Leader of the Pack

By Bob Deakin

A clip from my next book, Unruly Mix III: Living the Dream 

I walk into Tina’s Candy Store, a restaurant in Mount Playa, Florida, but I feel out of place. Candy Store is a tease, casting the establishment as a devilish temptation. It’s decorated like a dive bar, but a dive bar would never fly in this boulevard of boutiques. 

Mount Playa is not Disney World, but it wants to be. It has the same clean, colorful, overpriced aura without the characters or the fun.

As I walk into Tina’s, I hold the door for a couple behind me. I figure they’re together. They look happy, like they’ve been drinking the same cognac for 40 years. They step in and ignore me as if I’m the doorman.

I notice there are a lot of bikers here. They are covered in leather, sunglasses and hats, but I don’t look too close. I wander around, unsure if I’ll stay, then I spot an antique jukebox by the pool table. It’s playing oldies, so I seize the opportunity. You don’t put a dime in, as the old song says. It’s been modified and costs 24 quarters per song, or you can swipe a credit card. 

Leader of the Pack by the Shangri-Las

I select “Leader of the Pack” by the Shangri-Las. It begins with the roar of a Harley. Perfect for right here, right now.

The first motor rev isn’t finished before the shouts of disapproval erupt.

“No! Not that song!” 

“Asshole!”

“What are you doing!”

I’m confused and wonder, If this is a biker bar, why are they shouting and not coming after me with knives and chains? Then I take a better look. These aren’t badass bikers; they’re retired bikers. Or at least they once wanted to be bikers but didn’t make the team.

I don’t realize that “Leader of the Pack” is a song about a jilted lover dying in a motorcycle crash. Should that lyric upset a bar full of bikers? No, but it upsets these wannabe hoodlums.

Never Walk Into a Biker Bar Alone

A woman swiftly approaches, the same one I held the door for. She is stunningly emaciated and coiffed in black leather. I figure she’s 75 and her suit costs more than my car.

“Do you know that this song is about a woman who breaks up with her man, who then kills himself in a motorcycle crash?” she says with a painted-on confidence.

“I never paid attention,” I reply, honestly. “I’m sorry if I hurt anyone’s feelings.”

“Use your head if you’re going to walk into a biker bar,” she rudely quips, then spins on her heel and sashays away.

She put me in my place for sure, but so many thoughts hit me I don’t respond. 

I always thought of the “woman” in the song as a 13-year-old girl. Why is “Leader of the Pack” on the jukebox if it’s so distressing? Why would a biker be afraid of anything? Why are all the women drinking espresso martinis and the men white wine?

Didn’t your daddy tell you to never walk into a biker bar alone? Not this one. Still, I’m standing there, dumbfounded, and the song plays on:

He sort of smiled, then kissed me goodbye

The tears were beginning to show

As he drove away on that rainy night

I begged him to go slow, whether he heard

I'll never know (know, know, know, know, know, know, know)

Look out, look out, look out!

Then I hear it. The cheesy 1964 sound effects: The squealing tires, a crash, breaking glass, and… 

A man at the bar puts his head in his hands, a woman cries, the bartender consoles the couple I held the door for as they weep. 

The rest of the expensive crowd quiets and turns towards me. I stand defiant, waiting for someone to approach, but no one moves. They won’t even look me in the eye. 

I’m a one-man wrecking crew. 

I felt so helpless, what could I do?

Remembering all the things we'd been through

In school, they all stop and stare

I can't hide the tears, but I don't care

I'll never forget him, the leader of the pack.

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