of the more concerned bikers that April showers wouldn’t spritzen on their glimmering machines and muddy the chrome.

The usual Amtrak trains clacked by in both directions with occasional blasts of air horns and hand waving from the crowd. A regatta was in full swing on the Carquinez Straight. Inestimable hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of boats slipped by with pregnant spinnakers bloated with their captured wind.

And then the unusual happened. Carl and Willie, two long-time Sunday-afternooners, watched as a strange couple rode in on their bikes towards the dusty parking lot at the end of the street. Stroking his full-face salt and pepper beard, Carl nudged Willie’s arm and pointed to the arriving newcomers. The new riders backed their bikes against the curb, side by side, amidst the usual array of forty or fifty classic and showroom-fresh Harleys.

Both were large persons and both smoked. The more rotund of the two was an attractive blond, a clear complexioned Norwegian, without doubt. The large mounds of her Levied tush seemed to surround, envelop and overcome her smallish Yamaha. Although she was more than just hefty, she retained an obvious, rounded womanliness.

Her Harley riding companion, on the other hand, albeit abundant for sure, lacked her associate’s gifts. Square shaped, shorter, with short cropped, helmet-head disheveled mousy hair, the butch one was more than pleased to discuss her shiny new bike with the regulars who were quick to engage the new couple in biker talk...a friendly bunch.

The shorter woman drew a large group of the new-Harley-o-philes. The blonde, on the older import, drew Rex. But all this was predictable to any astute Port Costa regular.

"There he goes," Carl said, nudging Willie with his elbow.

Willie nodded as he drained his beer bottle. "Rex is quick, all right. Hasn’t slowed down a bit ever since I’ve known him. Gotta hand it to him, though. He handles rejection better than you or me."

"Hell, Willie, he gets up to the plate more often than most all of us here combined. His rejection rate merely reflects his successes."

"I sure could use some of that good old fashioned success," Willie said.

"Get real, bro. Nobody wants you when you’re old and gray."

"You got that right, I guess."

Rex was the first to make a move towards the blond, having come off the wooden porch steps of the old closed hotel across the street. Many of the regulars seemed to anticipate his usual role of breaking the ice.

Rex was known for sporting the latest in Harley fashions, tailored to his obvious hirsute weight-lifter frame. And his rich baritone voice, easygoing smile and marketing-type bearing served him well. The fact that he was knowledgeable about bikes, blessed with a smooth sense of humor and a little money, helped. Carl and Willie watched as the practiced socializer operated.

Willard, or Willie as he was known, after the late Willie of the 1947 Hollister Wild One fame, snuffed out the nub of the joint he was smoking, laid the dead roach in a small pocket of his vest and stood, stretching his lanky legs. "I want to watch this," he said, and sucked on the dregs of the foam in his beer bottle. His gray hair, which he wore pulled taught by rubber bands at the back of his head, made him out to be older than his forty-seven years, or so his cronies said.

"Watch what, Willie?"

Willie looked down at his older friend.

"I wanna see how long it takes for good-buddy Rex to come to his senses."

Carl’s grin was lost in his gray mustache and beard as he looked up at his long time biker pal, then took a sip of his O’Doul’s brew. "You figure his blood went south?"

"Christ, yeah. He’s never been in control. Logic ain’t his strong suit. Not that I’ve ever had any, but hell, Rex gets blinded pretty easy. It’s interesting how swiftly a pretty new face can inject an additional level of palpable energy into an already existing ambiance of commotion."

"Geeze, Willie. Don’t go philosophic on me again with your Willie-isms. It’s too early for that. Anyway, I don’t wanna be around whenever he wakes up."

"I hear ya. I’ve seen his reactions when he’s frustrated."

"Yeah, we all have, but that’s not what I meant."

"What then?"

"Jesus, Willie, Rex is an intolerant son-of-a-bitchin’ homophobe."

