I’ve been lucky enough to have been a member of the Central Region Oklahoma Writers (CROW) an affiliate of the Oklahoma Writers’ Federation Inc. for almost four years. If you’re looking for a writer’s group, they’re a fun and supportive group. Roadie Bill placed second in the Short Story: Adult category in the 2025 OWFI Writing Contest.

The following story is fiction and purely a work of the author’s imagination. Any actual persons referenced are done so in a purely satirical manner. All characters excluding Lawrence “Ramrod” Shurtliff, Owsley “The Bear” Stanley, Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, and Jerry Garcia are fictional and any resemblance to persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. The author’s comments do not represent the views, opinions, or beliefs of the Grateful Dead, the Hell’s Angels, their members, or affiliates.

Someone shouted his name, but Bill refused to turn around. He continued tying a three-stack amp onto a hoist to lift it and add it to the Wall. They lost two of the crew back in Cleveland and now the giant bastard was taking an additional half-hour to put together. Ramrod had been the one screaming at them this morning to wake up, saying they were already behind. Bill had been busting ass all morning and wasn’t about to hear anybody tell him to hurry.

“Bill,” Ramrod said, doubled over with his hands on his thighs, catching his breath.

Bill’s annoyance turned to concern. He waved at the dude on the rafters, telling him to hold up a minute. “What’s up Ram, you okay?”

“Utica. You gotta go back to Utica.”

“Utica? We just left there,” Bill said before calling over a kid who joined up last year to finish tying off the hoist. “And we’re already short-handed, man. You were the one pissing fire because we were running late.”

Ramrod was trying to speak but couldn’t quite get the air into his lungs.

What’s the emergency?

Ramrod walked to the cooler and filled a paper cup. “Utica. You gotta go back. The Bear left something.”

“Something?”

Ramrod leaned in close and whispered. “A briefcase.”

“A briefcase? Like, The Briefcase? The briefcase of infinite felonies,” he whispered in awe.

Ramrod nodded. “The Bear put together something special for the new year.”

Bill thought of all the magic The Bear might’ve mixed up in one of the legendary briefcases. But then the horrible thought of transporting that thing back from Utica slithered into his brain and his smile faded. “Something special? And then he goes and leaves it? Where, the hotel?”

“That diner. The one we got breakfast just before we headed out.”

Bill slapped his forehead. “Christ. How stupid are we getting lately? Why doesn’t he send an Angel?”

Ramrod shook his head. He didn’t have to say anything. It was a dumb question. It’s just that before Altamont this would’ve been Angel’s work, no question. Now no one seemed to trust them, so why the fuck were they still around?

Bill let the idea roll around in his head a bit. It was two hours there. He’d be tired, but maybe he could get some uppers for the trip back to save him from having to sleep. The doors were supposed to open at seven tonight. He was trying to do some quick math in his head. “I doubt I’ll make the show.”

“They just need you back at MSG by tomorrow.” Ramrod must’ve seen the bags under his eyes. “Grab a hotel in Utica or something. You’ll have tomorrow to get down to the show. Just get there in one piece and stay out of jail.”

Bill took off his work gloves and looked for a place to set them, but couldn’t find one. “What am I supposed to drive?”

“Go see Stu. Tell them you need a chopper for a couple of days.”

Bill threw the gloves on the ground. “Are you fucking kidding me? He’s been out to get me after that bullshit in Tulsa.”

“Just tell him we forgot a guitar or something. And it has to be you because…” Ramrod shrugged. “I don’t know. We don’t want them moving the instruments or something. Look, I know they’ve been pissy lately, but they’re still working for us. He won’t refuse if he knows it’s my errand.”

“Sure,” Bill said, disheartened. “Go see Stu. Get a chopper and go pick up a case of The Bear’s magic.”

Bill walked offstage, his sneakers squeaking as he made his way across the basketball court, staring up into a sea of empty seats. They didn’t allow the Angels into the stadium, but as Bill stepped out into the concourse, black leather and red-and-white patches greeted him. Angels snorted coke off of a Tastee-Freeze stand. Bill passed three guys trying to convince a woman to go with them to the men’s room. She looked unsteady on her feet as she tried to walk away before one of them grabbed her around the hips. “C’mon baby.”

