Page 3 of Minus

“I knew it.” He jabbed a finger at me. “I fucking knew you’d hear about it and that you’d bust my balls.”

“Sergeant Clutch. Ooooh, that does have a nice ring to it.”

“I swear to God, Minus. I’ll kick you right the fuck out and you can walk the rest of the way in those shit kickers,” he deadpanned. “I get enough crap outta Grover and the dipshit twins.”

“I can only imagine,” I laughed. “Hey, man. In all seriousness, congratulations. It’s a big deal you makin’ Sergeant at Arms and I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, man.” Clutch said. “We all miss Rusty but after he died, the club needed someone to step up and I guess Cutter thought it should be me.”

“I’m sure he was right,” I said.

“Bullshit. You know goddamned well if you were still in town, it’d be you wearing the Sergeant’s patch.”

“Well, then it’s good for you I’m not still in town.”

Clutch and I grew up together in Portland, back when I still went by my given name, he was called Nicky, andtogether we were known as nothing but trouble. We were both orphans who had been taken in and educated by the Catholic church. A handful of us kids were fortunate to receive scholarships to private schools in the Portland area and Nicky and I attended St. Mary’s Academy together. That is, until he was kicked out during our sophomore year.

I loved school, especially reading. I inhaled novels, biographies, textbooks, anything I could get my hands on. I was a straight A student who tried not to hassle anyone. On the other hand, I can’t recall a time in my youth, even when I was happy, when I didn’t have a big-ass chip on my shoulder. Understandable if not predictable for a kid that’s been abandoned by his parents, but it would begin to weigh on me heavily as I grew into manhood. Throughout my life I’ve a had a profound (perhaps overly sensitive) sense of justice. Seeing anyone bullied or treated unfairly threw me into fits of pure rage. This, coupled with my size (I was already pushing six feet), made me the perfect candidate to serve as the unofficial school bodyguard. Because of this, I found it easy to make friends and (more or less) fit in with whatever crowd I found myself in.

Nikolai Christakos, not so much.

Coming up in Portland in the early “naughties,” Nicky had two things working against him. First, he was Greek. Second, he preferred to solve issues with his bare knuckles.

These days Portland was more of a cultural melting pot. It’s got a liberal, artsy, ‘college town’ vibe where just about any type of person can do their thing without being hassled. This was not the case back in the days when Nicky and I were coming up. It wasn’t uncommon back then to see a pickup truck flying a rebel flag or walk around for hours before seeing a face that was neither Anglo nor Saxon. Portland was still pretty dominated by a culture of white boy, blue collar types. After all, the Pacific Northwest was built on an industry of logging, shipping, and paper mills. The dot com bomb had yet to drop so the good ol’ boys would readily ‘come to town lookin’ for trouble.’ A typical conversation with a drunken local might sound something like this.

Local: “What’s your name?”

Nicky: “Nicky.”

Local: “That’s a girl’s name. You some sort of queer?”

Nicky: “It’s short for Nikolai.”

Local: “Nikolai? You a Russian?”

Nicky: “It’s a Greek name.”

Local: “Greek huh. That some kinda Jew?”

Nicky: Stares ahead blankly, saying nothing.

Local: Calls to his friends, “Hey, guys. We’ve got some sorta half-queer, half-jew thing goin’ on over here. Come take a look and see what you can make of it.”

Nicky: Turns and looks to me. Fight starts.

Nicky was athletic, but not into sports. Anti-social, but not a loner. Wicked funny, but never the class clown. To put it bluntly, he didn’t fit in anywhere. Also, Nicky would start a fuckin’ fight with anybody, and I mean anybody. Teachers, students, cops… hell, I saw him take a swing at a priest once. Fortunately for Nicky, Father Dowd was a former golden gloves boxing champ and he easily slipped the hastily thrown punch. Unfortunately for Nicky, Father Dowd’s favorite Bible passage was not the one where Jesus talked about turning the other cheek. He hauled off and hit Nicky with a stiff jab right down the middle. Blood poured from Nicky’s nose as Father Dowd dragged him down the hall to the Bishop’s office where he was promptly expelled from both the school and the church. To this day Clutch’s nose is still a little crooked from that altercation. This kind of violence from both peers and adults was simply commonplace when we came up.

Conversely, I got along with just about everybody in the neighborhood, and always did my best to look out for Nicky. I made sure he came with me to parties and football games, the kinds of places where young people met other young people. I thought it would be good for him, but without fail some jackass would mouth off to him or he’d accidentally hit on someone’s girl or make a joke someone didn’t find funny and then it was on. Bloody lips, loose teeth, and black eyes seemed to follow us wherever we went.

He was a social pariah, and I was his only friend. I knew that if he was out on his own, he’d get himself arrested, beat up, or killed within weeks so I left school and we moved to downtown Portland together.

Being flat-ass-broke, we bought old, beater bikes to get around town, which led to fixing those bikes, which led to fixing bikes for other people, which eventually led us to the Burning Saints Motorcycle Club, and our current lives as Minus and Clutch.

“Hey man… ah, we’ve got a quick stop to make before we go to the Sanctuary,” Clutch said. I could tell by the shift in his tone that I wasn’t going to like where we were headed.

Turns out I was right.

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