“who is the new fellow who took you to school today?” “Daaaaaaad,” I say, hoping that answer will suffice. He throws his hands in the air. “What, Dad can’t ask questions? I have a right to know!” “OK, well, he’s president . . . of a notorious bike gang. He picked me up on his Harley-Davidson and does not believe in helmets. Don’t ask about his face tattoos.”
