I’ve been really sick the last few days. Nearly bedridden, and almost went to the hospital, except my extreme hatred of hospitals kept me home to die in my own bed. “So be it,” I says to myself. “It’s probably all in my head.” Because I’m a stupid-ass hypochondriac. “Perhaps something burst and is leaking into my abdominal cavity and I’m about to die of sepsis. Maybe there are parasites eating me inside out.” The slimmer the likelihood, the more I fret. Why my husband hasn’t abandoned me on the side of the road, I have no idea.
My point is, I’ve been in bed. From my bed I can see my dad’s ashes. Morbid, perhaps, but if you know me you aren’t shocked at all.
Seeing his ashes, which is in itself a memento mori, while lying here waiting for a sign to go to the hospital because it might not be in my head—update as I edit this, it never came and I’m fine, my avoidance of emerge was proven the correct choice yet again—has also given me time to think. Uh oh! It’s memory time!
I deserve to be fed to wolves to be such a mopey, sentimental idiot.
[Author’s note: this whole post began as a memoir—and a few of my subscribers have been begging me for more stories about my dad, especially so this goes out to you. But, because there’s so much talk on Substack about antiheroes lately, what the concept means, I thought I’d combine the two.
If you don’t want to read about my personal history mixed with thoughts on fictional character analysis, as Curly Bill says—“Well, bye.”]
I was born under surveillance. Our phone was constantly tapped when I was growing up—the RCMP (they’re the red jacket horsey boys, for the international readers) apparently needed to know my thoughts on the most recent episode of Sailor Moon or listen to my sister cry to her friends when Kurt Cobain died. And ain’t it funny, I was so angry at that violation to my privacy when I found out, and now we all walk around with wiretap devices in our pockets, you’re reading this on one right now, likely, but I digress.1
The reason the RCMP were so interested in our household was because my father was an important member of the local motorcycle enthusiast association. I’ve given many anecdotes regarding my father’s habit of taking me to the bar with him, he day drinks while I munch fries and play pinball. Sometimes it was a normal neighbourhood bar, yes, but often it was the clubhouse. And believe it or not, the clubhouse was the safest place I could ever be.2 For those unfamiliar with motorcycle clubs of the 1%er3 variety, this was their gathering place. Of course, I wasn’t in attendance during the raucous festivities these places are known for, but I played on the pooltable while my dad did whatever business needed attending to in the back (entrusting my care to whoever else was hanging out), and that’s more than most normal kids can claim.
I ain’t a fuckin hippie or nothin but uh, I like trees.
—My dad, when asked why he built his whole deck around two cedars he refused to cut down.
He would drop me off at school with his colours4 on, I’d hop off his Harley (a springer softail with a modified exhaust you could hear coming from miles away, and of course there was no sissy bar so I just clung to my dad’s back, wearing an adult-sized brain bucket with extra foam wedged in—he wasn’t going to get harassed over helmet laws in front of me I guess, so, bare minimum regard for them) and walk blissfully unworried to the playground.
(I didn’t think there was anything wrong with the imagery on his back—I learned to draw flames and skulls from copying his tattoos. Normal? Never in my life.) Sure, I got bullied on occasion, but nothing serious. You know? No one was fucking with his daughters if they were smart. MORE ON THIS LATER.
Another brief digression: some fun Canadian history.
Canada has had several Biker Wars, starting in the 1970s all the way through to the early 2000s. One of the largest clubs through this timeframe was the Satan’s Choice MC, at its ‘70s peak it was the 2nd largest club IN THE WORLD. (You understand that the population of Canada is not large, right? Yet, when we aren’t committing war crimes, we WILL cause a ruckus on our home turf. It’s the blackflies. Drives anyone mad.) Its founder, Bernie Guindon, was an Olympic-level boxer, but couldn’t go to the Olympics due to getting arrested all the time.5 He also had a cottage in Northern Ontario, fly-in only, where he cooked up all the PCP in the land—it’s kind of like those meth trailers in the desert, but with black bears and swamp poplar, and better fishing. Anyway, the first major biker conflict was between the SCMC and the Popeyes MC in the late 70s—this is the era my dad joins the fun—which resulted in the Popeyes patching over to the Hell’s Angels, giving the HA their first foothold into Canada. This is important, because in the 90s, when I was a little girl, the HA (and their allies, which wound up including the Choice) and Rock Machine had a bit of a falling out, which resulted in the deaths of over 160 people throughout Ontario and Quebec.
