You don't stand between a thief and a 300B piece of custom American steel because you're brave. You do it because your back aches, your coffee is cold, and the sound of a crowbar against a chrome exhaust pipe is the final insult in a week of petty annoyances. Charles didn't want to be a savior. He just wanted his damn street to be quiet. But when you bleed for a Hell's Angel's ride, the silence that follows is deafening, and the roar that comes next changes everything.
The porch boards under Charles's chair had a distinct, exhausted groan. It was a sound he knew intimately, a friction of dry rot and rusted nails that mirrored the cartilage grinding in his own 72year-old knees. It was a Tuesday, or maybe a Wednesday. The days in the lower east side of the valley bled together in a haze of humidity and the constant abrasive hum of the distant interstate.
Across the cracked asphalt of Elm Street sat the motorcycle. It was an obnoxious piece of machinery, a sprawling, lowslung mass of matte black metal, and gleaming chrome leaking a single iridescent drop of oil onto the curb. Charles had watched the rider, a hulking mountain of faded denim, leather, and unwashed hair, park it there 3 hours ago before disappearing into the apartment building down the block. Charles hated the bike. He hated the aggressive guttural idle it had made when it pulled up, rattling the loose pain in his front window, but he hated the two men currently circling the bike even more.
They were young, jittery, and entirely too thin. Their movements were jerky, like marionets pulled by amateur hands. One wore an oversized hoodie despite the stifling afternoon heat. The other had a dirty baseball cap pulled low.
Charles smelled them before he fully processed what they were doing. The wind shifted, carrying the sharp chemical stench of cheap methamphetamine sweat and stale tobacco. The one in the hoodie produced a rusted pry bar from his sleeve. He jammed it towards the ignition housing, hands shaking. Metal scraped against metal.
A high grating sound that drove an ice pick of irritation straight into Charles's temple. Charles didn't feel a surge of righteous indignation. He didn't think about the sanctity of private property. He thought about the fact that his head hurt, his television was broken, and these two twitchy bastards were making a racket when he was trying to enjoy his one bitter cup of instant coffee and peace.
He gripped the curved handle of his walking stick, solid, dense hickory, and pushed himself up. His left knee popped, a loud, dry snap in the humid air. " Hey!" Charles barked. His voice was supposed to be a booming command, but it came out as a raspy, grally croak.
He cleared his throat and started down the porch steps. " Hey, get away from that damn thing." The two men snapped their heads up. The one in the cap took a half step back, his eyes blown wide, pupils swallowed by black.
Mind your business, Grandpa," he spat, his voice trembling with a frantic synthetic energy. " Go back inside." Charles's slippers scuffed against the asphalt as he crossed the narrow street. His chest felt tight. A cold, rhythmic pressure pushed against his ribs, making him acutely aware of the plaque he knew was thickening in his arteries.
He shouldn't be doing this. He was old, brittle, and tired. But a stubborn, cynical anger pushed him forward. " I won't tell you again," Charles said, stopping 3 ft from the front tire. He planted his hickory stick on the ground. "
Uplo, the bike smelled heavily of gasoline and hot rubber. You're making a racket, and you're scratching the paint. Whoever owns this is going to snap your twig necks, and I don't want to hose the blood off my sidewalk." Hoodie sneered, revealing gums that were receding and inflamed. It's a free country, old man.
He yanked the pry bar, trying to snap the steering lock. Charles didn't think. The irritation boiled over. He swung the hickory cane. He didn't aim for the head or the hands.
It was a clumsy, sweeping arc that caught Hoodie square in the rib cage with a dull thack. The kid let out a wet surprised gasp, dropping the pry bar. It clattered loudly against the pavement. " Crazy old bastard!" Cap yelled.
He lunged. Charles tried to pivot, but his bad knee buckled. Cap's shoulder slammed into Charles's chest. The impact wasn't even that hard. But to a hollow- boned man of 72, it felt like being hit by a slowm moving truck.
Charles went backward. The world tilted violently. He hit the curb, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall, followed by the side of his head scraping against the abrasive concrete. A sharp coppery taste instantly flooded his mouth. He had bitten his tongue, his shoulder screamed in agony.
Through the ringing in his ears, he heard Cap panicking. " Come on, man. Leave it. He's bleeding. The cops are going to come."
Footsteps slapped rapidly against the asphalt, fading down the alley. Charles lay there for a moment, staring at the gray underbelly of the motorcycle engine. It was quiet again. Fools, Charles muttered to himself, spitting a thick wad of blood onto the gray pavement. He rolled over onto his good side, his breath hitching as his bruised ribs protested.
