The adolescent punched the old soldier so hard that his hearing aid flew across the parking lot. He had no idea that 47 bikers were watching from inside.
I heard the smack as I was getting gas at the Stop-N-Go on Highway 49. A palm slapping a face, then something plastic hitting the ground.
I noticed Harold Wiseman, an 81-year-old Korean War veteran and Purple Heart winner, on his knees in the parking lot with blood streaming from his nose.
The kid that was standing over him couldn’t have been older than 25. He wore a backwards cap, had tattoos on his face, and jeans that hung below his ass. While his two pals laughed, he shot everything on his phone.
The punk got closer to Harold’s face and said, “You should have stayed out of it, old man.” “This video is going to get a lot of views.” The old head is dropped for talking garbage. “Grandpa, you’re going to be famous.
The punk didn’t know that Harold wasn’t being rude; he had merely asked them to relocate their car so he could park his oxygen tank closer to the door.
The punk also didn’t know that the Stop-N-Go was our regular gas station and that 47 members of the Savage Riders MC were inside for our monthly meeting in the back room.
I am 64 years old and my name is Dennis “Tank” Morrison. I am the president of the Savage Riders. We were talking about safety when we heard the noise.
I saw Harold struggle to get up through the glass. He was shaking his hands as he groped for his hearing aid.
I whispered, “Brothers.” “We have a problem.”
Every Thursday at 2 PM, Harold Wiseman goes to that Stop-N-Go to buy a coffee and a lottery ticket. For the last fifteen years, since his wife Mary died, he has been doing it. Singh, the proprietor, always had his coffee ready: two sugars and no cream. Harold would sit at the counter, talk about Korea, scratch his tickets, and then go home.
Everyone in town knew Harold. He worked as a mechanic at the Ford dealership for forty years. He mended cars for free for single moms who couldn’t pay. He taught half of the kids in town how to change oil in his garage and never asked for anything in return.
He was now on his knees in a parking lot while three punks filmed him for points online.
The thug kicked Harold’s hearing aid across the street. “What’s wrong, Grandpa? Can you hear me now? I told you to GET UP! “
Harold’s hands were injured as he fell. At 81, skin doesn’t bounce back; it tears. Blood mixed with the oil stains on the concrete as he fought to get up.
Harold said, “Please,” but his voice was shaky because he didn’t have his hearing aid to warn him how loud it was. “I just needed to park—”
“Nobody cares about what you need!” The punk’s mate joined in, and now they were both filming. “An old white man thinks he owns the place.” “This is our time now.”
That’s when I said yes.
At the same time, 47 bikers got up. People could hear the sound of chairs scraping against the concrete all across the store. Singh, who had been watching awkwardly from behind the counter, stepped back.
We took our time. We didn’t hurry. We left the store in pairs, and the sound of our boots made everyone in the parking lot turn. The punk didn’t notice at first since he was too into his video.
“Hey, old man, say something for the camera. I’m sorry for being rude—
He stopped talking when my shadow fell on him. When he turned around, his phone was still recording, and he was looking at my chest. Then he glanced up. And up.
“Is there something wrong here? “I inquired softly.
The punk tried to appear tough by saying, “Yeah, this old racist tried to tell us where to park.” We took care of it.
“Racist?” “Harold Wiseman?” I asked, looking at Harold, who was lying on the ground. The man who paid for Jerome Washington’s funeral when his family couldn’t? The man who taught half of the Black kids in this area how to fix cars for free? That Harold? “
The punk’s bravado began to wane. His friends had stopped recording, and all of a sudden they were very aware that they were surrounded by a wall of leather and denim.
“He… he called us thugs.”
Harold said from the ground, “No.” “I told you to get out of the handicapped spot.” I have a license. My air—
“Stop it!” The punk raised his fist again to attack Harold.
In the middle of his stroke, I grabbed his wrist. Not hard. Just be strong. “That’s enough.”
