The adolescent punched the senior veteran so hard that his hearing aid flew across the parking lot. He didn’t know that 47 bikers were watching from the inside.
When I was getting gas at the Stop-N-Go on Highway 49, I heard the smack. That distinct sound of a hand hitting a face, followed by the sound of something plastic hitting the ground.
I turned around and saw Harold Wiseman, an 81-year-old Korean War veteran who had gotten the Purple Heart, on his knees in the parking lot with blood streaming from his nose.
He was standing over him, and the boy couldn’t have been more than 25. He wore a backwards cap, had tattoos on his face, and jeans that hung down below his butt. His two companions were laughing while he shot everything on his phone.
The punk said, “You should have stayed out of it, old man,” and then moved closer to Harold’s face. “People are going to watch this video a lot.” Old head gets dropped for talking garbage. “Grandpa, you’re going to be famous soon.”
The punk didn’t know that Harold wasn’t lying. He just requested them to move their car out of the way so he could park his oxygen tank closer to the door.
The punk also didn’t know that we always filled up at the Stop-N-Go, and that 47 members of the Savage Riders MC were inside having our monthly meeting in the back room.
My name is Dennis “Tank” Morrison, and I’m 64 years old. I’m the president of the Savage Riders. We were in the middle of a safety meeting when we heard the noise.
I saw Harold trying to get up through the window. His hands were shaking as he looked for his hearing aid.
I whispered, “Brothers.” “We’re in trouble.”
Harold Wiseman goes to that Stop-N-Go every Thursday at 2 PM to buy a lottery ticket and a coffee. He has been doing this for fifteen years, since his wife Mary died. Singh, the owner, 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.
Harold was well-known in the neighborhood. He worked as a mechanic at the Ford dealership for forty years. When single moms couldn’t pay, he fixed their cars for free. He taught half the kids in town how to change oil at 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 on the internet.
The thug kicked Harold’s hearing aid across the street. “What’s wrong, grandpa? You don’t hear me now? Get up, I told you to! ”
Harold damaged his hands as he fell. The skin doesn’t bounce back at 81. It breaks. Blood mixed with the oil stains on the concrete as he tried to get up.
Harold begged, “Please,” his voice shaking because he couldn’t hear how loud it was. “I just needed to park—”
“Nobody cares what you want!” said the punk’s friend, and now both of them were filming. “This is our time now,” the old white man said. “He thinks he owns the place.”
That’s when I gave the signal.
At the same time, forty-seven bikers got up. People in the store could hear chairs grinding against the concrete. Singh, who had been watching from behind the counter and feeling uncomfortable, stepped back.
We didn’t rush. We took our time. We left the store in pairs, and our boots produced a sound that made everyone in the parking lot turn to look. At first, the punk didn’t notice because he was too busy with his video.
“Hey, old man, say something for the camera.” Say you’re sorry for being disrespectful.
He stopped talking when my shadow fell on him. When he turned around, his phone was still recording. He was staring at my chest. Then he raised his head. And up.
I said in a calm voice, “Is there a problem here?”
The punk tried to act tough. “Yeah, this old racist told us where to park.” “We took care of it.”
“Racist? I looked at Harold, who was laying on the ground. “Harold Wiseman?” “That Harold? The guy who paid for Jerome Washington’s burial when his family couldn’t? The person who taught half of this town’s Black children how to service cars for free?
The punk’s self-assurance faded. His friends stopped recording all of a sudden when they saw that they were surrounded by a wall of leather and denim.
“He called us thugs,” she continued.
“Move out of the handicapped spot,” Harold yelled from the ground. “I have a license.”
“Shut up!” “The punk raised his fist to beat Harold again.
I grabbed his wrist in the middle of the swing. Not too hard, just strong. “That’s enough.”
“Hey, man, get off me!” This is an assault! I’m making a record of this! “
“Good,” said Crusher, my sergeant-at-arms. “Make sure you get everyone’s faces.” The police will want to know who saw you hit an 81-year-old crippled veteran.
The punk took his hand away and said, “We’re going now.”
“No,” I said. “No, you’re not.”
“You can’t keep us here!” “
“I’m not going to keep you,” but you have to obtain that hearing aid, say you’re sorry to Harold, and then wait for the police.
“I’m not sorry for anything!” “
Harold spoke up then, still on the ground but louder. “Let them go, Dennis. I’m fine.”
In the parking lot, I saw Harold, who was hurt, ashamed, and had a broken hearing aid. He was pleading me to let them go.
“Are you sure?” “
Mary always said, “Violence doesn’t solve violence.”
The punk laughed. “Yeah, listen to your grandpa, biker dude.” Violence doesn’t work—
It happened so fast that no one saw the slap coming. Not from me. From the punk’s girlfriend, who had just parked her car.
“What the hell are you doing, DeShawn?” She stepped out of the car and headed toward us in her scrubs, which made her appear like a nurse. “Is that Mr. Wiseman?” “Is that Mr. Wiseman on the ground?”
