He never imagined that 793 leather-clad bikers would storm into his life with a message that would alter everything when a bullied orphan who had never heard the words “I love you” performed emergency cardiopulmonary resuscitation on a Hell’s Angel’s granddaughter.
What occurs when the most despised members of society end up being the family that a forgotten boy never had? And how did 17 years of heartache get resolved with just three words? Rain drummed against St. Martin’s Home for Boys’ window.
Like tears, tiny drops rushed down the glass. Brics Miller was sitting by himself on his slender bed inside. Years of use caused the middle of the mattress to sag. He had a desk, a bed, and a small dresser with three drawers in his tiny room. Brics was seventeen. His eyes hardly looked up, and his brown hair hung over them.
He
Loud footsteps approached outside his door. Bricks tucked the photo under his pillow in a hurry. There were three boys who entered without knocking. The largest one said, “Hey, orphan boy.” Dex was a mean-eyed boy with spiky hair. Are you still conversing with ghosts? The other boys chuckled. Brick remained silent.
His hands were rough from the weekend yard work he did, and he looked down at them. Are you unable to speak? Dex gave Brics a firm shoulder push. “Go away,” said Bric quietly. What was that? Dex rubbed his ear. You are not audible to me. A voice from the doorway said, “Leave him alone.” It was one of the more pleasant employees, Mrs. Peterson.
Her
Brics picked up his books after she left. A first aid manual was one of them. The school had provided a free CPR course six months prior. Brics had excelled in school. He had healing hands, according to the teacher. As far as he could recall, it was the only compliment. It was Saturday morning the following day. Before the sun rose, Brics awoke.
He enjoyed the silence. He pulled on his only jacket, jeans, and a faded blue t-shirt. Better than nothing, but too thin for the chilly morning. He delivered newspapers on the weekends. He barely made enough money to cover the little necessities. He needed socks without holes, a new notebook, and savings for the time he would have to leave St. Martin’s the following year.
Bricks was walking his route, and the streets were deserted. In the chilly air, his breath formed tiny clouds. On his shoulder, the paper bag weighed heavily. 53 papers need to be delivered. Like how many steps it took to walk from one house to another, he knew the precise number. At the edge of town, where lovely homes gave way to dilapidated structures and stores with faded signs, his route came to an end.
Joe’s Diner had the aroma of coffee and fried food. Motorcycles lined up outside every Saturday. Large ones that rumbled like thunder and had gleaming chrome. Bricks always passed Joe’s more quickly. “Hell’s Angels” patches were affixed to leather jackets worn by the men who gathered there.
They wore tattoos on their arms and had long beards. Their laughter was even louder than their voices. Brics told himself to keep his head down. Avoid looking directly at them. He did that every time. remained undetectable. That was safer. At St. Martin’s, at school, everywhere. Nobody could harm you if no one saw you. A shiver ran up his back as he rushed by.
Today, something was different. Like before a storm, the air was heavy. Outside the diner, there were more bikes than usual parked. He could see people moving more quickly than usual through the window. Bricks gripped his bag more tightly. There are only three papers left to deliver. Thereafter, he could return to Saints Martins, his books, and his peaceful haven where he made an effort to be as small as possible.
Being invisible was about to become impossible, even though he was unaware of it at the time. His life was about to take a permanent turn. A scream pierced the morning air just as Brics was ready to cross the street. He had never heard a scream like that before. This was the actual sound of fear. He felt his heart leap in his chest. Joe’s diner was the source of the scream.
Bricks went cold. He wanted to flee in part. When trouble arose, he always did that. Run, hide, and vanish. However, something drew him in the direction of the diner. He could see people moving quickly through the large front windows. A chair was knocked over. A large, gray-bearded man hurried between the tables.
From inside came more screams. Bricks’ feet carried him to the door before he realized what he was doing. As he pushed it open, the aroma of bacon and coffee hit him. It was chaos inside. Suddenly, the bikers got up from their seats and began to talk. A woman was holding a small infant in her arms in the center of the diner. She was so scared that her face was white.
The woman exclaimed, “She’s not breathing.” The large man with the gray beard paced back and forth, saying, “My baby isn’t breathing.” “Hell’s Angels and President” was written on patches on his leather vest, and he ran trembling hands through his hair. “Call 911, please! He yelled. He spoke in a gravelly, deep voice. “Is the ambulance somewhere?” They stated ten minutes,” someone replied.
The man shouted, “That is too long.” “Now my granddaughter needs help.” Bric’s newspaper bag fell off his shoulder and thumped to the ground. They all turned to watch him. Bricks would normally want to vanish in response to this, but he wasn’t thinking about himself at the moment. He was staring at the infant. Her small face was getting bluish.