“Get off of me, man!” This is an attack! I’m writing this down! “
“Good,” said Crusher, my sergeant-at-arms. “Get everyone’s faces in the picture.” The police will want to know who saw you hit an 81-year-old disabled veteran.
The punk snatched his hand away and said, “We’re going.”
“No,” I said. “You’re not.”
“You can’t keep us here!” “
“I’m not stopping you.” But you need to acquire that hearing aid, say you’re sorry to Harold, and then wait for the police.
“I won’t say I’m sorry!” “
At that point, Harold, who was still on the ground, spoke up and his voice was stronger. “Let them go, Dennis.” “I’m fine.”
I looked down at Harold, who was hurt and embarrassed and had lost his hearing aid in the parking lot. He was pleading me to let them go.
“Are you sure?” “
Mary always said, “Violence doesn’t make violence go away.”
The punk chuckled. “Yeah, listen to your grandpa, biker dude.” “Violence doesn’t fix—”
The smack came out of nowhere. It was from the punk’s girlfriend, who had just gotten out of her car.
“DeShawn, what the hell are you doing?” She got out of the car and walked toward us in her scrubs, which made her look like a nurse. “Is that Mr. Wiseman? Is Mr. Wiseman on the ground? “
DeShawn, the punk, turned pale. “Baby, I can explain—”
“This is the guy who fixed my mom’s car for free!” “You’re the one who employed him at the dealership before you was fired for stealing. She slapped him again. “And you threw him on the ground?” “
“He didn’t care about us—”
“How? By being? Because they are old? She shoved him aside and crouched down next to Harold. “Mr. I’m really sorry, Wiseman. “Let me help you.”
“Keisha?” “Little Keisha Williams?” Harold said as he looked at her. Are you a nurse now? “
“Yes, sir.” Thanks for writing the letter of recommendation for my scholarship. Can you stand? “
Harold’s two brothers helped him up, and Keisha looked at his wounds. The punk tried to sneak away, but Crusher stepped in his way.
“Your girl is right,” Crusher said. “You have to deal with this.”
“I don’t have to do anything!” “We’re done!”
But his friends were already leaving and taking videos off their phones. They didn’t want to be a part of this anymore.
“DeShawn,” Keisha said as she kept taking care of Harold. “Do you know what this man did for our community?” Do you know what he does every Thursday? “
“I don’t care—”
“His wife is buried in Memorial Gardens.” He travels there every Thursday to see her, and then he comes here to buy a lottery ticket because she always told him he would win big one day. For fifteen years, I’ve been doing it. He has never won more than fifty dollars, but he keeps playing because it makes him feel close to her.
DeShawn’s tough-guy act was crumbling apart. Everyone in the throng, including customers and people who lived nearby and heard the uproar, knew Harold. And everyone was staring at DeShawn.
“And you,” Keisha said, “you put him on the ground for what? What do you think? What do you like? Is that who you are now?”
Singh brought out a first aid kit and Harold’s coffee, which had two sugars and no cream. “On the house, Mr. Harold.” From now on, it’s always free.
At that time, we found Harold’s hearing aid. Crushed. The punk stepped on it while he was showing off.
I told DeShawn, “That’s a medical device that costs three thousand dollars.” “I hope your opinions on the video can pay for it.”
“I don’t have that much cash.”
“Then you should figure it out.”
When Keisha got up, her scrubs were stained with Harold’s blood. “We’re done, DeShawn. I can’t be with someone who abuses veterans to seek attention on social media. Someone who damages the people that helped us become who we are.
“Please, baby—”
“No.” If my grandma knew I was seeing someone who hurt Mr. Wiseman, she would turn over in her grave. “Today,” get your stuff out of my house.
She took Harold to a bench, and my brother Doc, who used to be a Navy corpsman, looked him over. Ten minutes later, the police came. As usual, Harold didn’t want to press charges.
