Everett’s isn’t too busy for a Friday, which is surprising, as it’s the premier dive bar in downtown Arcata.   Catfish is bouncing tonight. I’ve now come in enough to where he doesn’t card me at the door. He tips his hat, “Nice to see ya.” Inside, my boss at the elementary school is playing pool with some skinny aging punk who put King Gizzard on the jukebox. Her long blonde hair falls to the side as she snipes a solid off the wall into the corner pocket. She always wins. My housemate Chris and I go to the bar and each pay $4 for our Rainiers. Robert is behind the bar; he greets us with a recycled dirty joke before he cracks and hands ‘em over.   On our way over to Everett’s Chris and I walked past The Jam, another bar just around the corner. A few dozen Hells Angels are parked out front, lining G Street. Staring out the porthole window beside our booth, I see a couple of silver-haired bikers still outside, gabbin’ in their leather jackets on the sidewalk. I make out the Hells Angels …