Never Mess with a Biker’s Oil

My father’s motorcycle club is called the Black Bandits. A group of burly old men in their fifties, they wear – or should I say squeeze into – leather pants, jean jackets and colorful bandanas. They ride around our small town every Sunday, revving their engines, racing through the streets and howling like coyotes. All of this is actually embarrassing to admit, but it’s also something I need to vent about.

During the workweek they tune their bikes at Dale’s Greasy Garage down on Oleander Street. And as they work they are notorious for pulling pranks on each other. One day Curly Sue replaced Dad’s Mercury engine oil with olive oil, and that’s when all the drama unfolded. In retaliation, he filled Sue’s tailpipe with Cheetos and maple syrup. The chaos of it all went back and forth for weeks until one day Dad said, “Let’s make call it truce, only if you agree never to mess with my oil again, it’s just plain wrong!” And the rest is history.