Bill got dirty looks when they caught him staring, so he put his head down and quickened his pace to a set of double doors that led to the parking lot. He took a deep breath and let the claustrophobia slowly bleed away. He opened a Marlboro pack, pulled out a joint, and sparked it up. Off in the distance, buses sat parked, and while Bill couldn’t see Jerry, Bill heard his acoustic guitar. The sky was a clear blue, and the wind was cold but crisp compared to the stuffy stadium. Jerry was playing through progressions and scales. He peeled off into the main riff of Friend of the Devil and missed a note which forced him back to progressions and scales.

Normally, the Angels would park near the buses, but lately, they’d been parking further and further away. Today they were at the opposite end of the stadium. Bill walked around the parking lot listening to Eyes of The World before Jerry hit a clanger which sent him back to progressions and scales. Soon the deafening roar of motorcycles drowned out the sound of the guitar. The engines blighted out all other noise before Bill laid eyes on a single chopper. He saw them when he arrived at the west end lot. Anytime you saw a group in a parking lot, there’d be at least two drag racing. They ran half a dozen just for the noise.

Bill looked for Stu, but everyone sported the same colors, so they all blended in. That’s one thing Bill could say for sure that set The Dead apart from The Angels. Bill could spot Ramrod, Pigpen, or any of those dudes from a mile away. Jerry was distinguishable from two miles. All Bill could see in an Angel was their colors. Especially these days.

“Hey, have you seen Stu?” he asked a group of three passing around a jug of some kind of liquid rotgut The Angels distilled themselves. They shook their heads, but one of them kind of pointed off to the southwest. A drunken gesture from a guy who was also shaking his head seemed as good a lead as any, so Bill walked off that way as he continued to ask around. The joint he started earlier was a roach now, and he threw it down on the pavement before stomping it out with his boot.

“Do you know where Stu is?” He asked a blonde woman that almost looked familiar.

“Yeah, but I’d steer clear. He’s pissed.”

“What about?” Bill couldn’t imagine that the beef he and Stu got into would’ve been gossip worthy this far out but who knew? Bill decided if Stu was already fuming about it this morning he would just go back to Ramrod and send him to at least get the chopper.

“Not exactly sure. A coke deal or something. Is that what you’re going to see him about?”

Bill shook his head. “But I gotta see him just the same, so I guess I’m fucked.”

The blonde laughed and shrugged.

Bill finally laid eyes on Stu, who tossed one cigarette only to light up another. He wore a black cowboy hat with a wide brim. He paced, talking to two other guys who looked genuinely scared to be there. Stu was a little shit compared to the other two, but he had a nasty reputation as someone not afraid to shove a switchblade in your back. When the two of them got into it last month, ‌Bill thought he might have to do something about it. Someone told him if he ever did, to shoot first and not miss. Bill stopped thinking about it.

“Jesus Christ,” Stu said. “You’re the last thing I need. What’re you doing here?” Stu’s left eye was cloudy with cataracts.

“Ramrod sent me to borrow a chopper.”

Stu looked annoyed but waved his hand. “Sure. Whatever. The keys are in the one over on the far end.” He pointed to a bright gold bike with ape hangers and dual drag pipes.

Damn, he thought, I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb. But he wasn’t about to press his luck. His time with Stu so far was benign, and he wasn’t about to push it.

He was just about to turn around when Stu said, “How long do you need it?”

“Couple days.”

Stu stopped pacing and walked closer to Bill. “Couple days? Where the hell are you going?”

“The Bear forgot something in Utica.” Bill resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“The Bear? Utica? Why are they sending you?”

Bill panicked. He got surprised when things were looking good and now had to re-center and get his story straight. “A guitar. And, I said The Bear, but what I meant was, one of the crew forgot it. We were getting it repaired.” That sounded okay.

“A guitar? And what if I said no?” Stu tossed his cigarette and lit another.

“Ramrod asked.”

Bill saw suspicion written on Stu’s face. “That’s what I thought you’d say. Ramrod owes me something. You sure it wasn’t to go pick up what he owes me?”