"Yeah, I know. He can’t stand queer guys. So, I’m wondering about him not seein' that these two broads are together. I mean, together together." Willie twisted his index and middle finger together and moved his arm in a forward motion, smiling.

"He’s brain drained, Willie. Ever since his ex left him."

"Yup. Ain’t never learned. Consumed by the chase, I guess. Look, already he’s got beers comin' for the both of them. Standard procedure."

"I’m gonna get a refill and hit the head. Ya want another beer, Willie?"

"If you’re buyin’," he shot back with a nod.

Willie watched from his perch on the wall across from the bar as fifteen or so of his black leathered acquaintances milled near the two women, inspecting their machines. Rex’s seductive tones rolled on about the numerous merits of his Harley. His eyes rarely left Rhona’s Norwegian cherubic face as he spoke and gulped his beer. He offered a cigarette.

"Thanks, Rex." She extended a bulky arm and extracted one from the pack. Rex constricted the pack in his hand. Rhona withdrew a cigarette with effort. Unaffected, she leaned toward him for a light. Two shafts of dense smoke blew among the shifting crowd and mixed among the odors of hot engines, fuel vapors and leather.

Rex and Rhona left for the bar, in step, shoulders and arms touching. She yelled back to her girlfriend, "Ginger, honey, I’m goin’ inside."

"Roger, Rhona babe. I’ll be here, chattin’ with the troops."

Ginger continued answering questions from the bikers about her new Harley. She kept her jacket open, gloved hands on her hips and boots planted apart. The leather chaps gave her a boxy silhouette. An occasional smile cracked her businesslike demeanor.

During the Q&A session, the bikers exchanged appreciative comments and comparisons, de rigueur for Sundays at the Port. Some circled the bike a final time and then drifted elsewhere. Others pointed, nodded and dropped onto their haunches for a close-up. Once satisfied, each one soon meandered away, some with a wave, leaving Ginger alone by her chromed mount, clenching the cigarette’s filter between her teeth. She soon swaggered toward the bar, flicking the butt in a high arc a good twenty feet down the street.

Willie eased onto his feet and followed. "This should be good," he mumbled. "Hope the blond has her hands to herself, and Rex is bein’ a good boy."

Carl had his drinks and was leaving a tip on the bar when Ginger came through the open door. He watched as she elbowed her way through the three deep, beer drinking, popcorn-munching multitude surrounding the historic, high wooden bar. Ginger found Rhona opposite the pool table on a stool next to Rex, sharing pretzels, an ashtray, and small talk. They were sipping imported brews and blowing competitive smoke rings towards Tequila bottles lined up behind the bar.

An old Benny Goodman swing tune reverberated from the vintage jukebox as Ginger stepped up onto a leg support of Rhona’s barstool. She put her arm around Rhona’s neck, stuck her tongue in her ear, and then kissed her ear lobe. Rhona turned, they kissed each other full on the mouth.

Rex was immobilized.

Carl walked out with a bottle in each hand chuckling to himself when he ran into Willie at the door. They matched each other’s smirks.

Willie motioned to Carl to follow him to their favorite place, the low stone wall underneath the overhang of a turn-of-the-century tree by the dilapidated former bawdyhouse hotel. They squeezed between the dozen or so parked Harleys and sat. Willie started on his one too many. A cold back up stood by his boot. In the shade, as Willie sipped, Carl kept smoothing his beard, his signature habit. Faded tattoos with blended outlines proclaimed his long Harley life. His Live To Ride bandanna, wallet chained to his jeans and a HD T shirt he wore under a sun faded vest reaffirmed his life style in spades. Comfortable in his recovery from alcohol use, Carl sipped his non-alcoholic brew.

"Hey, Willie. Look, Rex just came out. And he ain’t lookin’ too happy."

"Jesus, that’s an understatement." A drawn-out, bass-toned belch escaped from between Willie’s lips. "Let’s see if he’s still in control. Maybe we should intervene."

