I went to the Harley store.
There was crappy music playing, fat men leaning over the accessory bar, and low, red lighting.
It was pretty seedy. All I needed was a part for my bike.
The fact that it wasn’t a Harley clearly was a disadvantage.
I wasn’t wearing the uniform.
No bandanna, no wife-beater, no curiously thick-soled boots.
No tattoos.
It was like visiting that TV motorcycle-building family, the Turtles or Tuttles or whatever. Or a whorehouse.
I didn’t mind terribly not fitting in.