Fair dealing on the boardwalk

You could hear them coming. A gang of bikers astride their Harleys, adorned in an assortment of leathers, jeans, and silvers, cruised into the parking lot at the state beach. I was working there for the summer as a patrolman. They rumbled up to the sign in front of the refreshment stand that said "No parking—Deliveries," shut off their engines, removed their helmets, and ambled out onto the boardwalk.

"Those guys aren't supposed to park there," my boss said. "Go over there and kick 'em out." Obviously, it wasn't a cherished assignment. But over I went.

In a somewhat shaky voice, I explained to a couple of the bikers that I didn't want to spoil their fun, but I'd been asked if they'd mind moving their bikes away from the delivery area—not far, mind you—just enough so the delivery trucks could get in the space.

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May 20, 2002

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