At a crosswalk, I was stuck behind a wall of motorcyclists, which made me even later to pick up Mateo from school. Really loud. Made out of leather. There are skull patches and frowns all over the object. One guy had flames tattooed on both arms and a beard that was so thick that birds could sit on it.
I thought, “Great, some kind of protest or ride-for-attention thing,” when I saw them all lined up like a barricade. After that, I saw her.
There is a bent elderly woman with a tennis ball cane and a canvas shopping bag standing at the curb. She looks rather small next to them. It’s so easy to break.
The first rider, the one with the beard, stops his bike. Doesn’t utter a word. He gets off his Harley, walks up to her, and offers her his arm like he’s taking her to the royal court. One of the other persons stops traffic with both hands out, like Moses did when he split the sea.
She smiles. The whole face lights up. She holds onto his arm tightly. They move slowly—lower than slow—over four lanes.
No one honks. Nobody.
Something is hurting me in the back of my ribs. Not truly feeling guilty. Like maybe I’ve been walking around with my head on cruise control. I am seeing what I think is there, not what is really there.
And then it does. One of the other motorcyclists spots me watching and comes over to my car window with a look that I can’t understand. He taps once.
I jump. I automatically lock the door with my hand.
He can see it. He slowly nods his head, which means “Yeah, I thought so.” But he doesn’t look mad. More like tired.
He then takes off his sunglasses and says, “Are you okay?”
That’s it. He only says these words.
I blink. “Yes,” I say. “Just shocked.”
He gives me a squint and then smiles. “We hear that a lot.”
And suddenly he’s gone, returning to the group, just as the last rider carries the old lady up the other curb. She pats his arm like he’s her grandson. He bends down a little before getting back on his bike.
It only takes a few minutes. But the air feels different after that.
I get to Mateo’s school ten minutes late. Of course, he’s angry, and I can barely hear him. I keep thinking about the biker’s face. I think about how swiftly I judged all of them. I was so wrong.
That should have been the last thing.
But life is odd. Not clean. That’s insane.
I saw one of them again two weeks later. Not at the crossing, but in the waiting room of the free clinic where I’ve taken Mateo after a long day of soccer practice. We think he hurt his wrist.
There he is, the guy with the flame tattoo. He’s reading a worn-out edition of Car & Track and seems oddly serene under the fluorescent lights.
I don’t say anything. But Mateo knows who he is immediately away.
He points and says, “That’s the person who helped the old lady.”
The biker looks up. Looks at us. Grins.
He also knows us.
He walks over this time.
“How’s your wrist, little guy?”
Mateo is proud of it. “Still attached.”
He glances at me and laughs. “Do you remember me?”
I nod my head. “The crosswalk.” You were quite nice.
He gives a shrug. “Not really.” Not bad. This is how people should act.
Before I can answer, a nurse calls his name, “Cezar?”
He stands up. He nods once and then goes to the back.
Cezar.
I can remember the name.
After that, it seems like the universe keeps placing him in my way.
At the gas station. At the food co-op I go to once a month. He has a pit bull mix named Miso that is frightened of squirrels, even while they’re in the dog park.
We talk a little more every time.
And from all of those tiny talks, I learn that he’s not simply a biker. He looks after stuff.
His sister has multiple sclerosis. He came back to town to help her out. He fixes bikes on the side, teaches kids in the region how to change oil, and every November he organizes a charity ride for veterans.
I don’t get why I’m so astonished by any of this. Maybe it’s because I grew up with people who had clear beliefs and clean-shaven faces. Cezar didn’t look like anyone else, unless they were the bad guy in a movie or someone you crossed the street to avoid.
But there he is. Coming back again and again. Not a plan. Simply being there.
When I run into Mateo and Miso in the park one Saturday, Mateo is with me.
Cezar throws him a tennis ball and says, “Have you ever been on a motorcycle?”
Mateo’s eyes get wide. “No, but I want to.”
