A couple dozen bikers and their old ladies enter the diner.
A few minutes later, a dozen cops show up.
Forced smiles and casual greetings are exchanged, but I know what’s going on; I’ve seen every episode of Sons of Anarchy.
Except nothing happens.
The cops grab a few tables in back. They order sodas and burgers.
The bikers sit up front. They order burgers and beers.
Every ten minutes or so a new patron enters, scans the room, and decides to eat somewhere else.
The waitress tells me not to worry.
“Usually it’s fine,” she says.
“We’ve had fights, but nobody has gotten killed or anything.”
“But it does seem like there’s the potential for danger,” I say.
“There’s always the potential for danger,” she says.
The waitress is right. So I decide to live dangerously and order the onion rings.