Go West, Young Man

 

With war raging in the Middle East and gas prices hitting $4 a gallon, Americans are looking forward to a peace agreement. I thought I would reminisce of a time when I negotiated my own peace accord. It only lasted three months, but that was all I needed. So, as they said at the beginning of each episode of The Lone Ranger, “Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear.” Your DeLorean awaits. The flux-capacitor is filled with household garbage as we set the dial for 1964. [enter throaty powerful roar of a Porsche 928 V8 here]

Yes, it is the mid-60s and I set out on an adventure with a friend to answer Horace Greeley’s 1860’s advice to “Go West, young man.” With years of Royal Castle burger flipping experience under my apron, I decided to abandon the days of working for $1.25/hr. and head to California to seek my fortune.

We ended up living in San Lorenzo just down the road from where I found a job at Hambrick’s Quarter Pound Giant Burger in Hayward, California. I was to work the night shift and got trained by the old night shift guy who was moving to days.

While most of my training was the usual stuff of cooking, learning prices, and clean-up, one part of my training stood out. I was told that there was a local motorcycle club that was not to be served. In Miami we had the Little River Rats who were high schoolers who buzzed around on Cushman scooters or the occasional BSA and got into trouble. This California club had had a run in with my trainer which explained his healing black eye. I had handled my share of drunks and unruly customers at Royal Castle and didn’t think much of it.

I quickly slipped into the nighttime routine of serving the after-date crowd and the bar closing drunks before the quiet late nights of cleaning the machines and floors for the busier day shift. It was an easy job, and I had time to watch the all-night restaurant across the street that catered to truckers. The waitresses doubled as hookers and used the next-door hotel as a way to make extra money. From Google Maps I found that the hotel is now a Hampton Inn and that truck stop restaurant is a Taco Bell.

One particularly quiet night, I decided to add a bit of music to help with the solitude. From my days at Royal Castle I knew I could cut into the lead wire of the counter-mounted coin-operated jukebox selector and install a small wire short to get unlimited tunes. I crawled under the counter and began my task. I sliced the wire, found the leads and taped in place a thin jumper wire that would short the two wires when squeezed. I was near the end of my job when I hear the shuffling of feet that meant customers had come in above me at the counter.

I called from my hidden position and told them I would be with them in just a second. By the time I arose from my clandestine activities under the counter, I met my customers. It was a large group of the local “motorcycle club.” These were not the teenage Cushman delinquents of my Little River Rats acquaintance. These were Hells Angles. They were middle-aged rough-looking characters who rode Harleys.

My instructions had been that if this “club” showed up I was to call the police. I was just inches from them and at least thirty feet from the nearest phone. I decided to negotiate. I looked up and down this group of felons, who had last bathed during the Eisenhower administration, to find a spokesperson. I settled on what I discerned to be the alpha-male and moved in his direction.

In as confident a squeaky voice as I could manage, I told him that I was under strict orders to not serve them. The natives got restless. I asked the person, who later identified himself as Dirty Ed, if we could come to some sort of agreement. I told him I would be fired If word got out that I was serving them and that would just mean they would be dealing with someone else in the future.

I knew that they had been banned from most other food establishments, so I offered a compromise. If they parked their bikes in the back of the lot and sent someone to the take-out window, I could fill their orders without them being easily seen from the front. Ed thought for a moment, gave a quick sign with his hand and they all exited. They moved their bikes to the back and came one at a time to place orders at the window. They would eat their meals on their bikes.

This arrangement worked for the entire three months of my tenure with Hambrick’s Quarter Pound Giant Burger. The above-mentioned scene was repeated once or twice a week and we had our détente. I got to know several of the Angles and learned a bit of their history. It seems that recent tensions had arisen when the Hells Angles were taking over a rival club called The Question Marks. Several of my Angles customers had question mark tattoos on their forearms showing they had joined the more powerful group.

Well, that’s my story of being an ambassador from Miami who negotiated the Three-Month-Giant-Burger Peace Accords. I left my high paying job in sunny California to return to college in Florida. I have no idea how the next night shift guy faired but both the Hells Angles and the Quarter Pound Giant Burger are still in operation. The Angles are the worlds largest outlaw motorcycle gang with 6,000+ members with 592 charters across 66 countries.

The Hambrick’s name has been dropped, and the sign currently just reads Quarter Pound Giant Burger. The burger that cost around thirty-eight cents in 1964, will now cost you $7.79 as of a 2025 menu image I found. An earlier 2019 menu shows that the price then was $5.35. Now that's what I call inflation. The sign out front now tells customers that these are "gormet" burgers, so I guess Californians can feel good that a gallon of gas still costs slightly less than a burger. [It's $5.85 gal. today in Hayward, CA]

I noticed a NY Times headline today that was about a European dilemma. They now face a phenomenon they call ‘Guns vs. Butter.’ It involves the dynamic of military spending versus what they spend on people. I can tell them from my 1964 experience that, when it comes to violence vs. burgers, I prefer the burger.

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Postscript: I have been telling this story of my burger-biker peace initiative in various contexts for decades. I’m still waiting on that call from the Nobel committee. After completing my tale this time, I decided to take advantage of a new tool, artificial intelligence. I did a search of Hells Angles and Dirty Ed. Read below for their findings:

Based on available historical records and literature regarding the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club (HAMC), "Dirty Ed" appears in early accounts of the club's history, specifically in the 1960s.

• Hayward Charter President: According to Hunter S. Thompson’s book Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga, "Dirty Ed" was identified as the president of the Hayward Hells Angels chapter.

• "Strange and Terrible Saga" Context: Dirty Ed is mentioned alongside other early members such as Chuck the Duck, Fat Freddy, and Filthy Phil in accounts of the era.

• Association with Other Members: He was documented engaging in club business, such as reviewing road maps with other club officers, including Bill, the president of the Jokers chapter, in the mid-1960s.