DeShawn, the punk, turned white. “Baby, I can explain—”
“This is the guy who fixed my mom’s car for free!” This is the man who hired you at the dealership before you got fired for stealing! “And you put him on the ground?” She punched him again. “
“He was rude to do that—”
“How?” “By being there? By getting older? She pushed past him and sat down next to Harold. “Mr. I’m very sorry, Wiseman. “Let me help you.”
“Keisha?” Harold squinted at her. “Little Keisha Williams? So you’re a nurse now?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for writing the letter of recommendation for my scholarship.” Can you please get up? “
Keisha looked at Harold’s injuries while two of my brothers helped him up. The punk tried to sneak away, but Crusher got in front of him.
Crusher said, “Your girl is right.” “You have to deal with this.”
“I don’t need to do anything!” “That’s it!
But his friends were already departing and erasing films from their phones. They were done with this.
“DeShawn,” Keisha said, still looking after Harold. “Do you know what this man has done for our town? Do you know why he comes here every week? “
“I don’t care—”
He goes to see his wife at Memorial Gardens every Thursday, and then he comes here to buy a lottery ticket because she always told him he would win big one day. I’ve been doing it for fifteen years, and he’s never won more than fifty bucks, 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 individuals who lived close and had heard the disturbance, knew Harold. And they were all staring at DeShawn.
Keisha said, “And you, why did you put him on the ground? What do you think? What do you like? Is that the person you’ve become? “
Singh brought out a first aid kit and Harold’s coffee. “On the house, Mr. Harold,” he said. “From now on, it’s always on the house.”
That’s when we found Harold’s hearing aid. It was crushed because the punk had stomped on it while showing off.
“That medical device costs three thousand dollars,” I told DeShawn. “I hope your views on the video can cover that.”
“I… I don’t have a lot of cash.
“Then you better get it together.”
Keisha stood up, her scrubs splattered with Harold’s blood. “DeShawn, we’re done.” I can’t be with someone who abuses veterans to get more followers on social media. Someone who hurts the people who helped us grow up.
“Baby, please—”
“No.” If my grandma knew I was seeing someone who hurt Mr. Wiseman, she would be very upset. Please take your things out of my place. “Today.”
She took Harold to a bench and my brother Doc, who used to be a Navy corpsman, checked him out. The police arrived ten minutes later. Harold, as usual, declined to press charges.
Harold looked at DeShawn and said, “Boy’s lost enough today.” That might be enough punishment.
But I wasn’t done yet. “Is that right, DeShawn?” “
He nodded, and his confidence was gone.
“You’ll have to pay for that hearing aid.” You’ll be helping at the Veterans Center, where Harold does every week, and you’ll learn what it really means to appreciate someone.
“What if I don’t?” “
I smiled, but not a nice one. “So that video you were so proud of? The one that your friends have previously thrown away? I have everything that happened on our security cameras. Every second. You even said you attacked someone. You have the choice between redemption and prosecution.
I go to the Stop-N-Go six months later for our monthly meeting. As always, Harold is there with a new hearing aid that DeShawn had to buy with the money he made from three jobs. On Thursday at 2 PM, get a lottery ticket and a cup of coffee.
But he’s not the only one. DeShawn is next to him, listening to Harold lecture about the Battle of Chosin Reservoir. Not for looks. Not for the material. Just listening.
“Then the Chinese surrounded us,” Harold recounted. “We didn’t have enough food or ammo, so we thought we were done.”
“What happened? “DeShawn asked, really wanting to know.
“It didn’t matter if you were black, white, or Hispanic; we helped each other.” When the cold was thirty below and you were 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. Once you got past the kid’s bad attitude, he had potential. He was good with technology and helped the older vets video call their grandkids. He even started a program to teach kids how to use their smartphones.
“Mr. “Hey, Wiseman,” DeShawn said softly. “I’m sorry.” Again. For what I did.
“Son, you’ve said you’re sorry fifty times.”
“Not enough.”
DeShawn got a pat on the back from Harold. “Your actions since then have been enough of an apology. Keisha told me you are applying to community college.
“IT program.” I thought I should use my computer skills for something useful instead of what I was doing.
“She also says you two are talking again.”
DeShawn smiled a little. “Slowly. She says I need to show that I’ve changed, not just say it.
“Smart girl.”
“Yes. I was an idiot.
“At times, we all are. It doesn’t matter how many times a man falls. The question is whether he will get back up. And how he deals with people who can’t.
I walked up to their table. “Harold.” DeShawn.
DeShawn’s muscles got tight. Six months later, he was still scared of the motorcycles. You can’t hold him responsible.
“Don’t worry, kid. I just wanted to let Harold know that we’re going for a ride on Saturday. It’s a poker run to raise money for the Veterans Center. Are you in?”
Harold laughed. “I’m 81 years old and have a bad hip and hearing aids. What am I going to do on a bike?”
“Get in the support car.” Someone needs to be with the truck driver.
