When the pool game ended, Frenchy sat down at the bar, and asked what I wanted
to know. We talked for more than an hour, but his style of conversation made me nervous.
He would pause now and then, letting a question hang, and fix me with a sad little smile…
an allusion to some private joke that he was sure I understood. The atmosphere was heavy
with hostility, like smoke in an airless room, and for a while I assumed it was all focused
on me – which most of it was when I made my initial appearance, but the focus dissolved
very quickly. The sense of menace remained; it is part of the atmosphere the Hell’s Angels
breathe… Their world is so rife with hostility that they don’t even recognize it. They are
deliberately hard on most strangers, but they get bad reactions even when they try to be
friendly. I have seen them try to amuse an outsider by telling stories which they consider
very funny – but which generate fear and queasiness in a listener whose sense of humor
has a different kind of filter.
Some of the outlaws understand this communications gap, but most are puzzled and
insulted to hear that „normal people” consider them horrible. They get angry when they
read about how filthy they are, but instead of shoplifting some deodorant, they strive to
become even filthier. Only a few cultivate a noticeable body odor. Those with wives and
steady girl friends bathe as often as most half-employed people, and make up for it by
fouling their clothes more often.
This kind of exaggeration is the backbone of their style.
The powerful stench they are said to exude is not so much body odor as the smell of old
grease in their crusty uniforms. Every Angel recruit comes to his initiation wearing a new
pair of Levis and a matching jacket with the sleeves cut off and a spotless emblem on the
back. The ceremony varies from one chapter to another but the main feature is always the
defiling of the initiate’s new uniform. A bucket of dung and urine will be collected during
the meeting, then poured on the newcomer’s head in a solemn baptismal. Or he will take
off his clothes and stand naked while the bucket of slop is poured over them and the others
stomp it in.
These are his „originals,” to be worn every day until they rot. The Levi’s are dipped
in oil, then hung out to dry in the sun – or left under the motorcycle at night to absorb the
crankcase drippings. When they become too ragged to be functional, they are worn over
other, newer Levi’s. Many of the jackets are so dirty that the colors are barely visible, but
they aren’t discarded until they literally fall apart. The condition of the originals is a sign of
status. It takes a year or two before they get ripe enough to make a man feel he has really
made the grade.