“Boy’s lost enough today,” Harold said, looking at DeShawn. His girlfriend, his honor, and his good name. That might be enough punishment.
But I wasn’t done. “Is it DeShawn?”
He nodded, and all of his confidence was gone.
“You’ll have to pay for that hearing aid.” You’re going to help out at the Veterans Center, where Harold goes every week to assist out. And you’ll know what it actually means to respect someone.
“And what if I don’t?”
I smiled. A smile that isn’t pretty. “That video you were so proud of? The one your friends already got rid of? Our security cameras saw it all. You even said you hit someone. You can either redeem yourself or be charged.
Six months later, I’m at the Stop-N-Go for our monthly meeting. Harold is there, as usual, with a new hearing aid that DeShawn had to pay for with three jobs. It’s 2 PM on Thursday, and we’re having coffee and a lottery ticket.
DeShawn is sitting next to him and listening to Harold tell a story about the Battle of Chosin Reservoir. He’s not doing it for the views or the substance; he’s just listening.
“Then the Chinese surrounded us,” Harold claimed. “We were below zero, had no food or ammo.” We believed we were done.
“What went wrong? “DeShawn asked, and he genuinely wanted to know.
“We helped each other.” It doesn’t matter if you’re black, white, or Hispanic when it’s thirty below and you’re outnumbered ten to one. “We made it through because we were there for each other.”
DeShawn nodded. He had been volunteering at the Veterans Center for five months. You could see that the youngster had talent once you got beyond his terrible attitude. He was good with technology and helped the senior veterans video contact their grandkids. Started an initiative to teach people how to use their smartphones.
“Mr.” DeShawn said gently, “Wiseman.” “Sorry.” Again. For what I did.
“Son, you’ve said you’re sorry fifty times.”
“Not enough.”
Harold patted DeShawn on the shoulder. Keisha says you’re going to community college, and “Since then, your actions have been enough of an apology.”
“IT program.” I thought I should use my computer skills for something useful instead of what I was doing.
“She also says that you two are talking again.”
DeShawn smiled a little. “Slowly.” She says I need to show that I’ve changed, not just say it.
“Good girl.”
“Yes.” “I was a fool.”
“Sometimes we all are.” A guy isn’t defined by how many times he falls. It’s if he gets back up. And how he deals with folks who can’t.
I walked up to their table. “Harold. “DeShawn.”
DeShawn grew uncomfortable. Six months later, he was still scared of the motorcyclists. You can’t blame him.
“Take it easy, kid.” I just wanted Harold to know that we’re going on a ride on Saturday. It’s a poker run for the center for veterans. Are you in?
Harold chuckled. “I’m 81 years old, my hip hurts, and I wear hearing aids. What am I going to do on a bike?”
“Get in the support vehicle.” Someone needs to be with the driver of the truck.
“I’ll think about it.”
I turned at DeShawn and said, “You can come too.”
“I… I don’t know anything about bikes.
“Harold didn’t either when he was your age. He then spent three years in Korea taking care of them. He might be able to help you learn.
After I left, I heard DeShawn ask, “Would you?” Show me? “
“Maybe,” Harold said. But first, kindly scratch this ticket for me. My hands shake a lot these days.
DeShawn crossed out the ticket. “Mr. Wiseman, you won a thousand dollars, Wiseman!”
Harold looked at the ticket and then up to the ceiling. “Okay, Mary. You were right fifteen years later. He looked at DeShawn and said, “I did win big.” “But don’t talk about the money.”
That Saturday, DeShawn drove our support truck with Harold in the passenger seat. They raised $5,000 for the Veterans Center. At first, DeShawn only came to our events to help, not to be a member. He set up online donations, streamed the rides, and used the same social media skills he had used to hurt people before to do something good.
The video of him hitting Harold never got very many views. But the video of him helping Harold get on stage at the Veterans Center Christmas dinner, where Harold got an award for his volunteer work, got a million views. The caption said, “I attacked this hero six months ago.” He calls me son now. “This is what it means to forgive.”
