After an interrogation that lasted 15 minutes, the cops moved their cars to the side of the station and turned off their flashing lights. The commotion had shown the passing citizens that their tax dollars were at work and the cops were ridding Riverside of a "bad element." The department policy was to "show the colors" as often as possible. Gang violence had increased and was getting the public's attention. Political pressure had been brought to bear on policing procedures. The cops had seen this as a sign that they could roust any "undesirables" with impunity.

Riverside no longer had the sleepy agricultural character of the past. Today it is one of the fastest growing bedroom communities in Southern California, with $300,000-plus stucco and tiled, quasi-Mediterranean yuppie condo communities springing up among the chaparral. Long ago, these semi-desert, sparsely populated communities offered anonymity to eccentrics, outlaws, religious cults and other characters. They could ply their trade or howl at the moon just out of reach of the oppressive social machine of the L.A. Basin, as the crime-ridden, politically corrupt, smog- shrouded conglomeration of over 7 million people is collectively called.

This whole scene outside the gas station contradicted everything Chet stood for or believed. Yet many painful lessons throughout his 35 years had taught him to express himself with great frugality. In his view, the world was a dangerous place. There was no honor, no integrity, no faith. All was a measure of wealth and power. Early on, he had challenged power that called itself authority. He learned that words mean nothing, that everything is in the service of power. Eventually he realized that power maintains because it is an institution, not an individual. He could often defeat an individual, but he was eventually brought down by institutions -- parents, teachers, employers, drill sergeants, wives, cops, the list of insults to his personal integrity was long.

So as he watched the drama play out in front of him, he was careful not to draw attention to himself or his bike stashed at the side of the station. Twice when Chet noisily slurped the dregs of his drink, the tall cop glared at him from behind his reflector Ray-Bans. But Chet's practiced social camouflage served him well. The cop assessed Chet, but his retro-sunglasses, hiking boots, short hair, clean-shaven face and goofy smile revealed no particular agenda. As the tall cop turned back to the sullen bikers, Chet's smile vanished as quickly as he had thrown it up. Chet knew this was a potentially dangerous situation. His military experience had given him a toughened respect for the volatility of such encounters. The initial engagement is potentially "hot", then a kind of subtle truce ensues, but continued engagement often provokes renewed tension.

In 'Nam, the result was almost always deadly. Today, as a thin river of sweat trickled down Chet's spine to the crack of his ass, he felt the scene could go either way. He didn't want to be a part of any of it. He didn't want to make a move lest it bring attention to himself. But he was ready to spring aside if bullets started to fly. The bikers didn't get their gas, instead they took off with the two cops eyeing their every move as they went. The Sikh gas station manager poked his turbaned head around the doorway and hollered out "Thank you" to the departing cops. They waved. "They are such nice men, don't you think?" The manager had returned to his counter filled with Slim-Jims, Lotto tickets and candy. Chet absently nodded and made an agreeable noise, "hmmm, uh."

Chet thanked the manager for the root beer and left just as the cops slowly cruised through the intersection. When he was sure they were out of sight, he moved to the side of the station to recover his bike. Next to his bike, a tall, skinny teenager sat on a cinder block wall dividing the station from the mini-mall next door. The kid's demeanor expressed that common combination of awkwardness and too-familiar hipness that was both irritating and endearing.

"That your bike?" the kid asked. His head bobbed to some music in his head. His greasy flat-top, pimple-pocked cheeks and nose-wrinkling squint gave the kid an expression of almost comical stereotype. Chet tried not to smile too broadly.

"Yup," Chet said curtly.

"I'm gonna' have one of them," the kid continued. "As soon as I'm 16 I'm gittin' a license."

"That so?" Chet busied himself with mounting the bike, rolling it away from the side of the garage and turning on the gas.

"Yeah, my stepdad has a Harley but he won't let me ride it. Says I'm not big enough. I ride dirt bikes though. I'm good."

Chet turned and regarded the kid more closely. He turned off the gas and put the kick stand back down. He turned, putting both feet down on the pavement, and leaned sideways against the seat. The kid kept up his mantra of hopes and dreams. Chet smiled supportively.