“I’m familiar with CPR,” Brric said. His voice was louder than he had anticipated. The large man’s eyes were wide with surprise as he gazed at Brics for a moment. Then he gave a nod. “Please help her.” The woman set the infant down on a cleared table. Bricks moved forward. His mind was clear, but his hands were trembling.
He could recall every move from the CPR course. Make sure you’re breathing. Make the airway clear. Compressions should begin. The infant was minuscule. Brics gently pressed on her chest with just two fingers. 1 2 3 4 5. Then she took a tiny breath through her nose and mouth. He sensed that everyone was observing him. Now that he could hear the clock ticking on the wall, the diner was hushed.
While working, Brics muttered, “Come on, little one.” Bric’s world shrank to this one instant. “Breathe for me.” “Another breath.” Only this small life was in his grasp. There was nothing else to worry about. Not the years spent by myself. The bullies posed no threat. His chest was filled with daily terror. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, One more breath. “Please,” said the large man in a whisper.
His beard was wet with tears. My angel needs to be saved. Angel. Her name was that. Brics studied her small face. Her eyelashes resembled brushstrokes on her cheeks because they were so tiny. Angel, hurry. “Your family needs you,” Bricks said. 1 2 3 4 5 Another breath. Brics was about to give up when he heard a little noise from Angel, which was followed by a cough.
She felt her tiny chest rise and fall. Her face became pink instead of blue. Then Bricks heard the most exquisite sound he had ever heard. She broke down in tears. Cheers broke out in the diner. The mother of Angel sobbed as she retrieved her child. The large man looked at Bricks as though he was incredulous at what he was witnessing. He said, “You saved her,” in a passionate voice.
“You saved my granddaughter’s life.” Brick stood speechless, unsure of how to respond. The compressions were still causing his hand to tingle. He could feel the pounding of his heart in his throat. “Son, what is your name? The large man inquired. “Bricks,” he replied softly. “Brics Miller.” The man said it again as if he was learning it by heart.
“I’ll never forget that name.” The ambulance arrived and transported Angel to the hospital. The large man, who introduced himself as Frank, gave Brics a painfully firm handshake. Son, I owe you. “I owe you everything,” he said. In a few days, Brics walked back to St. Martin’s. He didn’t care that his newspaper bag was still at the diner.
He had done something significant for the first time in his life. Three days went by. Brics was a student. He completed his assignments. As usual, he ate his meals by himself. However, he sensed a change within. Brics was less frightened when Dex shoved him in the hallway. Mrs. Peterson summoned him to her office on the fourth day.
“Someone called about you,” she said. She sounded as though she was unsure whether the news was good or bad. “Am I in trouble? Brics inquired. “No,” she replied. “Frank, a man, called. Brics glanced at his shoes and said, “You saved his granddaughter’s life.” I simply followed the instructions from the CPR course. Aunt Peterson grinned.
He inquired about you in excellent detail. Where do you attend school? How long have you been a member of St. Martin’s? She hesitated. Brrics, he seemed really interested in you. Brics watched the rain from his window that night. How was baby Angel doing, he wondered? From the hospital, was she at home? Was she with her loved ones in a real house, sleeping in a real crib? It was Saturday again the following morning.
Brics rose early to write his paper. However, upon entering the main hall, he found all the other boys gathered around the windows. “What’s happening? Brics inquired, but nobody responded. They were too preoccupied to look outside. Brics forced his way through the throng to observe. His jaw dropped at what he saw.
Big and small motorcycles, all gleaming in the morning light, lined the entire St. Martins driveway, and men and women wearing leather vests stood beside them. A few of them were bearded. A few were tattooed. They all stood erect and gazed at the front door. “Why are there so many bikers here? One boy murmured.
Another person remarked, “I bet they’re going to tear this place down.” “They’re waiting for someone,” Dex said as he unexpectedly showed up next to Bricks. Dex didn’t sound cruel for once. His voice was filled with fear. The head of St. Martin’s, Mr. Davis, entered the hallway. He had a pale face. He called, “Brics Miller.” “These folks are requesting you.
Brics felt a chill go through him. Frank might have been upset with him. Perhaps he made a mistake by assisting Angel. Perhaps they held him accountable for something. On wobbly legs, Brics made his way to the front door. Mr. Davis touched him on the shoulder. Bricks, do you know these people? Brics gave a nod. One of them I met. Frank is his name.
The morning air felt cool against Brics’s face as he stepped outside. Down to the driveway, he counted seven steps. It was like walking in a dream with every step. At the foot of the stairs stood Frank. In the daylight, he appeared even larger. There were endless lines of bikers behind him. Never before had Bricks seen so many in one location.
