Nico: the Angel of Hell

Nico's furrowed face is outlined by long curly dried-out locks the color of iron. His round body moves like that of a Beijing CP politico: smoothly, leading from the belly, and with a keen awareness of its own power. His demeanor is frightening a little, as he intends it to be. He has an excellent sense of showmanship when it comes to self-presentation I think.

He keeps two dogs - living props that provide image-support. Their square jaws and deep bellowing barks menace any passersby who stray too closely to the chain-link fence. He's a cussing, rowdy, son-of-a-bitch (this will be ironic later) whose tirades can last for several hours; his voice is my frequent companion on cool afternoons when the window is open. In Nico-lingua, the F-word is usually a negative adjective but it can also be a demeaning noun or verb. Last week, a triple-threat parts-of-speech f-bomb assailed my aural cavities as I relaxed behind the hedge. "Why the f*** are you f***ing with the f***ing windows? Just leave it the f*** alone!" I'm not the recipient of the curse-o-matic combo, so I can giggle from my seat.

Swearing doesn't offend me. It just sounds silly or cheap or uneducated. And sometimes ugly. But usually it makes me laugh because it's just so ridiculous. I'm not a swearer. Not since high school (now you see it).

Several months ago, Nico leveraged his Harley Davidson and his street-cred into an official Hell's Angels membership. He tromped out of the kitchen and into the yard, his new members leather jacket gleaming over his fluffy flannel man-jammies, spinning in front of me from across the fence. "Get a look at this," he bleated gruffly, like a child with his first home-made ashtray. "What do you think of that?"

I gazed at the Hell's Angels logo emblazened across the back. His face was a mixture of pride, teenage rebellion, and Christmas morning delight (the latter of which kind of ruined the whole Hell's-Angels-mugster-persona thing. No self-respecting law-flouter had any business looking that joyful). His shamefaced bravado as he awaited my response suggested that perhaps he wanted my approval, felt silly that he wanted it, knew that he probably wouldn't get it, was ready with his defense if he didn't, but still really hoped he would anyway. I smiled at this rough middle-aged man twenty years my senior. "Well, congratulations, Nico. Looks like that's quite an honor." He's so tickled he almost wiggles.

Now Nico spends his days feeding me Hell's Angels tidbits. He perches on his wood-latticed terrace, spraying his freshly-seeded grass, his jacket hung from a lawn chair as if on display (which it is). On any given day I learn that Hell's Angels is really just a nice club, filled with members who travel the world on their Harleys doing good, not evil. He expounds on the goodness of their deeds at great length, and also on their stoic silent suffering at the hands of society and especially, the police. They are benevolent do-gooders, misunderstood by the world because of a few bad apples. I smile and offer sympathy. It really is rough to be a down-trodden biker isn't it?

Yesterday I was in my usual morning out-of-sight hedge spot. Nico wandered out with his typical nonchalance for physical aethestics - his iron mane in wild disarray and his wife beater pulled up over his protuberant belly. He approached his fiercest dog, Chuckles, who was sniffing me through the fence links. Unaware of my presence, he leaned over the bulldog and ruffled her all over, talking to her in the gentlest of baby voices. "Is that my girl? How's my sweetie? Are you my sweet baby girl? Are you my girl? Who's your daddy? Huh? Who loves you most Chuckles? Who loves you?" I froze, not out of personal embarrassment but because I know that most humans resent even unwitting intrusions upon their secrets. I doubt Nico will overlook my witness to a trait he considers weak: vulnerability. Nico doesn't know that I see right through that facade of his. He may look bad; he may BE bad sometimes; but his innate nature is as soft and pliant as a newborn kitten. Somewhere, if he had a mother, there is a silent-home movie of scrawny little Nico with gentle pleading eyes handing his mother a bunch of dandelions.

Nico is exactly like Ozzy Osbourne from the Osbournes: a bat-head-eating devil-worshipper on display who spends his evenings sipping Earl Grey tea on the couch with his lap dog and looking overwhelmed by the antics of his much scarier wife and children. Nico spends his life biting heads in public but at home (between screamings) Nico spends most of his time tinkering on his bike, seeding the lawn, chatting with the neighbors, adopting a young protege he calls "Wonderboy" and passing out BBQ bounty like a meat-laden Santa.

Will I ever tell him that he's sweet and huggable?

Naw......it would be too cruel.