Another Perspective

Max's Angels

Bikers, SWAT Teams, Bonny Bettman and the untold story of Berkeley North. 

“I invited some friends out for a beer,” grins Dave Morgan, six years later. Behind Dave, a small amount of hell is breaking loose. 

So, then: the EPD began vigorously ticketing bikes, and Lt. Hansen’s quote was swiftly rendered ironic by the hiring of a new city manager from Berkeley itself. That fall, relevant parties were to receive invitations, from Dave and the other progenitors, to what would become the first of the Berkeley North celebrations. The location, doubtless picked out in gold leaf on shiny, communion-wafer-thick card, was - naturally! - Max’s, ground zero for all these West University absurdities, ever biker-friendly, bar of the gods and a home away from home for generations of OC writers. Thirty or so bikes stood at the side of the bar. 

In 2001, now, there are a lot more of us, bikers and spectators, standing on the tables and the booths, leaning on rafters and clutching our drinks. The Electric Flies are making a hell of a noise somewhere nearby. Below us, a determined-looking guy is manhandling his vehicle the full length of the bar. People do their good-natured best to get out of the way. It’s not at all like Pamplona’s Running of the Bulls ceremony, but that’s still what springs to mind. The rising cumulus of exhaust fumes is making it increasingly easy to free-associate, and this is one of the things that have us as close to the ceiling as we can manage. 

Max’s is alimentary in design, and so the bikes can peel off from the great mass gathered on 13th, rumble around to the back entrance, and then have a reasonably straight shot through the bar—crowds of people notwithstanding —clear across into Patterson Alley with a cloud of smoke. They have been assembling for a couple of hours now, and the parking lot is nearing capacity. Saddlebags catch on the bar and on the doorframe, bystanders leap back into one another, there are cheers and applause and cameras going off in the street. 

In front of the bar, happy people embrace in greeting and stumble around on the sidewalk recovering from the carbon monoxide. There is an informal but concerted effort to prevent fresh-air-seekers from bringing drinks into the street. An initial count reckons 140 bikes, but they’re not easy to tally while in motion.

“We just aim to have a good time,” says Dave, in the throng. “People get together, it’s towards the end of the riding season for a lot of people who don’t ride year-round, and it’s the Eugene Celebration weekend, so the town’s in a kind of party atmosphere.” 

“It’s traditionally not a time that people worry too much about noise violations,” concurs Chase Fairbairn, owner of Max’s and affable future President. 

But this year there are other factors, it being only five days since the nightmarish events on the East Coast. A large jar is making its way around the bar, filling up with bills as it goes, ultimately bound for the National Organization for Victim’s Assistance. There is some somber discussion going on underneath all the ruckus, and probably a couple of thousand flags. The Eugene Celebration, let us not forget, drew a lot of impassioned criticism two days before this, simply for daring to exist. 

“It’s what it is,” shrugs Chase. “But when I see these people I am reassured that America is intact. These people are the backbone of America; people who will do anything to protect their freedom. Given the style of the event and the people who attend, it would have been sick and wrong to cancel it.” 

“I had several of emails from people asking me not to [cancel],” says Dave. “There was a lot of concern... people said, we need this. We’ve had a rough week.” And looking around, at the crowd, and all the POW-MIA badges and veteran signifiers, it would be really tough to argue with the decision. “There’ll be a check on its way to NOVA,” he says. “We were able to accomplish some good things today.” 

“You have to do something,” Chase concludes. “The only thing I did was stare at a TV drunk for two days going my God, do I need to reenlist? There’s a quote for you.” 

Back in the bar, climbing on the tallest thing to hand is still a good idea, but it won’t keep you free of the roiling exhaust fumes the way it used to. The staff, you eventually realize, must be really feeling it by now. The girl currently traversing the front end of the bar on somebody’s pillion is naked but for stockings, garter belt and roller skates. And, for the first time these six years, the police have arrived. This looks like it might be worth paying attention to, perhaps while also slinking away from. 

It’s good to be philosophical about the police. By this time, even if they tear-gassed the place, the atmosphere inside wouldn’t become dramatically less breathable. Quizzical folk wander in with intriguing reports of a SWAT team around the corner on Ferry Street, and I decide, God knows why, that it would be nice to have an audio record of any SWAT-related hijinks, so I gingerly climb down and elbow my way outside. There’s a small group of edgy-looking people in uniforms at either end of the block and they’re filming anything that happens in front of the bar, which for the most part consists of people pointing curiously at the police cameras and waving. The attempts to prevent people bringing drinks out of the bar are becoming less informal and more concerted. (“Bikers are pretty good at policing themselves,” says Dave grimly.) A few people slip out the back, but nobody — least of all the police, mercifully — seems inclined to start a riot. 

The police, it turns out after some negotiation, will be placated if things wind down about an hour ahead of schedule, and the SWAT team stays at an unthreatening distance. A small crowd outside watches Chase walking back across the street with a ticket. Couples are already gathering belongings, thanking Dave and Trish, beginning to head back across town, or to Portland, or to California. Community duly reasserted, there are a lot of salutes and a lot of flags as we walk back under the hanging S to see if we’re on some KEZI bastardization of COPS. 

“We have a lot of new neighbors,” says Chase, “and apparently, well, someone was scared. You know, we’ll hunt them down and kill them.” He smiles broadly and assures me that I can quote him. 

For all the good citizens stowing their pint glasses inside the front entrance, Berkeley North — now growing by about a quarter of its size each year — still seems a little like a citation waiting to happen. It’s legal, certainly, but there are always more laws that can be dusted off and enforced. (In recent history, “loitering” has done yeoman service as the generic offense for all seasons.) And at this rate, it could make great carrion for ostensibly liberal Councilor — and local hero, following her inspired idea for demolishing great chunks of her own damn ward — Bonnie Bettman. In fact, some of this year’s schemes for the expansion of Sacred Heart would have brought the destruction across 13th and taken out Max’s. (In the pie-fight that ensued, Bettman was made the object of a somewhat quixotic recall attempt by her constituents, mounted from the center of the damned zone. That one is probably best left for another column.) There has been some understandable concern over whether, in the burgeoning smoke-free Eugene, this was the last time a Lady Godiva on a motorcycle would maneuver through these hallowed, confined spaces, while others drank beer and whooped. Sitting in Max’s, we can look for a happier future. 

“It might be time,” Chase muses, “and I was talking to the police about this, to look into getting a permit, closing off a block of 13th, laying down some cones in the alley. I’m happy that we were able to negotiate with Sergeant Swanson about today.” Behind him, his patrons are back at conventional bar level, and these people, who should know best, are breathing easily. 
 

Olly Ruff is the AP columnist for the Oregon Commentator.