The Teenage Punk Who Spit on My Harley Just Showed Up at My Door Twenty Years Later
At sixty-one, with bad knees and a faded skull tattoo creeping up my neck, I didn’t get many customers in tailored charcoal suits. “We’re closing in ten,” I grunted, carefully wiping dust off a pristine 1973 pressing. “I know,” a voice said. It was smooth, professional, but carrying a slight tremor. “I’ve been sitting in … Read more