He didn't feel victorious. He felt embarrassed, dirty, and utterly exhausted. He reached out with a trembling, liver spotted hand, grabbed the front wheel of the bike to steady himself, and slowly, painfully, hauled himself into a sitting position on the curb. He didn't go back to his porch. He just sat there, leaning his back against the heavy front tire of the machine he despised, holding his hickory stick, waiting for his heart rate to drop back to a survivable rhythm.
The sun began to dip behind the crumbling brick of the old textile mill, casting long, bruised purple shadows across Elm Street. Charles remained on the curb. The bleeding from his scraped cheek had slowed to a sticky, drying crust, but his shoulder throbbed with a dull, unrelenting heat. Every time he drew a breath, it felt like cracked glass grinding in his chest. He should go inside.
He should call someone. But the phone was in the kitchen, and the kitchen felt miles away. Besides, he had no one to call. His wife Martha had passed a decade ago, taking the color and the noise of the house with her. The police, they'd show up 3 hours late, take a meaningless report, and look at him with that mixture of pity and annoyance reserved for the elderly.
So he sat. He pressed his knuckles into his thighs, trying to massage the cramps out of his legs. 10 minutes later, the heavy, deliberate thud of boots sounded on the pavement. Charles didn't turn his head. It took too much effort.
He just watched from his peripheral vision as a pair of scuffed oil stained engineer boots stepped into his line of sight. They stopped inches from Charles's slippers. Charles looked up, tracking the dusty denim, the heavy silver chain hanging from a belt loop, the black leather vest. The man was massive, built like a brick wall that had been left out in the rain. His beard was a tangled mess of gray and brown, and his eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses despite the fading light.
On the back of the vest, though Charles couldn't see it now, he knew the patch was there. The winged death head. Hell's Angels. The biker looked at the pry bar resting in the gutter. He looked at the scratched chrome near the ignition.
Finally, he looked down at Charles, taking in the blood on the old man's cheek, the swelling jaw, and the hickory stick gripped tightly in white knuckled hands. The silence stretched. It was heavy, thick with unspoken questions. Charles stared back, refusing to break eye contact, largely because he was too tired to look away. You bleed on my white walls.
The biker's voice was a low, grally rumble. It wasn't angry. It was flat, analytical. I tried not to. Charles croked.
He swallowed hard to moisten a throat that felt like sandpaper. Two junkies tried to pop your ignition. Told them to shut up. They didn't listen. The biker slowly crouched down.
Up close, he smelled of stale tobacco, highway wind, and strong black coffee. He reached out a massive callous hand and picked up the rusted pry bar. He turned it over, inspecting it before tossing it casually into the storm drain. It landed in the muck below with a hollow splash. He looked at Charles's face again.
He reached into his leather vest and pulled out a bandana. It wasn't perfectly clean, but it was dry. He held it out. Charles looked at the cloth, then at the man. I'm fine.
You look like ran over dog The biker stated, his expression unchanging. He didn't withdraw the hand. Wipe your face. Charles snatched the bandanna with a scowl, pressing it against his cheek. It stung.
You shouldn't leave this loud piece of junk on the street," Charles muttered, wincing as he spoke. " Brings the rats out." A faint, almost imperceptible twitch registered at the corner of the biker's mouth. " It might have been a smile. It might have been a grimace." "
Name's Wyatt," he said, standing back up to his full towering height. " Charles." Wyatt stepped over the bike, grabbing the heavy handlebars and riding the machine effortlessly. He flicked a switch and the engine roared to life, a deafening, chest rattling explosion of sound that made Charles flinch. Wyatt didn't rev it.
He just let it idle, the heavy thrum vibrating up through the soles of Charles's slippers. Wyatt looked down at the old man still sitting on the curb. " Can you walk? I walked out here, didn't I? Charles snapped, though his attempt to stand proved pathetic.
He leaned heavily on his cane, his bad knee shaking violently under his weight. He made it halfway up before gravity threatened to pull him back down. A large hand grabbed him under his good arm. Wyatt's grip was iron, steadying Charles with humiliating ease. He hauled the old man to his feet, holding him there until Charles found his balance.
Get your hands off, Charles grumbled, though he didn't pull away immediately. Wyatt let go. He swung his leg over the bike. Lock your doors tonight, Charles. Wyatt said over the rumble of the engine, Charles frowned, wiping the drying blood from his chin.