“I’ll think about it.”
I said to DeShawn, “Come along too.” If you want.
“I don’t know anything about motorcycles.”
“Harold didn’t either when he was your age. Then he took care of them for three years in Korea. He might be able to teach you.
“Would you?” I heard DeShawn say it after I left. Can you teach me? “
“Maybe,” Harold said. “First, though, please scratch this ticket for me. My hands shake a lot of the time.
DeShawn scratched the ticket. “Mr. Hey Wiseman, you got a thousand dollars! “
Harold looked at the ticket and then up at the ceiling. “Okay, Mary. You were right, but it took a long time—fifteen years. “I did win big,” he said, turning to DeShawn. “But not talking about the money.” Motorcycles for sale used
DeShawn drove our support truck with Harold in it that Saturday. They raised $5,000 for the Veterans Center. DeShawn came to our events, although he wasn’t a member. He just wanted to assist. He would set up online donations, stream the rides, and use the same social media skills he used to injure people to do something good.
The video of him hitting Harold never got a lot of views. But the video showed him helping Harold come on stage at the Veterans Center Christmas party to earn an award for his work as a volunteer? That garnered a million views. The caption said, “I attacked this hero six months ago.” Now he calls me son. This is what it means to let go of anger.
Keisha finally took him back. Now they are engaged. Because her father died years ago, she wanted Harold to give her away during the wedding.
Last Thursday was the real event, though. At 2 PM, I saw Harold and DeShawn at the Stop-N-Go getting gas. They were at the same table. Harold was showing DeShawn how to play cribbage on a board that seemed like it was older than both of them.
“This was my father’s,” Harold remarked. “He carried it through World War I and then Korea. One day, I’ll give it to someone who deserves it.”
“That’s neat, Mr. Wiseman.”
“Harold, please call me. We’re friends now.”
Friends. A white veteran who is 81 years old and a Black teenager who is 25 years old slapped him once for social media views. Friends.
Singh offered them two cups of coffee, each with two sugars and no cream.
Singh said, “It’s on the house,” like he always does.
Harold responded, “You can’t keep giving me free coffee,” like he normally does.
“I can and I will.” You too, DeShawn. “Here are free drinks for heroes.”
“Not a hero,” DeShawn said right away.
Harold looked at him. “Not yet. But you’re getting better. Being perfect doesn’t make you a hero; it’s about choosing to be better than you were yesterday.
As I drove away, I saw DeShawn help Harold get to his car while holding his oxygen tank. The same hands that had pushed him down now helped him stand up.
That’s what redemption is all about. You don’t get it right away. You earn it by doing small things like carrying an oxygen tank, studying cribbage, and listening to war stories. You earn it by facing the people you wounded and doing better.
DeShawn still has the screenshot from that day on his phone. The video is gone for good, but he has a photo of Harold on the ground with blood on his face. He keeps it to remind him of who he was so he doesn’t become that person again.
Last week, when the Savage Riders voted, something that had never happened before happened. We voted to pay for DeShawn’s membership. Not a full patch; he doesn’t ride yet. But as a prospect, he’s someone worth investing money into.
It got a vote from everyone.
When I informed Harold, he smiled. “Okay.” A boy needs strong male role models. Not that fake tough-guy bullshit he was doing. True brotherhood.
“Do you think he’ll be able to do it?”
Harold took the scratch-off ticket off. He was still playing, hoping, and thinking about Mary.
“He stood in front of a room full of veterans and told them what he did to me. Faced their anger and criticism. But he kept coming back. Keep giving. He kept trying to get forgiveness that he thought he would never get. Harold smiled at me. “Yeah, he’ll make it.” We all fall, Dennis. But not everyone gets back up. He did.”
The teenager who hit an 81-year-old veteran for his opinions is now the young guy who teaches other veterans how to use computers. The thug who kicked a hearing aid became the man who worked three jobs to buy a new one. The man who filmed an attack is now 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.”
An 81-year-old veteran said, “Let them go,” and that’s how it all began. Violence doesn’t help.
Because a young woman in scrubs liked that old man enough to tell her spouse to do better.
Because even those who seem to be beyond redemption can still be saved.
Harold still goes to the Stop-N-Go every Thursday at 2 PM. But he is nearly never alone now. DeShawn and a few other young males from the region who have heard the story join him there. They sit down with Harold and listen to his stories to learn from him.
The punk who hit him? He isn’t here anymore; someone better has taken his place. Someone Harold would be happy to have as a friend.
Mary Wiseman is smiling somewhere because she knows that her husband’s ability to forgive has changed yet another life.
That’s the real lotto victory. Not the thousand dollars. But the shift from a young man who was lost to someone who could carry on Harold’s legacy.
We put the hearing aid that flew across the parking lot in our clubhouse after we bronzed it. There was a small plaque on top of it that said:
“The sound of redemption is often quieter than the sound of violence.” But it lasts longer.
DeShawn put that plaque there. Harold gave him the words he needed.
