We were riding in my van down Lake Shore Drive late on a
summer night—Sullivan in the passenger seat, me in back and I forget who was
driving. We hear this buzz, growing louder. A buzz like a swarm of
mad hornets. Suddenly, we’re surrounded by motorcycles—engulfed in a wave of
Harleys. There must have been 100 bikers. And they looked like they meant
business. Badass Hell’s Angels types.
We were worried. Were they headed for a rumble? Would a
rival gang approach from the south and then we would find ourselves trapped in
the middle of a bloodbath? This was a dangerous situation
Everybody stopped for a red light. Sullivan couldn’t help
himself. He rolled down the window and said to the biker next to us, “Hey! What’re
you guys doing?”
And the badass biker replied, “We’re raising money for
Jerry’s Kids!”
The light changed and they all sped off.
I see now that
this brief moment in time was a golden networking opportunity that I will never
get again. I blew it. I should have had Sullivan get that biker’s business
card. Because if they’re all so disposed to helping cripples, I sure as hell
can keep them busy.
Hell, I could wear their altruism down to a frazzle in
Washington alone. There’s not a session of Congress that goes by without somebody
trying to fuck with the cripples. I think the bikers would be excellent
lobbyists for us. Picture some cocky little weasel like Paul Ryan sitting at his desk
and all of a sudden in walk a hundred bikers. They wouldn’t have to do anything overtly intimidating. Just sit down like every other citizen and have a cordial policy
discussion with a legislator: “We want to talk to you about your plan to
convert Medicaid into block grants," says the leader of the pack. "That makes the cripples unhappy. And when
the cripples are unhappy, we’re unhappy.”
That ought to do the trick. And we could also use their
help with the Supreme Court because they always seem to have a case on the
docket where the cripples are in the cross hairs. The bikers would just have to
sit quietly in the gallery during arguments and at some point hold up a sign
that says DON’T FUCK WITH THE CRIPPLES. As plan B, in case their sign is confiscated by security, they each paint a letter on their chest, lineup in
order, remove their shirts in unison like morons at a football game and spell out the same message: D-O-N-.
They can skip the apostrophe.
It might be harder for the leader of the motorcycle pack
to mobilize the underlings. It will take a lot more explaining:
LEADER: All right listen up. The Supreme Court has
granted cert in the case of Maxwell v. Weisenheimer, in which the state of North
Dakota contends that the integration mandate of the Americans With Disabilities
Act doesn’t apply to individuals being served under the 1619(b) waiver. And
that’s bullshit! So we gotta get out there!
UNDERLING: Can’t we just do Jerry’s Kids again?
But wouldn’t that be a beautiful world? Someone rolls
down the window at a red light and asks a biker what’s going on and he says, “We’re
going to the state capitol to tell the Attorney General to sign on to a fucking
amicus brief! Because the Supreme Court has granted cert in the case of Maxwell
v.Weisenheimer, in which the state of North Dakota contends that…”
But that will never happen. First off, in order to be
effective these days, your message has to be succinct. Our attention spans are
as short as our red lights. And second off, I never got that biker’s business
card so I blew it.