Keisha finally took him back, and now they’re engaged. Harold will give her away at the wedding because her father died years ago and she requested him to.
But the big thing came last Thursday. I saw them at the Stop-N-Go getting gas. They were at the same table at 2 PM. Harold was teaching DeShawn how to play cribbage on a board that looked like it was older than both of them put together.
“This was my father’s,” Harold said. “He carried it through World War I and Korea.” “One day, I’ll give it to someone who deserves it.”
“That’s great, Mr. Wiseman.”
“Harold. Please call me Harold. “Now we’re friends.”
Friends. A white man who was 81 years old and a black boy who was 25 years old and had hammered him for views on social media. Friends.
Singh served them coffee—two cups, each with two sugars and no cream.
“On the house,” Singh said, like he always did.
“You can’t keep giving me free coffee,” Harold protested, as he always does.
“I can and I will.” You too, DeShawn. “Here, heroes get free drinks.”
DeShawn quickly said, “I’m not a hero.”
Harold looked at him. “Not yet,” but you’re getting better. Being a hero doesn’t mean you can’t make mistakes. You have to choose to be better than you were yesterday.”
As I drove away, I saw DeShawn help Harold get to his car with his oxygen tank. The same hands that had hit him now helped him get up.
That’s the problem with redemption. You don’t receive it right immediately. You have to earn it in small ways, like lugging an oxygen tank, learning how to play cribbage, and hearing combat stories. To get it, you have to face the people you wounded and do better.
DeShawn still has the image on his phone from that day. The video is gone for good, but he still has a picture of Harold on the ground with blood on his face. He keeps it to remind himself of who he was so he doesn’t become that person again.
Last week, the Savage Riders voted on something that had never happened before. We voted to support DeShawn’s membership. Not as a full patch, since he doesn’t ride yet, but as a possible investment, someone worth your time.
Everyone voted the same way.
When I informed Harold, he grinned. “Good.” “This is real brotherhood, not the fake tough-guy persona he was showing.”
“Do you think he’ll be able to do it?”
Harold scratched off the ticket for the lottery. He was still playing, still hoping, and still thinking about Mary.
“He stood in front of a room full of veterans and told them what he did to me. He faced their anger and judgment, but he kept coming back. He kept trying to get forgiveness that he thought he would never get. Harold looked at me and said, “Yeah, he’ll make it.” Dennis, we all fall, but not everyone gets back up. He did.
The punk who attacked an 81-year-old veteran for his views is now the young man who helps the veteran teach other veterans how to use computers. The thug who kicked the hearing aid became the man who worked three jobs to buy a new one. The kid who filmed the attack grew up to be the man who streams charity rides and gets thousands of dollars in donations.
It all started when 47 bikers came out of a store and yelled, “That’s enough.”
“Let them go,” urged an 81-year-old veteran. “Violence doesn’t solve violence.”
The young woman in scrubs asked her boyfriend to do better because she liked that old man so much.
All because there is still a potential for people to change, even those who appear too far gone.
Harold still goes to the Stop-N-Go every Thursday at 2 PM, but he doesn’t have to be alone very often anymore. DeShawn and other young men from the area who heard the story go there with him. They sit with Harold, listen to his stories, and learn from what he knows.
The punk who hit him? He’s not here anymore. Someone better has taken his place. Someone Harold would be proud to name his son.
Mary Wiseman is smiling because she knows that her husband’s willingness to forgive has made someone else’s life better.
The real reward in the lottery isn’t the $1,000. It’s changing a lost young man into someone who deserves to carry on Harold’s legacy.
We bronzed the hearing aid that flew across the parking lot and put it in our clubhouse. There is a small inscription above it that says:
“The sound of redemption is often softer than the sound of violence.” But it lasts longer.
DeShawn placed that plaque up, and Harold helped with the words.