Remember when I said the clubhouse was the safest place I could be? When my parent’s split in the mid-90s and my mom hauled my ass 1000 miles across the province—toward the action of the fucking biker conflict instead of away from it—this was no longer an option. I was no longer kept safe by my father, in a worse spot geographically, and I had to figure shit out for myself.6 In total we spent five years there before returning to my hometown, but during that wacky ass time in my life some interesting things happened, to say the least. For example, when I was 12 I met a new friend, who quickly became my best during this weird 6 months when I was living in a stranger’s basement and practically homeless, whatever, when we met we were both too wise for our age. This is roughly the first conversation between me and her (I’ll call her C):
C: I don’t think you’ll want to hang out with me :(
Me: Why?
C: My dad is a biker :’(
Me: (Remembering the time I was the new kid in a new town where no one knew who my dad was, and a girl said her dad was a biker, but she meant like, bicyclist, and I felt like a fucking alien talking to her and could not bring myself to admit my dad was an Actual Biker so she would continue to be my friend and not be horrified)7 Not a problem at all, C!
But her dad was Rock Machine, and my dad …was not. C and I decided not to mention this fact, ever, at all, so that I could go camping with her at Wasaga Beach and Elora Gorge and have sleepovers at her dad’s place in Toronto and not be murdered. HOORAY Thanks for being my friend C I hope you’re doing well!
So, how does all this relate to the concept of an antihero?
From the Wikipedia entry:
An antihero (sometimes spelled as anti-hero or two words anti hero) or anti-heroine is a character in a narrative (in literature, film, TV, etc.) who lacks some conventional heroic qualities and attributes, such as idealism and morality. Although antiheroes may sometimes perform actions that most of the audience considers morally correct, their reasons for doing so may not align with the audience's morality.
From a StudioBinder article (read the whole thing):
Anti heroes have been used in stories for over four thousand years. Many of the most acclaimed writers from around the world have used them as their protagonists, such as William Shakespeare, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Franz Kafka.
An anti hero is a narrative protagonist who lacks the qualities of a conventional hero. They may lack the strong morals, courage, or selflessness that we associate with heroes. Anti heroes often feel rejected by society, and veer down a self-destructive path that results in isolation or death. Over the years, anti hero characters have become one of the most popular types of story protagonists — in television (Don Draper, Tony Soprano) and in film (Michael Corleone, Daniel Plainview).
…No matter what they do, they’re destined to be rejected by society. This outsider mentality is something that’s come to define anti hero.
…
A great anti hero is just a great character, after all.
(Emphasis mine.)
My dad was such a great “character” he had enough friends for three funerals.
But here’s his antihero origin story:
He was a skinny little Jew boy growing up in an area of Ontario not known for liking skinny little Jew boys, statistically speaking. He watched a lot of cowboy shows, but the era of the real “cowboy” was as through as that of pirates—by the 60s the image of the biker replaced that bad boy, social outcast void in the hearts of disenfranchised and frustrated youth.
He was extremely intelligent. If I recall correctly, he was skipped 2 grades, which only exacerbated the bullying he received. He wrote poetry—though only 1 poem survived his passing, I’ve been told he wrote in secret his whole life. When he chose to BULK (and he did get really jacked!) he played football, he learned to box, dropped out of school to get a job in the mines—he was so strong he was carrying those big cast iron diamond drill thingimabobs down the shafts on one shoulder (they normally take 2-3 men to carry)—and he decided he was going to be the biggest, baddest Jew to grace the mean streets of peak-biker-era Canada.
And he was very, very good at fighting.
He took joy in it. Pleasure. Of all the tales I was regaled with after his passing, the most common was random people I’ve never met in my life telling me about how my dad kicked their ass on a lark. And he didn’t only beat people up for fun, he did it as a sort of job for the club.8 It earned him Respect.9 And people feared him. Once, our car was stolen. The word was spread who’s car it was and the thieves returned it to our driveway.