Bill thought about what he’d say. He shouldn’t have mentioned Utica. It was a big city, but that still gave that man too much information. Bill wondered if Stu would follow him if he thought Bill had his cocaine. “Hey, go ask him yourself. But he gave me instructions to check the axe before I bring it back. So unless whatever the hell y’all are bitching about is in the case, I don’t know what to tell you. I have to go pick up a guitar that some dumbass forgot. Seems to be the story of our little traveling circus of late.”

Bill watched Stu size him up. He tried to keep his demeanor calm. “Fine. Take the chopper. I’ll take it up with your bastard boss myself.”

 Bill shrugged and headed over to the bike. One thing he could credit the Angels for was an excellent taste in bikes. The gold was beautiful, surrounding a chrome knucklehead. He mounted the bike and started it. The engine rumbled low, and he gave another glance over to Stu, who had gathered with some others. They were all staring at him. Stu would point every so often. He was going to have Bill followed, and they weren’t even really hiding it that much. Bill’s heart raced as he put the chopper into gear.

The highways were a nice way to wind down, set a nice cruising speed and take in the view. Bill had traveled this world far and wide, and he couldn’t think of a better place than the East Coast on a clear winter afternoon. It was a lot of city streets till Allentown and then a lot of open roads.

Truckers comprised much of the traffic. Occasionally, he’d see a paneled station wagon filled with a traditional family—two adults, 2.5 kids, and a dog peering from the back window. He finished a six-pack through Pennsylvania and a couple of joints through New York. He burned through two packs of Marlboros, trying to pick himself back up. His dad was a trucker and used to talk about burning his palm with a cherry to keep himself awake on longer trips. Burning up the roadways was a family tradition.

It was just after New Hartford, just when he could see the end of the line for the There part of the trip when he caught Stu in the rearview.

How did he go unnoticed for so long? You should have kept a closer eye.

Bill thought about his options. Try to ditch him? The ease at which Stu followed him across two states sat low in his gut. Confront him? Fuck no. Maybe a happy medium.

As luck would have it, the BBQ joint he remembered from their ‘74 tour was still there. The old lady that ran it was still kicking, standing over a pot of simmering sauce and spooning it onto the plates a young man was handing her. Bill ate a rib basket at the counter and washed it down with an RC. He ate slowly, so it was a full hour before he peeked his head out of the front door. He peered each way down the avenue. Looked clear. Bill was cautiously optimistic as he started up the golden chopper.

He was debating checking into a motel. But he didn’t. When he turned off the main drag, he turned toward the zoo instead of hitting the L-shaped Holiday Inn he passed. The biggest benefit of this way was light traffic. As he kept an eye in the rearview, he felt more confident that he’d ditched Stu.

The city skylines and hectic traffic turned into the serenity of the suburbs. Bill turned into a subdivision called Eastern Elm and it suddenly dawned on him he hadn’t even called ahead. She might not even live there anymore. But when he saw the rusty Ford pickup her dad left her just before he died, he knew things were just the way he left them in this little corner of the world.

“Bill!” A young girl jumped off a boy’s BMX and wrapped her arms around him. “Are you back for good?”

“Afraid not, Hound Dog.”

“Definitely not.” Ivy’s voice was unmistakable, coming from the house. She stood in the doorway wearing a thin sundress. Two big white daisies adorned her bun of red hair.

“Sorry for the short notice.”

“No notice, you mean?”

Bill shrugged. “I was hoping I could crash on your couch.”

“Are you not with The Dead anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. They sent me on an errand and I just need to stay in town before I join back up with them in New York.”

“Wow.” The kid’s eyes went wide. “New York City. For real? Where are they playing?”

“Madison Square Garden. Big as it gets.” Bill looked back at her mom. Ivy crossed her arms, but couldn’t wipe away that smile. Bill held his arms out. “C’mon. Help a guy out. We didn’t leave on that bad of terms, did we?”

“Didn’t leave on that great of terms either.” Ivy sighed and opened the door for him. “You missed dinner.”

Bill gave her his best puppy dog eyes.

“Chicken’s cold in the fridge if you’re still hungry.”

Bill lit a cigarette at Ivy’s table after he finished the roasted chicken she’d made. He washed his own dishes to be polite and took a cup of coffee, which Ivy spiked with some Wild Turkey. The kid put down a plate of…

“Macarons,” she said brightly.