There were young people with pure faces, elderly people with gray beards, and even some women with vibrant hair. Frank approached Bricks to greet him. On the stairs, his boots made loud noises. Miller Bricks,” he said. Brics could practically feel the depth of his voice in his chest. “Yes, sir,” said Bric softly. “My granddaughter has returned home. She is in excellent health. She is still alive.
At the final word, Frank’s voice broke. “Because of you.” Brics was at a loss for words. He lowered his gaze to his hands. Frank remarked, “Look at me, son.” Brics raised his head. Tears were streaming from Frank’s eyes. “I inquired about you,” Frank remarked. “I understand that you’ve been by yourself for a while.” “Then Frank did something that startled Bricks.”
He removed his leather vest and extended it. The words “Hell’s Angels” were written on the back, and beneath that was a brand-new patch that read, “Honorary member.” “This is for you,” Frank said. Frank looked around at the motorcyclists. When he held up his hand, all 793 bikers uttered three words at him that Brics had never heard before. You belong to the family.
Brics was motionless on St. Martin’s steps. In his hands, the leather vest was heavy. The boys behind him, who had consistently shunned or harassed him, pressed their faces against the windows. Brics had never seen the kind faces of the hundreds of bikers waiting in front of him. Bric said, his voice low against the morning air, “I don’t understand.”
Brics felt Frank’s large hand on his shoulder. “Son, you are now one of us. A woman said, “Anyone who saves an angel is family to the angels.” Her eyes were tired but joyful, and she had long brown hair. She had a baby angel in her arms, covered in a pink blanket. “Are you interested in holding her? She questioned Brics.
With his throat too constricted to speak, Brics nodded. Angel felt warm and solid in his arms, unlike when he had last held her. She was now staring at him with bright, inquisitive eyes. She put her small hand around his finger and gripped it firmly. The woman whispered, “She knows you, love.” “Babies remember who loves them.”
Brics had nearly forgotten the meaning of that word. Nobody had used it around him in such a long time. Frank handed Brics a small card. He declared, “This is my auto shop.” Someone is needed to assist us after school. Good pay as well. The job is yours if you want it.” Brics was unable to speak. He simply nodded while gripping the card tightly enough to prevent it from floating away.
Frank took Brics to Joe’s diner that afternoon. Brics entered the room this time, head up rather than down. When he walked in, the same people who had witnessed him save Angel’s life stood and applauded. Like thunder, the sound echoed through the room. They sat at a large table, and Frank said, “Order anything you want.” I am solely responsible.
Brics, who hardly ever got food at St. Martin’s, ordered a chocolate shake and a hamburger with fries. Bike riders stopped by to pat him on the back or shake his hand while he was eating. He heard stories about Frank from some people. Others inquired about his school classes. He was not referred to as an orphan boy. He didn’t feel small because of anyone. Frank said, “We have something else for you.”
He gave Brics a cell phone after Brics had finished his meal. “You now have this. It contains every one of our numbers. You call if you need anything, day or night. There will always be a response. Brics brushed his fingers across the glossy screen. Previously, he had no phone and no one to call. Frank’s voice became rough once more as he added, “And one more thing.”
My daughter prepares the family supper every Sunday. At precisely 6:00. Our table has a spot for you. Always a meal with the family. A place he owned. A sensation of warmth swept across Brics’s chest, dispelling the long-standing cold. As the sun began to set, Frank inquired, “Are you prepared to return to St. Martin’s?” Brics nodded, but he was not ready for the day to be over.
What about a ride? Frank gestured to his large, black motorcycle that was parked outside. Bricks was riding a motorcycle for the first time. Frank gave Bricks a helmet and showed him where to sit and what to grip. Then, like a living creature, the engine vibrated beneath them as it roared to life. The other bikers trailed behind them as they left Joe’s diner.
Bricks had never heard anything like the combined sound of all those engines. The cool, fresh wind rushed past his face. From the back of a motorcycle, the world appeared larger, more open, and packed with destinations. The roads opened up, and trees lined both sides as they passed the town’s edge. The sky suddenly turned orange, pink, and purple as the sun sank.
Brics held on tight, but he wasn’t scared for the first time in his life. Brics pondered the picture beneath his pillow, his parents grinning at the camera and holding him as a newborn like Angel, as the motorcycle propelled him ahead. They would never return. That hurt would never go away. However, he now possessed knowledge that was previously unknown to him.
Family wasn’t solely based on origin. There were times when family came into your life unexpectedly, or you discovered it yourself. Riding 793 motorcycles into your life can happen unexpectedly, yet it often occurs when you need them most.