“I’m going in right away.” He’s ten years old. He is also very aware of risk.
Cezar is laughing. “Fair.” That’s all I’m saying. If you ever want to ride around the cul-de-sac, I have a kid’s helmet in the garage.
I don’t think so. But I don’t say no either.
That night, I search Google for “motorcycle safety for kids” and read things that I never thought I’d be interested in.
Weeks pass. It’s fall now. The weather becomes colder, the leaves turn orange, and Mateo prepares a school paper called “Cezar Is the Coolest Guy I Know.”
It makes me cry when I read it. And I know that I want to learn more about him. Not for Mateo. For me.
I ask him to dinner, then.
I say, “Just something easy.” Just pasta on a weeknight, nothing special.
He brings a bottle of sparkling apple juice, flowers, and garlic toast.
Flowers.
I think Mateo’s eyeballs are going to come out since he rolls them so much.
We eat. We laugh. We talk about things that have nothing to do with motorcycles, including books, movies, and how my dad never taught me how to change a tire, but his did.
At one point, he helps me bring dishes into the kitchen and says, “You know, I almost didn’t come to town that day.” What does the crosswalk mean? I was supposed to go to a meeting in a different city. But my bike broke down.
I stop. “Do you think that was meant to be?”
He smiles. “I think it was a good breakdown.”
After then, we see one other a lot more.
Not in a hurry. It’s not a funny love story.
That’s how life is. Slow. Strong.
He takes Mateo to a place where they may race go-karts. I met his sister Zuri, who is in a wheelchair yet is still scarier than he is. She added that he used to cry throughout The Lion King and still loves animals that don’t have homes.
One weekend, we all went to a street fair. Mateo’s face is covered with kettle corn, and Miso finishes in third in a silly pet costume contest. Cezar dressed him up as a taco.
I see Cezar, Zuri, Mateo, and Miso strolling in front of me, and I realize that I haven’t felt this tranquil in a long time.
Maybe forever.
But life isn’t always peaceful.
One night, late, Cezar calls me. His voice is tight.
“Zuri,” she said.
She had fallen before. They still don’t know why. I hurry to the hospital.
I stay with him at the ER all night. Hold his hand. Tell him stories to keep him awake. He leans his head on my shoulder and says, “I’ve never been this scared,” at 4 a.m.
I say, “Me too.”
Zuri gets through. It turns out that it was a side effect of a new medicine.
She gets better, but it rattles us up.
After that, we get closer. Not just because they love each other, but also because they are afraid. Because I realize how important everything is.
We talk about subjects that matter more.
We talk about more important things, including Mateo’s plans for the future. Like moving in. Maybe we shouldn’t put off truly living the life we already have.
Cezar kneels down in our kitchen one lovely spring morning and opens a little, old box. His shirt is smeared with spaghetti.
There is no diamond inside. This silver ring has a pattern of gears on its band.
He says, “You’re the best surprise I never saw coming.” “Will you help me finish building it?”
I don’t even know it, yet I’m crying.
We don’t have a fancy wedding. It was just a little gathering in the backyard with no shoes on, a lot of tacos, and a lot of fun.
Zuri is in charge. Mateo reads a poem he wrote. While the neighbors are getting married, Miso barks at their cat.
And when I look at this beautiful, messy collection of individuals I never thought I’d see again, I go back to that day at the crossing.
I think about how quickly I made my choice.
To how wrong I was.
People weren’t worried about Cezar’s rough edges. He had figured out how to use them as armor.
But he was really all heart.
I almost missed that.
Not quite.
So, this is what I know:
The people that look menacing could be the ones who come to your aid when you need it most. You don’t have to wear a tie to be kind. Sometimes, kindness has tattoos and wears big boots.
And what about love?
Love may pull up on a Harley with a rescue dog in the sidecar and grease on its nails.
Please like and share this if it made you feel something. It’s possible that someone else needs the reminder too.