Never mind the area he grew up in, have you noticed that bikers in general don’t have an inclusive reputation? I don’t know exactly what he did to achieve his status, but there was a guy in the club that had a big, oak swastika that he had on his wall. When my dad went over, the guy would take the giant swastika off his wall to hide behind the couch. Out of Respect.10
I haven’t watched a single episode of Sons of Anarchy. I find biker shows/movies super corny. I witnessed it first-hand and that’s enough. I called societally bad people “uncle”—so it all comes off as major cringe. When I see people in SoA gear, it’s like watching the final boss of Posers trot by.
THAT SAID. I’ve told many people that the most realistic depiction of that sort of lifestyle, that I’ve watched, is Goodfellas. Why? I was the kid dragged along to listen to my mother scream into the girlfriend’s apartment buzzer. I’ve seen dangerous men who can crack good jokes. Dangerous men who made big mistakes. The mental and physical toll. You don’t see too many old bikers. Most my dad’s closest friends were already long dead before my dad died. Drugs, alcohol, shot, stabbed, bike accidents, jail, whatever.
Like I said before, I don’t know exactly what my dad did in the 70s/80s/90s to earn the respect he had, and frankly it’s better that I don’t know all the gritty details. What matters is he was MY hero, in my innocent naivete, and in literary parlance the fact that he was the villain to so many other people—directly and indirectly—puts him firmly in antihero territory. I think it’s an interesting thought that everyone should keep in the back of their minds when constructing characters, be they protagonists or whoever. It isn’t “pomo bullshit” or “deconstructionist trash” to consider this, it’s purely the truth: A Hero may not be Everyone’s Hero. As the author of your own work, I leave it up to you to decide the implications of this.
I’m not talking “morally grey” either. I’m talking facts.
My hero would never let anyone hurt me. It is also true that my dad hurt other people. Including my mother. He beat up cops, for fuck sake.
He was a very troubled man who made a few bonehead choices. Then his liver failed, and he died.
But when I was 7 years old, and my sister was 13—and I don’t remember if this was before or after her stint in juvie for stealing a car, my sister’s trials and tribulations are a topic for another day—my mom brought me along to a house where my sister’s “boyfriend” lived, and I watched my dad hang this guy out of a second story window, upside down, blood pouring everywhere, my dad is shouting at this fucking loser to stay away from his daughter, my mom is screaming “STOP IT ____ YOU’RE GOING TO KILL HIM” and me, I’m just watching this guy struggling against my dad’s fists until my dad pulled him back into the house where I could no longer see what happened to the prick.
I found out years later this “boyfriend” was much older than my sister. But all I knew at the time was that any-fucking-body who wanted to hurt my sister or myself would have to worry about my dad.
My parents splitting really fucked with my head in the “oh, I am no longer safe” kind of way, amongst other ways. Again, that whole period of my life is a topic for another day.
If there’s one thing people have commented about my work—especially The Highwayman and Ghosts—is my depiction of realistic men. Of course, not being a man, I always make sure to get male beta readers and I always ask if I slipped up at all. Unless someone is keeping their thoughts secret, I think it’s safe to say I construct fairly realistic men. (Which some female readers get mad about lol. Can’t please everyone!)
Observation of reality is key when constructing a fictional world populated with fictional people. The more you observe, the more “real” your world is able to be. That’s how your reader is able to become engrossed, emotionally invested, able to suspend their disbelief. Reminder: Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.
THE ONLY BAD CHARACTERS ARE THE ONES WHO ARE BORING. As a character-first writer, it drives me up the wall when I see people use “bad” to mean “this character doesn’t align with my morals” or something similar. See my previous post about the Thomas Covenant books.
In the Highwayman, the characters cuss. A lot. Compared to the amount my dad and his friends cussed, if anything, I toned it down. Like, when I watch Scarface, I’m not even phased. Swearing only stands out to me when the movie sucks and the acting and script suck—if it feels forced, it’s embarrassing. But if the writer and actors and director pull it off, it’s just like, normal dialogue, man. In books, it’s the writer’s job to do their best—dialogue can be poorly written without any cuss words, by the way, so this statement is bare minimum. Do your best, but first, observe people. Yes, this will require you to leave the house. Even standing in line at the grocery store, keep your phone in your pocket, and listen.
Not all people that you observe are going to align with your idea of a hero, or villain. Very few people are pure heroes, and very few people are pure villain. That’s just reality. Al Capone ran a soup kitchen.
