Wing Man

Written in memory of the most fucked-up, unique, and beloved Wing man I ever had.

Her named was Gabrielle "Gabi" to pretty much everyone who knew her. I met her when she was a stripper at a club that I bounced at. She was a 5'4" powerhouse bodybuilder, who sported a body fat that was so low, that she was pretty much forced to get a full liter of saline in her chest. A physiology that created a ripped 8- pack and thoroughbred legs just didn't support the amount of tits that she needed to earn a living. As if the above distinctive characteristics weren't enough, she had flown to Japan, and received a tattoo from a master: A full Yakuza style jacket and sleeves (Koi & Lotus theme). In most usual situations, that extensive of tattooing would have barred her from the runway but, as you may come to see, Gabi wasn't usual by any rational standard.

Gabi, as it turns out, was a submissive who adored being tied up and displayed in full nude at parties. Gabi was also the proud owner of one majorly fucked up life and, by her own admission, about 90% of her problems were of her own making. I personally knew a wealthy ex-boyfriend who spent well over a million dollars on her in 14 months (not a typo). All she had to show for it, when the dust settled, were memories of month long stays at the Bellagio's Chairman Suite, additional liver damage (from case after case of Crystal Champagne), and a lot of receipts for jewelry that was pawned for eight cents on the buck, never to be reclaimed. Later in our relationship, I noticed a picture of her son sitting in the Metallica jet during flight, his father holding him in his lap. Yep, that kid was the (privately) acknowledged son of a member of Metallica. I won't mention a name, but there are some clues in the fact we lived in Phoenix. Gabi never asked for a penny to raise their son, she said "acknowledgment was enough". Personally, I probably would have gone the paternity route; then again, I wasn't Gabi.

Our first meeting outside of work was at club(s) "Axis/Radius" in Scottsdale. She had some tag along girls that had followed her from the day shift for a drink, and they has congregated at the standing bar. While the other girls were busting their collective asses in their nightly flirt-a-thon, Gabi was really more of a "George Thorogood" drinker "I drink Alone". We quietly chatted and, as she knocked back shot after impressive shot of whiskey, I could see a certain, hard-to-define gleam come into her eyes. Gabi, maybe I should call her "Good Gabi", had the biggest, most honest set of cocoa eyes you could imagine. If it is true that "the eyes are windows to the soul", sober Gabi had almost musically expressive eyes that poignantly spoke of a beautiful anima that could never be overcome by pain. Good (sober) Gabi's eyes were wide, danced, crinkled and sparkled with every nuance of conversation. With a blood alcohol of what I estimated to be at least .15, her words, while measured and precise, took on a tantalum edge, and her eyes became three-quarter lidded into something eerily feline. Down the road, I would know this new manifestation as “Evil Gabi” but, at that moment, I was in clueless observation mode.

About that time, Cin (perhaps her second closest gal-pal) shouted over the den "Hey Bear, did ya know you are talking to the only woman in the world who ever got kicked out of a Hells Angels party for embarrassing them?!" Gabi's eyes never changed, her only acknowledgment of the statement was a slight, humorless grin, followed by a tap on the bar for another shot. A second later, a drunk junior executive something or other, perhaps 6'2", came over and said "That's one hell of an accomplishment, little lady!" and offered to buy us both a drink (undoubtedly mine was intended to temporarily diffuse any tension for long for him to assess if we were together, or simply in proximity). Gabi's eyes narrowed a bit further to 2/3's, as I thanked him for the offer. "Love to, but we're pretty close to leaving". About here, I had to piss like Seabiscuit on Lasix, and excused myself to the Men's room. Upon coming out, I walked back through the hallway, did a 45 degree turn to the right to run a straight azimuth to the bar, and then saw something that could not have taken four seconds seem to stretch/dilate to thirty.

He, on her right side, towering over her and slightly to her rear, lowering his left hand and placing his hand, casually, on her very expensive 38 D's. With a flick of her right middle finger, she slid a filled shot glass into the palm of her left hand (about a foot away), shifted her weight about a quarter of a step backwards, turned her shoulders roughly 30 degrees clock-wise, and slashed the open edge of her hand across the man's throat. The scary part, was that she did so with a economy of movement that would put a Philippina knife fighter to shame. I mean she dropped him like third period French!

Both the bouncer and I closed distance at about the same speed. Aside from a half a second evaluation to make sure that the guy was staying down, Gabi showed remarkably little emotion. She did a middle fingernail re transfer of the shot back into her right hand, knocked it back, and said "Ready to go?" She then looked at the bouncer, who was assessing the huge man down/ baby-doll standing thing. "It is ok if we go, right?!" Clearly the bouncer was in the process to defaulting to "bigger & male is automatically at fault" mode, and he waved us out.

I had parked my Dyna-Wide two over from her Lexus. "Two into one ThunderHeaders? Probably running 2-10 cams?" "2-11, actually." She did the obligatory "Fuckin' A" nod that all bikers give each other (whether they are impressed or not is moot, it's simple respect). Tell ya what, follow me to my house, let me change into "good n' proper", grab my chopper, and we'll sling-shot into Cave Creek."

Thirty-five minutes later, we were doing a high-speed burn on the 101, north to Cave Creek, her duct taped, totally ratted-out Triumph chopper screaming in protest at the pace. Three quarters of the way there, she pointed at the full moon, high in the midnight onyx of the AZ sky. She threw back her head, and let out a marrow-chilling howl that soared above the 115 db of our engines. Inexplicably, I did the same...

(to be continued)