Rex’s face looked mummified. Deep squints shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun as his boots kicked up road dust and pebbles with each step. He marched to his black Softail and found it blocked by several other bikes. After a string of expletives, he kicked his front tire.

"Yo, Rex," Willie, yelled. "Come’ere, I got a brewski for ya." Willie leaned forward a little as he raised up off his perch, a bit unsteady.

Rex looked up. His great stone face eyed Willie as his black eyebrows converged. Their color matched his new jacket. He seemed transfixed.

Willie waved him over. "Come on, man. I’ve got a cold one for ya." Then he said, "We’d better divert his attention, Carl. I’d hate to have him lose it over somethin’ this silly."

Carl looked up. "What the hell ya doin', Willie? Rex is pissed. He worries me when he’s upset. Hell, I hope he don’t use the C word. Even though most of the women regulars here don’t give a rap, I know one that’ll stone him."

"Don’t sweat it, Carl. A beer’ll cool him down. And if that don’t do it, I got just what will."

"Hope you’re right. He’s comin’ this way."

"Here ya go, Rex. Toss this down."

With a mechanical reach, Rex grasped the bottle like a big robot. It seemed to get lost in his ham-fisted black, fingerless glove. He twisted the cap off, tossed it over his head, drained half the bottle, then smacked his lips.

Carl fingered his mustache, curling the edges sideways as he peered into Rex’s face. He hesitated, then spoke through a smirk. "Hey, Rex. Didn’t you see their license plates?"

Willie winced, and looked up as if checking the clouds, but his eyes were closed tight.

Rex seemed unable to form the words he needed to respond to the older bro. His head twisted from side to side like a slow motion metronome. He spit. "What do you mean? What’s with their plates?"

"Man, they both have decals on their license plate frames. You know, the rainbow colors."

The first trace of understanding crossed Rex’s face. As if off somewhere else, he rotated his bottle, contemplated the label, then swirled the base of the bottle, raising a head. He drained the beer.

"No, man. I never noticed shit. I was too... involved." His deep voice resonated embarrassment.

Willie grinned. "Yeah. We saw. So where’s the big blond?"

Rex peered out beyond the parking lot, past the dual set of railroad tracks to the big money sailboats slicing through the tide in the Carquinez. A wistful expression replaced his concrete look. He stared at his new black boots. "It seems I ticked-off her... er, associate. Rhona’s friend made it perfectly clear that if I didn’t back off, she’d slap her Leatherman® tool in my direction and redecorate my bike. Christ, she had the fire of a Navy Seal in her eyes."

"Whooh. Tough broad," Carl said, backing away, feigning bobbing and weaving.

"Yeah, for sure. And there I was, thinkin’ things were goin’ so great. I was already in the mood for a comfy evening with a soft, ample companion. Damn."

Rex turned and studied the Carquinez Straight. "Maybe I should trade in my scooter for a boat. A change of pace. Yeah, that’s the ticket." He looked at Willie and Carl. "You guys up for another beer?"

"Sure. It’s not too late yet. Right Carl?" Willie started toward the bar.

Carl stroked his beard and nodded. "Yeah. These longer days are just what us outdoorsy types need."

"Hey look. The two broads are headin’ for their bikes," Willie said.

They watched as the women patted each other’s tush before mounting their machines and pulling on their helmets. The two of them rolled from the curb in a synchronous arc, up the street, side by side, in a wake of dust, out of sight.

Willie grinned wide at his two bros, an old signal known to all the regulars that another renowned, classic Willie-ism comment, or some sort of beer philosophy, was imminent.

"Wouldn’t it be neat if the main drag outta here headed west?"

"Why?" Rex said, raising his shoulders in automatic response to Willie’s conundrum.

Carl stopped stroking his beard. He folded his arms over his belly. "Okay, Willie, I’m waiting for the shoe to drop. Let’s hear it."

"Well, that means those two could have rode off into the sunset together," Willie said, pointing in their direction with his empty bottle. "Wouldn’t you guys just love a happy ending?"