And it isn’t just the actions of people that peg them as hero/villain, but how they are observed. We’re all constantly doing that science experiment with the electrons or whatever, while also interpreting the actions of people to match what we want to see. But consider this: Why do we romanticize cowboys? Pirates? Highwaymen? (See what I did there? Read the book.) Why do we love mob movies? The crime genre is ENORMOUS. All these things.
Because normal people do not have the guts to disregard society. They wish they could, but it’s a lot safer to read the story of Robin Hood than it is to be a Robin Hood. (Most people would narc on a modern Robin Hood, anyway.)
Because normal people are afraid to do good if it means doing bad. “I have a very particular set of skills.” Are you Liam Neeson in Taken? No.
Because most people don’t want to admit a hero can be frightened, reluctant, or otherwise forced to protagonist status by extraordinary circumstance outside of their control, and would really rather not.
But it sure as fuck is fun to read or watch stories about people we aren’t.
So stop shitting on antiheroes. You don’t hate them, you just hate hack writers.
My substack is always free, if you like what I do here please consider buying a book!
The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick [Amazon] [Kobo]
The Ghosts of Tieros Kol [Amazon] [Kobo]
I also have a completed serial, free to read on Substack! Pull Me Under
And if a Fed is reading this right now, you’re a goof, get a real job.
It even had a 16-bit strip poker machine, but I didn’t know how to play poker, and I was a child who didn’t understand why the lady on the screen kept spreading her shirt open. Good ol’ Pixel Tits. By the time Duke Nukem 3D came out, I was laughing my ass off every time I gave the strippers money. Raised by wolves, what can I say.
After the Hollister riot, the AMA tried doing damage control by saying 99% of motorcycle riders are law-abiding citizens. So, these are the 1% who are not.
Vests or jackets with the club patches on them.
The very early SCMC history was a little bit of an influence on Muggy’s arc in The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick. No more details to avoid spoilers, but, yeah.
I sometimes wonder if my life would have been less weird if he fought for custody. I think so. I know so. No point in worrying about it now.
My father being notorious was a double-edged sword, yes I was protected, but also what normal, middle-class-and-up kid is going to be permitted to play with the daughter of a biker? It’s a type of alienation that’s difficult to describe; you had to live it.
One time a club member was selling drugs outside a local high school. My dad beat the guy to a pulp, as one does. One thing Normal People don’t understand, despite appearances, There Are Rules.
A vital component to biker culture, also difficult to describe. It’s a very Masculine Code. I witnessed but was not taught—no women are taught Respect the way men are taught. Though, he did teach me how to give a proper handshake. Thanks dad, you’d get a kick out of how many surprised eyes and “wow!”s I’ve earned from not shaking hands like a girl.
I’ve had people unsubscribe from me for finding out I’m half Jewish. I really don’t give a fuck. And for everyone who cries “waaah there are literal nazis on Substack waaaah” what are these turbo anti-Semites gonna do, call me a kike in my comment section? Big fucking whoopdiedoodah. I’m probably going to have people unsub for finding out my dad was a biker, too. And I’m a woman on the internet, the audacity. There’s always going to be someone who’s going to find an excuse to hate on you, so get the fuck over it.
I loved every sentence of this. Your dad seems like he was quite the character and I can see where he made his impacts in your stories. Thanks for sharing this, personal as it was.
Antiheroes are so fascinating to me, but in real life and in fiction. My own father straddled that line (though definitely not to the degree your dad did) so that's probably part of it as well. Reading this I actually wondered briefly if they ever crossed paths because my dad had a couple friends in a local MC in the 70s.
He told me a story once about making port in Thunder Bay (he was a sailor on the great lakes at the time) and he got a call from an old friend who heard he was in town to come meet up with some people at a local biker bar (I couldn't tell you which). He got there first, picks a table with a bunch of chairs. As he's waiting, big biker dudes keep coming up and taking chairs from his table until he's down to just a few so he says to the next guy who comes to get one "No, sorry man. I need these ones." The guy gets in his face and tells my dad something like get up because he's taking his fucking seat now. Some minor tiff happens and my dad ends up on a quip the likes of "if you're trying to get me to come sit in your lap, it's not gonna happen."
It's at this point there's a cackle from across the bar and his friend appears wearing his MC colours with a big grin. He'd been sending his boys over to mess with my dad and just wanted to see if he was still the same shit he'd always been lol.
Lisa, which is the most profitable way for you for me to order your book?