He opened one saddle bag, disposable gloves, trash bags, paper towels. The other held two foil covered trays. I stared. "Brownies," Bear said. Behind me, Denise said nothing.
Bear, this is Denise Whitmore. She lives next door. He nodded politely. "Good morning." Denise looked at his vest, then his motorcycle, then the brownies.
Bear held out one tray. "Want one?" "No." "More for us." He handed it to me, then pointed toward the lawn.
"Where do you want recycling?" "Beside the garage." "Got it." He walked away. Denise watched him.
"That is Bear." "That's Bear." "His name is Bear?" "Ray, technically." She looked almost disappointed.
I lifted the brownies. "Apparently, Bear bakes." "My wife bakes." I raised the tray. "Important correction."
Then we heard more engines. Not a violent wall of noise, a steady mechanical rumble beyond the houses. Frank appeared from the direction of his workshop at a speed I had not seen him achieve voluntarily in years. "They're coming." Linda was behind him.
"Walk." "I am walking." "You're 72, not 12." Motorcycles began passing toward Frank's lot. Black, blue, dark red.
Cruisers touring bikes. Men, women, a few riding two up. Nobody raced. Nobody revved at houses. A kid waved.
One rider waved back. Frank started identifying motorcycles like migrating birds, street glide, Indian challenger, gold wing. Linda touched his arm. No, I am naming them. You're shopping.
More pass. 10, 20, 30. Denise stood completely still. The last group disappeared toward Frank's lot. Then riders started walking back toward my house carrying folding chairs, food trays, coolers, and donation envelopes.
Bear returned. "Forty-nine at the lot." I looked at his motorcycle and yours makes "Fifty." "Exactly." There it was.
50 local bikers all invited. all here. And somehow the most dangerous thing any of them was carrying was Linda's potato salad recipe. The first 20 minutes were almost disappointingly normal, which judging by Denise's face was a serious problem. Bear moved his motorcycle to Frank's lot. A silver-haired woman with tattoos down both arms arrived carrying baked beans.
A man built like he could bench press my Silverado brought coleslaw. He stopped beside me. "Where do you want this?" "Next to Linda's potato salad." "Which one's Linda?"
Linda raised her hand. Two minutes later, they were discussing mayonnaise. Denise had predicted an invasion. What she got was a potluck with motorcycles. Bear had briefed everybody.
Stay off other people's property. Keep noise down. Don't block anything. Pick up your trash. If there's a problem, talk to Bear.
It was more organized than most HOA meetings I'd attended. At noon, we started serving. The pig came out beautifully. Deep amber skin, hot pork, fresh rolls. Neighbors kept arriving.
Mrs. Halpern spent 15 minutes talking gardening with a biker named Cheryl. A boy stared at Bear's motorcycle. Bear asked the boy's father for permission before letting him sit on it for a picture. No engine, no revving, just a kid grinning like he'd been handed the moon. The problem Denise had was simple.