“Fancy.”

“They’re red velvet, just like they serve up in Paris.” The kid drank coffee with them and held out her pinky as she took a sip. The steam pouring from their cups was thick in the drafty house.

“I’ll get the couch set up,” Ivy said, biting into one of her daughter’s concoctions. “Oh my God, girl. These are delicious.”

The kid blushed with pride.

“You need to crash early?” Ivy asked.

“I need to go get this done tonight.”

Ivy looked suspicious. “Do it in the morning. I’ll wake you up early.”

Bill kept popping macarons in his mouth. “Goddamn, these things are addictive. How in the hell aren’t the French all six hundred pounds?”

The kid laughed and jumped up to run outside. “Wait till the morning,” she yelled back. “I can make crepes.”

“You look tired,” Ivy said. “Please get some rest.”

“It’s just…”

Ivy’s disposition could shift on a dime. “If you’re in some kind of trouble, you better just get the hell out right now.”

“No, nothing like that.”

Ivy rolled her eyes. “Then whatever it is, do it in the morning. I’ll wake you up early.”

Bill thought about lying to her, about being in trouble and about bringing the briefcase here, and what a bad idea that was. He nodded. “OK. Thanks again.”

“She missed you.” Ivy must have seen Bill brooding. “Will you tell me what’s up? For real?”

Bill shrugged. “I don’t know. The Angels.”

Ivy’s jaw tensed. “Why the hell don’t you all cut ties with them for good?”

“It’s like…” Bill thought for a moment. “If we tell them they can’t be the Angels, what the hell is to stop someone from saying we can’t be the Dead?”

“The minute you all start beating guys to death, I’ll be the first to say it. Have you read Thompson’s book?”

“They’re not all like that.”

“You can’t wear someone else’s colors, call them a brother and then say, oh, except for all that stuff. Fuck them. That’s not freedom. You don’t have to be a government to be a fascist. Dumbass thuggery is not freedom of speech.”

 Ivy continued, her face getting flushed now. “Nixon’s a fascist and they’re not‌? Imagine if Nixon hires the Hell’s Angels for his security and starts holding rallies across the country. What happens when Nixon calls for the Hell’s Angels to be poll watchers at the next election or march on the courts when it doesn’t turn out in his favor?”

Bill nodded. “I get it.”

“Dictators don’t pull from the army, they pull from the street.” Ivy slammed her fist on the table, and Bill jumped. “They recruit men who build their chops terrorizing women. Used car salesmen conning bullies who are too stupid–”

“Whoa!” Bill interrupted.

Ivy’s face flushed. She took a couple of deep breaths so that her voice was calmer, but her eyes still had a scary fire to them. “Are you on the wrong side of them?”

Bill shook his head. A lie. Ivy saw right through him and Bill knew it.

“You need to decide what you’re doing out there and if you’re cool building that up.”

“I just put the fucking Wall up.”

“Yeah, that’s a load of bullshit. Look. I’m not saying The Dead can’t be The Dead. I’m saying The Dead need to make sure they’re who they want to be. And the minute they’re not, everyone needs to realize what they are a part of. No one gets to walk through bullshit and say the other guy’s shoes stink.”

“People do it all the time,” Bill said matter-of-factly.

“OK, well not you.”

Bill laughed, but still looked nervous.

“I’ll haunt you like a damn ghost. Tell you every day what you’re stepping in. You better never turn out like them.” She wiped her eyes. “Teresa still cares about you‌.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just stop coming here so she doesn’t have to watch you leave.”

“Good morning. Just one this morning? Open seating at the bar.”

Bill walked up to the short redhead stationed at the Wait To Be Seated sign. He shook his head. “I came in with some guys last week and we left something here.” Bill put on his best shit-eating grin. “I’m hoping you all still have it.”

“I can check, for sure.” The lady was friendly. The stains on her shirt said she was pulling double duty in the kitchen. Bill respected versatility. “What did you all leave behind?”

“A briefcase.”

“Oh.” The hostess’ smile vanished instantly. “One moment.”

Bill tried to keep from shaking. He took a deep breath in and out. Bill had walked through his share of frisk lines when he was carrying.

