On A Road: My Gang Years
Early in my college career I found myself burned out on the drudgery of book learning and box lacrosse. My athletic scholarship (the result of some clerical error, near as I could tell) was threatening to dissolve the moment I sallied forth onto the pitch with my equipment askew and my stick upside down. So, early in the season, whilst the Bradwicks and Chadleys were running suicides to the point of exhaustion in advance of some supposedly prestigious tournament, I was on a plane to the old world in search of adventure.
My travels took me wide and far, but today I’m inclined to recall the months I spent bumming around the Au Jus Secteur Urbain, in Oran, Algeria. AJ was centuries-old town whose white domes and saffron walls whispered serenity on the wind, but they concealed a seedy side, and I soon fell in with a motorbike gang.
Our leader, by virtue of being the biggest and oldest, was Edwidge, a French-Canadian expat philosopher with long teeth, a scarred cheek and a high cackle that kindled worry in his men, myself especially. If we did not laugh along quickly enough at his jokes, or with the proper degree of full-faced enthusiasm, Edwidge would become glum and withdrawn.
Such overt displays of introspection, we knew, threatened to sully the standing of the Messieurs Élégants. That was the name of our gang, spelled out in a default arial font on the back of our pleather vests, underscored by a skeleton tipping his top hat.
Our great rivals were the Amusements d'été pour les Garçons, who made their presence known by aggressively speeding down our winding streets, two to a Vespa, sneering and littering, sometimes past dusk. We despised the Garçons and their callous nature with our very souls, at least as much as they despised us, but during my tenure in the AJ underworld, that rivalry was beginning to boil over.
You see, on that side of town, which included the galleries, the theaters and the fountain district, it was considered a sign of great insult to have another man pay for your coffee and sandwich at a café or delicatessen. As a result it became quite common for one of the Garçons to attempt to settle our checks when we were distracted by speeches, poetry, or the performance of a classical scene — all regular occurrences during the neighborhood’s arts festivals, which were delightful but nonstop seven months out of the year. (Lena Dunham’s Twain got its start there, as I recall.)
In retaliation for such indignities, Edwidge would sulk in bed for several days before dispatching us to seek vengeance, usually by paying our enemies’ outstanding tabs at learning annex. (Preposterously rude, the Garçons often made a show of ignoring the “suggested donations” postings at most cultural events, and no docent or professeur d'art ever dared call them on it.)
Disgraced, the Garçons soon returned those volleys by covering our membership dues at our regular haunt the wellness center, which we had unknowingly allowed to lapse.
Things continued to escalate between our two gangs, and soon we were gifting each other with home repairs, car repairs, school uniforms, school tuitions, day trips and overnight stays at quaint villas up the coast. It just kept going.
It was considered bad form to deny any invitation, and both sides exploited this society norm to its fullest.
I recall one especially grim Saturday when our nemeses obliged us to take an all-day glass bottom tour of the harbor. You should have seen the sullen look on Edwidge’s scarred, weatherbeaten face, even as our guide Staci directed our attention to the colorful parrot fish darting through the withered beams of a sunken Portuguese galleon.
We vowed revenge, of course, as we always did, but this time we had our eyes on devastation, a finishing blow that would end our rivals once and for all. For weeks we planned and plotted, making moves in the shadows. Until finally, one March day, we struck.
I wish I could have been there when Brian — the assumed leader of the Garçons, though they were known to make decisions on a consensus basis — opened the certified letter which told him he and his cronies had just been gifted a 51 percent stake in Le Mignon Petit Cupcake, the most respected patisserie in town.
Immediately the Garçons were forced to staff the place, and not just as food deliverers. A bakery like that requires dedication and hard work to maintain the high standards that earned them three Michelin stars and a loyal customer base.
As far as I know, that was the end of the great rivalry. The stress of the attack and reprisal gangland cycle — and the near-constant maintenance required by Edwidge’s delicate sense of self — had taken a toll on my nerves.
Just one day after celebrating our victory over cappuccinos and lemon-cream madeleines in Le Mignon’s chambre de la reine party room, I packed my things, turned in my vest and traded my bike for a ride on the rickety light rail to Morrocco.
