Williamsburg's Phony Bikers

Greenpoint Tavern, in the middle of the afternoon.     "'Scuse me..."    I turned from my beer and newspaper. A tall, tough-looking character stood behind me. He was straight out of Outlaw Biker: skull-and-crossbones bandanna covering his head, mirrored shades, cutoff Harley-Davidson t-shirt. What clinched it was the mustache: a thick, upside-down pair of steer horns framing his frowning mouth, a redneck Fu Manchu.

"Yes?"

"Think you could take a few pictures of me 'n' my old lady?"

I looked at her. She was prime trailer-gash, with skintight floral-print Lycra pants, a shiny halter top and a mile-high head of hair. She blew and snapped bubbles with big, uninhibited lips.

"Sure," I said. "I'd be glad to."

I took his camera, a surprisingly nice 35-mm model, and followed them over to where they were sitting. I asked him where they were from.

"Cincinnati," he drawled.

I took a few shots while they posed?lifting their mugs of beer, leaning in for a kiss. They were really cute. "Oh, oh, wait!" the woman screamed at one point. "Take one with me holding my cellphone!"

"All right," I laughed, and snapped a few more. I tried to return the camera, but the guy kept waving it back at me.

"Do some more."

"All right."

I took shot after shot. I was really working now, getting sweaty. When I finished the roll, I was tired. They wanted to put a new roll in the camera, but I shook my head.

"That's it," I said. "I'm done."

"Thanks," he grinned, and took the camera back.

I went over to my stool and sat down. It would have been nice if they'd bought me a beer, I thought. Then I looked over. They had hardly even touched theirs. Strange. I ordered my next one and kept reading the paper.

A few minutes later I went into the bathroom. The biker guy was in there, leaning over the sink into the mirror. I paid no attention and went about my business.

"Shit!" he yelled. "Owww! Damn it!"

"Everything all right?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he grumbled. "It's just this stupid glue. They don't make it like they used to."

Glue? I thought. How cool?maybe this cat is huffing right here in the john.

He turned around. I didn't recognize him. The mirrored shades and bandanna were off now. The mustache was gone, too. He picked threads of sticky substance off his upper lip and grimaced.

"These damn fake mustaches hurt like hell when you take them off," he said.

I zipped up. "I didn't know it was fake," I stammered.

"Oh yeah," he said, "this is all just a put-on. I'm actually in this band, the Lowdown Dirty Dawgs, and that's part of our act. We get dressed up as rednecks and tell people we're from Cleveland."

"You said Cincinnati."

"Oh yeah. Cincinnati."

"So you're not from Ohio?"

"Hell no, man. Me and my girlfriend live in a loft just down on Bedford. There's this whole scene, you know, there are a bunch of bands that do this. Get all dressed up like rednecks and stuff. It's really cool."

"And the photos?" I asked.

"That's for our zine. We're trying to get MTV interested in a multimedia package we're putting together. I also do some modeling on the side, and Bruce Weber might shoot some stuff for us. It's cool, man."

"Right. Well, bye."

"Take it easy, pal," he told me.

As I came out of the bathroom the woman was on her cellphone. "Listen, you tell the caterers they better be there by 11. You hear me, 11! And no dairy! Last time they brought dairy! And then you better call the fabric house and make sure we have 50 square yards of the raw silk again. Yeah, yeah, we got the photos..."

I sat back down and opened the paper quietly. A minute later the biker and his old lady left, talking excitedly about their plans, walking triumphantly into the afternoon, camera in hand.