las jaras

In the summers, the marquee out front reads WELCOME BACK BOATMEN when all the letters are present. Steve, the owner of My Brother’s Place, means it. The raft guides return to Cañon City every summer like so many amorous penguins to Argentina and spend much of their tip money at Brother’s.

Brother’s is also home to the locals, the bikers. And they aren’t so much looking to hook up as they are looking for a little excitement. And just when the weather becomes perfect for riding Harleys and showing off those new chrome crash bars, in come the penguins. So sometimes there are misunderstandings. And sometimes misunderstandings are cultivated. Just for the hell of it.

Tuesday of last week was such a night. Hell—or some of its angels—bumping into the ice berg. My sister Megan and her boyfriend Nate were sitting outside Brother’s smoking cigarettes when a biker eased his Harley into a parking spot. “Two little bitches,” he called out to them. “Who will I take home with me tonight?”

What you should know is that my sister is a penguin. She’s a certified whitewater raft guide. She loves the river. Loves knowing where to soak a crew, how to throw around words like feldspar and choya. She’s part of the Arkansas River’s meandering history—its present tourist claptrappery, its past Silver Rush railway guerrilla warfare, its one-time duty as the border between Mexico and the United States, and its provision of shelter and water to the Ute and Kiowa peoples.
My sister’s boyfriend is also a raft guide. He’s good with kids. He has a broad smile and studies geography and ecology. His hair is straight and blond and reminiscent of one, or maybe all of the members of Hanson: Mmmm-Bop. But he’s 6’4” and isn’t easily mistaken for a girl (or a bitch, for that matter).

In response to the biker’s catcall, my sister stood up. “Why are you so full of hate?!” she yelled. Looking at Nate she said, “He has more love in his little finger than you’ve ever had for anyone.” Her response had too many syllables to pack a proper punch, but this is real life. The biker walked up to Nate.

“Yeah?” bikerman taunted. He popped Nate a good one, fist to the face.

When he tells what happened next, my brother, who was at the bar and not his place, says that this moment was straight out of a Batman rerun. The distress signal went out via pheromones and 15 raft guides put down darts, beers and cue sticks. They moved as one and found themselves on the sidewalk of Main Street, underneath the marquee.

At this point the biker, while a fighter and the aggressor, was clearly outnumbered. But he couldn’t back down. What would he tell his friends—that he was stared down by a raft of penguins? So his friend did what any good friend would do. He grabbed Biker, who could still appear aggressive and threatening by struggling against the friend, and dragged him towards a parked car. The biker continued his theatrics, looking tough all the way to the passenger seat of his friend’s El Camino. The bad guys drove away, my sister experienced the rush of adrenaline mixing with whatever else was in her blood, and the good guy got a new nickname: Mmmm-Pop.

It could be that The Moral of this story should be something simple and helpful, like don’t go to biker bars. Or, men, don’t grow your hair long because you’ll invite strange attention.

But I think the more important lesson here is don’t date my sister. If she can get a penguin in a fight with one of Hell’s angels, what will she do to you?