"You don't look like a biker," the kid said, regarding Chet more closely.

"Well, kid, what you look like is not always what you are," Chet paused enigmatically as he waited for the kid's reaction.

The kid was silent as he looked down at the asphalt, kicking his heels against the cinder block. Then he quickly looked up at Chet with that same awkward squint. "So what's that mean?"

"I'm not sure what your experience will permit you to understand." Chet paused again. He was wasting daylight talking to this kid. But then he thought it would be good to give himself a little distance from the cops who had just left. "Nothing is as it seems. What people tell you is not always the truth. What you believe is often what you've been told to believe. Bikers who wear badges want to be noticed. An outlaw is someone who gets noticed. The baddest dudes," he lapsed into biker jargon for the kids' entertainment, "are the ones that no one notices. Brothers who ride together get noticed. OK?"

"I think I see." The kid stopped kicking the cinder block. "So are you a biker or not?"

"It doesn't matter."

"So what matters?" The kid was worse than a cop. He was working a screwdriver around and under any flaw in Chet's words, trying to pry apart the fallacies normally found in any adult statement.

"What matters to you?" Chet bounced the question back to the kid.

"Not much," the kid shrugged and looked down.

"Yeah, that's the way it is for a lot of people some time in their lives," Chet said. The kid nodded vaguely. "The hardest thing in life seems to be finding something you believe in; something that someone else didn't create for you, something that you discovered on your own. Maybe that's too abstract. How's this? At one time, I trusted people, Mom and Dad. They got a divorce. Teachers, who I found out later didn't always tell the truth. Buddies, who wouldn't back me up when I was in trouble. The Army, which just wanted you for gun fodder. A wife who made promises but ran off with another guy. It goes on and on. What it all means is that we are all alone, from beginning to end. To maintain, you've got to come to terms with that, in your own way. There is no one to show you the way. You must find it yourself."

The halogen lights had come on in the service station bays, casting an eerie artificial glow on the two figures. They sat quietly regarding the setting sun and its spectacular effect on the clouds.

Chet broke the silence. "That's something you can believe in," he said pointing to the sky. "Things like that, that you experience, are as real as it gets."

"But will I ever have a bike like yours?" The kid looked at Chet pleadingly.

"Sure, and you'll probably break your neck," Chet mounted the bike again and turned on the gas, "and that will be real. And it will be your experience. But how it will matter is up to you. You've got it all, kid. It's waiting for you out there. All you have to do is be open to it. Don't take anyone else's word for it. Don't depend on others to validate who you are. You matter."

Chet smiled his biggest smile of the day at the kid as he cranked the engine over. Conversation was pointless now that the chopper throbbed to life. A deafening rap from the pipes punctuated the hot night air. The kid's eyes sparkled as the ground shook, he could feel the power rumble up through the cinder blocks on up into his rangy frame. He gave Chet a thumbs-up sign and bobbed his head to the rhythmic lope of the engine.

Chet turned back to the kid and hollered, "You'll matter to you." With that, he roared out of the gas station and onto the pavement. He soon blended into the mass of traffic and became invisible to the kid. Above the din of traffic, the kid could hear the unmistakable rap of Chet's chopper as he rolled the accelerator forward, coaxing more horsepower out of the Panhead.

The kid scooted off the block wall and walked to the edge of the sidewalk, looking out at the parade of taillights. Just then, a fully dressed-out chopper passed within a couple feet of him, roaring into the right turn lane. It was a spectacular combination of chrome, leather and steel. The rider was A fat old guy who was dressed out as spectacularly as his bike. It was a Feast for the eyes, a veritable Mardi Gras in metal.

The kid smiled, waved and turned. Talking to himself as he walked away, he said, "Pretty, but it ain't me." The kid kicked at an empty can as he crossed the parking lot of the mini-mall. "But I don't know me." He stopped, looked up in the sky, then shrugged his shoulders. His walk returned to that distracted, rhythmic, loping gait that some lost kids have as they stumble through life, looking for something to direct their passions. Something more than just the setting sun in hot, harassed, heartless Riverside.