The biker across from me on the metro was crying. He wasn’t just crying; he was full-on weeping into a tiny orange and white kitten that was crushed against his chest.
His leather jacket had patches on it, his hands were rough and scarred, and his beard had gray streaks in it. He had to be at least sixty-five, and maybe much older. And he was breaking apart entirely.
Everyone else on the train was acting like they didn’t see anything, which is what people do in the city: they look everywhere but at the person who is having a moment.
But I couldn’t help but watch. The way he held the kitten, so tenderly, like it was made of glass, made my throat feel tight. I could hear the little thing purring above the sound of the train.
The woman next to him, who was wearing a business suit that was too formal for the metro, continued looking at him with distaste.
Finally, she got up and walked to a seat farther down the car, shaking her head.
At that point, the motorcyclist glanced up, tears flowing down his face, and shouted something that made everyone who could hear him stop talking.
“I’m
At first, no one said anything. The train shook as it went into the tunnel. The biker wiped his eyes with the back of one hand while still holding the kitten with the other. It was entirely happy with its little paws on his chest, caressing his shirt.
I don’t understand why I did it, but I changed seats. I took a seat next to him. “Are you okay, brother?” I asked in a low voice.
He
“I found this little guy in a dumpster outside the hospital.” He was just sitting there in a cardboard box, weeping his head off. “Could not have been more than a few weeks old.”
“Are you taking him home?” I asked.
He responded simply, “I don’t have a home.”
“Been sleeping on the ground for three years now. I lost my apartment because I couldn’t work anymore. My back hurt, and my knees were messed up from the bike accident. I guess I’m going to take him with me, though.” Don’t leave him to die.”
The kitten meowed and crawled up closer to his neck. The biker’s face crumbled again.
“I’m sorry. Sorry, God. I don’t understand why I can’t stop weeping. But I thought I did. I could see something in his eyes that I knew: the type of pain that stays with you forever, the kind that dwells in your bones.
“What happened forty-three years ago?” I asked in a low voice.
He didn’t say anything for a long time. The train stopped at a station, and passengers got on and off.
The kitten stayed cuddled up against his chest and purred like a small engine. The biker finally spoke.
“My daughter was born forty-three years ago.” The 14th of September, 1980. She was five pounds and two ounces. She had a small tuft of orange hair, just like this kitty.
His voice became stuck. “I held her for 17 minutes. That’s all I have. Seventeen minutes before my ex-wife’s parents whisked her away.
They told me I wasn’t good enough to be a dad. They claimed that bikers were bad people and criminals. They said they would make sure I never saw her again.
My stomach sank. “Did they take your baby?”
I hired a lawyer, and a judge agreed with my ex-wife, granting her full custody along with a restraining order against me. I was twenty-two years old, working on construction sites, and riding with a club on the weekends.
I wasn’t flawless, but I wasn’t what they said I was. My tiny girl was the most important thing in the world to me. He put his face against the kitten’s fur.
“I tried to fight it. I used all of my money to hire lawyers. I made sure to attend every court date. It didn’t matter. I saw her last when she was six months old. Her grandma took her to a supervised visit and wouldn’t let me hold her. She said that I had already caused too much harm.
I whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
“I searched for her for years. I sent letters to the address I had, but they all came back. Sent cards for birthdays. Sent gifts for Christmas. All came back.
When she reached eighteen, I hired a private investigator because I thought she would want to meet me. I discovered that my ex-wife had remarried when my daughter was two years old. Her new spouse took her in. She changed her name. “They told her I was dead.”
His voice broke all the way. “She believes I’m dead. She is now 43 years old and may have kids of her own. She also feels that her father died before she could recall him.
The kitten climbed up and rubbed its face on the biker’s beard. He shut his eyes as more tears fell down his face.
“This little guy started crying in that box, and I could hear him from across the parking lot.” The same noise my daughter made in the hospital. That small baby wails. And I just… He couldn’t finish.
I said, “You picked him up.”
“I picked him up, and he stopped crying.” It just looked at me with wide eyes and started to purr. I thought… This time, I believed I would be able to keep something alive.
“I might be able to do something useful.” He laughed with a lot of anger.
“That was dumb, right? I don’t have a home. I might have fifteen dollars to my name. I’m bringing a kitten I can’t feed to a place I don’t have.
I said, “That’s not dumb.” “That’s love.”
There was an older woman across from us who had been listening. She took a twenty-dollar cash out of her purse. She leaned closer and put it in the biker’s hand. “For the cat.” For eating.
The biker looked at the money like he had never seen it before. “Ma’am, I can’t—”
“You can,” she responded with confidence. “You will,” she said. That infant needs you.
A younger guy in a hoodie took out his wallet. “Here’s another twenty.” Man, take him to the vet. A mom with two kids unzipped her bag. “I have thirty.” Please take it.
Six separate people had handed the biker money in less than two minutes. He was crying harder than ever as he sat there with almost two hundred bucks in his lap. The kitty was still stroking against his chest. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say.
The older woman said, “Say you’ll take care of him.” “Say you’ll give him the love you couldn’t give your daughter.”
The biker nodded but couldn’t say anything. He picked up the kitten and stared at its little face. “Do you hear that, little guy? You can’t get rid of me now. I’m going to look after you. “I promise.”
The train stopped at my stop. I didn’t want to go, but I had to. I turned around before I got off. “What name are you going to give him?”
For the first time, the biker smiled. It was little, sad, and true. “Hope.” I’m going to call her Hope. Because that’s what she handed me when I thought I was out.
I nodded, and my eyes were burning too. “Look out for each other.”
He stroked the kitten’s head and whispered, “We will.” “We will.”
When the train doors closed, I saw him get up with a new purpose and carefully tuck Hope inside his vest to keep her warm.
Six people he didn’t know stood up with him, talked to him, wrote down information, and offered to help. The woman in the business suit who had left came back. I couldn’t hear what she said, but I saw her give him a business card.
The last thing I saw before the train left was the motorcyclist standing in the middle of a small group of people who had all come to help him and the kitten. He wasn’t crying anymore.
He had to deal with the loss of his daughter by himself for forty-three years. He thought he wasn’t good enough to be a father for forty-three years. But that day, on a random subway car, he maybe finally grasped what the rest of us could see clearly, with a kitten that needed him and strangers who saw his heart.
He was the perfect parent for his daughter. And now, finally, he would get the chance to show it, even if it was to a little orange and white kitten that had been thrown away in a box.
We save some families, and they save us back.