A fat guy in a white button-up came out. “Hey there,” he said suspiciously.

Bill tilted his head back to say, What up?

“Yes sir. The case that you left. Can you describe it to me?”

“A brown briefcase. It has a blue-red picture with a skull and lightning bolt on it.”

“Well, that’s it, sir. Can I tell you, though, someone else came looking for it?”

“Biker with a fucked-up eye?”

The fat manager nodded and pulled it out from behind the counter. Bill stared, guessing at its contents. He took it as casually as he could and left. The thing was heavy. Heavier even than the cases they rigged with nitrous kits.

He spotted the big black cowboy hat down the road a bit. Bill could see Stu’s smile and a twinkle in his good eye as he started up his bike. Bill bolted to the golden bike and started her up as quickly as he could. He took off, still holding the briefcase in one hand, with Stu following close behind. The roar of the engines filled the quiet suburban street.

The two of them had to keep it pretty civil going through town. Bill spotted two local cops at two different speed traps heading out. He’d only go five over the speed limit, but when he passed them, they seemed to watch Stu coming down the road. The red and black always seemed to grab the cops’ attention.

Once they hit the highway, the shit was on. Racing like a bat out of hell, Bill tried to keep ahead of a crazy-eyed Stu. But there weren’t any cops or traffic slowing him down. Bill had to take off too quickly and didn’t secure the case and still held onto it with one hand, trying to keep the golden beast calm as she careened down the road.

A distant crop duster crossed over the highway, leaving a trail of dust, circling the other side and flying low enough that Bill could see the pilot in the open cockpit. That’s when he heard the first shot.

It echoed over the roar of the engines, and he felt the bullet buzz past him. Bill looked back in horror as he saw Stu lining up another shot. The long barrel of a .357 was visible even down the road. The only saving grace was that Stu had to slow down to get even a semblance of a decent shot off. But that also meant the crazed fuck wasn’t just shooting off rounds, either. He was taking his time. Lining up the shot he could under the best circumstances he could get.

The second shot ricocheted off Bill’s bike, which wobbled a bit before he could straighten it back out. A red mist blew from the crop duster over the snow-covered green flatlands. The exhaust from all three of the beasts was blowing thick and black in the cold air. The plane circled closer to face directly at Bill and Stu.

That’s when Bill heard the third shot. It would be the last that Stu would ever fire. Bill saw the pilot’s head burst open like a watermelon, spraying bright red chunks all over the windshield. Bill’s eyes went wide as he saw the plane dip, heading right towards them. He hit the gas and watched as the machine soared just over his head, buzzing with the same fierceness as the bullets Stu fired. Bill took his eyes off the road as he followed the plane, falling out of the sky like a wounded creature.

Stu was trying to figure out if he needed to veer left or right to dodge the plane as she fell. Bill wondered how much his missing eye played with that decision-making and could only assume that at ninety miles an hour burning down the interstate trying to kill someone, it was just too hard to calculate. The plane smashed down right on top of Stu and a ball of flame erupted over the twisted metal bones of the two machines as they spilled their diesel blood on the ground.

“Holy shit, I was honestly giving you a 50-50 shot of getting back.” Ramrod slapped Bill on the back as he took the briefcase. “Was it in the diner?”

The show was already going. From backstage, Bill could hear Jerry’s solo for Scarlet Begonias. “Yeah, trust me, it was blind luck.”

“See, these are like good luck charms.” Ramrod patted the briefcase and smiled.

“I still wouldn’t call it good luck.”

“Bad luck?”

“Nope. Just strange luck. The only type we seem to get.”

Ramrod laughed. “They’re on for another hour. You need to go catch some sleep on the bus till we’re ready to roll?”

“Man, I fucked up my back on that bike. I’m going to hole up a couple of days.”

“Here in the city? You can join us out west.”

Bill shook his head. “I’m not sure. I may go see an old friend and stay put for a bit.”

“Shit. Are you going to leave us hanging? We’re already down people.”

“You guys will be alright. Maybe if I go stir-crazy, I’ll call you in the summer.”

“We’ll always need the help.”

When Bill left New York City, he headed back to Utica. He hit the exit, which took him past the city zoo. His stomach rumbled when he thought about Ivy’s roasted chicken.

The End