My mystery man was more concerned with my father. His patches let me know he’s a Catawba Hellion and the Prez at that. Well, that explains why he carries such a serious demeanor. The level of his responsibility is a tough burden to carry. His crew depends on, and trusts, his instincts and instructions. I wish I knew his name, not his road-name “Tripp” or “Rex” but his real name. At least then, in my fantasies, I would know what to call him. My B.O.B (battery operated boyfriend) will just have to settle for being Tripp, or Rex, for now. I like the name Rex better, so Rex it will be.

Looking around me, I shake off my thoughts of the encounter with what’s his name to start gathering the trash off the floor and tables of the clubhouse. It’s a simple warehouse-style building with an open floor plan. There is a kitchen in the back with four restrooms just off to the side of that. In the vast space of the common area, there is a fully stocked bar, pool tables and darts in one corner, dining tables off in another, and a DJ area with a dance floor in the middle.

There used to be a stage, but it was taken down a few years back. Bikers and rockers together, yeah, this building isn’t big enough for the egos. A lead singer decided to openly flirt with an ol’ lady, which was a clear sign of disrespect to Frisco, her man. In a moment of jealousy and rage, Frisco jumped on stage and began punching the singer in the head with his own fucking mic. When his band mates tried to pull Frisco off, the brothers stepped in and shit got ugly. My dad finally had to move in and control the situation. The damage was already done, though. The singer ended up with a broken jaw and nose, while the other band members were roughed up but nothing serious. The next day the stage was taken down and no more outsiders have been allowed since.

Making my way outdoors, I take a moment to enjoy my surroundings. The clubhouse is the first of many buildings on the compound. My dad owns fifty acres out in the country of Haywood’s Landing; a small coastal North Carolina town. Thirty of it is compound land which is surrounded by a privacy fence that is eight feet tall with barbwire running across the top and security cameras mounted along the way. The front gates open to the space of the lot for parking where, in the center, there are three flag poles, our American flag, our POW/KIA memorial flag, and our Hellions flag are all proudly on display. The clubhouse is the first building due to the fact it’s where most club events occur.

Finished with my small break, I continue cleaning up. Once I’ve gathered all the trash from the clubhouse, I head out to the pit to dump my trash bag. The pit is a concrete slab with a few posts holding up an A-frame tin roof. Under the shelter are pig cookers, gas grills, charcoal grills, and the oyster tables for oyster roasts. The tables are six feet long, wooden with a stainless steel top, and in the middle, there is a square hole cut out that a bucket goes under. When the oysters are ready, they are dumped on the open table to be shelled and eaten. When finished, you drop the shells in the hole to the bucket to be tossed. This is nice because anytime we cook for large crowd’s cleanup is easy. Later today, a prospect will be out here, cleaning the grills and pig cooker and hosing off the concrete.