On the weekend of the biggest motorcycle gathering of the year, I was bar-tending at a club nearby. When the roaring machines pulled up outside, our patrons' eyes swung toward the door and conversation turned into uneasy whispering.
A group of tough looking bikers walked up to the bar, and one of them asked me where the phone was. I pointed it out, and the silence in the room let everybody overhear what the biker said into the receiver.
"Hi, Mom. Just want to let you know I'll be home late tonight."
A woman stood inside the front door, her arms full of coats. Four small children scurried around her.
A stage mother cornered the concert violinist in his dressing room and insisted he listen to a tape of her talented son playing the violin.