I was already late to pick up Mateo from school when I got stuck behind a wall of motorcycles at a crosswalk. A lot of noise. It’s made of leather. The item has skull patches and frowns all over it. One guy had flames tattooed on both arms and a beard that could carry birds.
I see them all lined up like a wall, and I’m thinking, “Great, some kind of protest or ride-for-attention thing.” Then I spotted her.
There is an old woman standing at the curb with a tennis ball cane and a canvas shopping bag. She is bent over like a paperclip. She looks so small next to them. So easy to break.
The first biker, the one with the beard, stops his engine. It doesn’t say anything. He gets off his Harley, walks up to her, and offers her his arm like he’s taking her to the ball. One of the other persons stops traffic with both hands out, just like Moses did when he opened the sea.
She grins. The whole face lights up. She holds on to his arm tightly. They go slowly, much slower than slow, over four lanes.
Nobody honks. No one.
Something is hurting me behind my ribs. Not really guilty. Maybe I’ve been walking around with my head on cruise control. I am seeing what I think is there instead of what is really there.
And then it does. One of the other bikers spots me watching and comes over to my car window with a look I can’t figure out. He taps once.
I leap. My hand moves to lock the door on its own.
He can see it. He slowly nods his head and adds, “Yeah, I thought so.” But he doesn’t look angry. More like tired.
After that, he takes off his sunglasses and says, “Are you okay?”
That’s it. He only says these words.
I blink. “Yeah,” I say. “Just surprised.”
He squints at me and then smiles. “We hear that a lot.”
And suddenly he’s gone, returning to the group, just as the last rider takes the old woman up the other curb. She lovingly pats his arm, if he were 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. He’s obviously upset, and I can barely hear him. I can’t stop thinking about that biker’s face. I think about how quickly I made up my mind on all of them. How wrong I was.
That should have been the end.
But life is weird. Not clean. What the heck?
Two weeks later, I saw one of them again. Not at the crossing, but in the waiting room of the free clinic where I’ve taken Mateo after a long soccer session. 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 looks surprisingly serene under the fluorescent lights.
I don’t say anything. Mateo, on the other hand, knows who he is immediately away.
He points and whispers, “That’s the person who helped the old lady.”
The biker looks up. Sees us. Smiles.
He knows us as well.
This time he walks over.
“How’s the little guy’s wrist?”
Mateo is happy with it. “Still attached.”
He laughs and stares at me. “Do you know who I am?”
I nod. “The crosswalk.” You were so charming.
He shrugs. “Not really.” Not too awful. This is how people should act.
Before I can say anything, a nurse yells out his name, “Cezar?”
He stands up. He nods once and then goes to the back.
Cezar.
I know the name.
After that, it seems like the cosmos keeps putting him in my path.
At the gas station. At the co-op where I buy food once a month. He has a pit bull mix named Miso who is afraid of squirrels, even at the dog park.
We talk a little more each time.
And in all of those brief talks, I learn that he’s not simply a biker. He handles things.
His sister has multiple sclerosis. He returned to town to help her. He works on 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 all of this. I guess it’s because I grew up with people who had clear beliefs and clean-shaven faces. Cezar didn’t look like anyone else, except for the terrible guy in a movie or the person you crossed the street to avoid.
But there he is. Coming back time after time. No plan. Being there.
I see Mateo and Miso in the park one Saturday while I’m with Mateo.
Cezar throws him a tennis ball and says, “Have you ever ridden a bike?”
Mateo’s eyes go huge. “No, but I want to.”
I go in right away. He is ten. He is very sensitive to risk.
Cezar laughs. “Fair.” That’s all I have to say. If you ever want to ride around the cul-de-sac, I have a kid’s helmet in the garage.
I don’t agree. But I also don’t say no.
I searched for “motorcycle safety for kids” on Google that night and read things I never thought I’d be interested in.
Weeks pass. It’s fall now. Mateo writes a school paper called “The Coolest Guy I Know Is Named Cezar.” The air turns cooler, and the leaves turn orange.
Reading it makes me cry. And I know I want to learn more about him. Not for Mateo. For me.
So I invite him over for dinner.
I say, “Just something simple.” Just pasta on a weeknight, nothing special.
He delivers a bottle of sparkling apple juice, garlic bread, and flowers.
Flowers.
I think Mateo’s eyeballs will fall 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 that was two cities away. But my bike broke down.
I stop. “Do you think that was meant to be?”
He smiles. “I believe it was a good breakdown.”
We see each other more often now.
Not in a rush. It’s not a rom-com.
That’s just the way things are. Slow. Strong.
He takes Mateo to a go-kart track. 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 aren’t his own.
One weekend, we all went to a street fair. Mateo’s face is sticky with kettle corn, while Miso finishes in third in a silly pet costume contest. (Cezar dressed him up as a taco.)
I see Cezar, Zuri, Mateo, and Miso walking in front of me, and I realize that I haven’t been this peaceful in a long time.
For a long time, maybe.
But life isn’t always peaceful.
Late one night, Cezar calls me. His voice is tight.
“It’s Zuri.”
She had fallen before. They still don’t know why. I rush to the hospital.
I stay with him all night in the ER. Hold his hand. Tell him stories to keep him awake. He lays his head on my shoulder and says, “I’ve never been this scared,” at 4 a.m.
I say, “Not me.”
Zuri makes it. It turned out to be a side effect of a new medicine.
She gets better, but it scares us.
Then we draw closer. Not just because they adore you, but also because they’re scared. I know how valuable 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 really enjoying the life we already have for too long.
Cezar kneels down in our kitchen one lovely spring morning, spaghetti-stained shirt and all, and opens a small, ancient box.
There is no diamond inside. There is a gear pattern on the band of this silver ring.
He says, “You’re the best surprise I never saw coming.” “Will you help me finish the rest?”
I don’t even know why I’m crying.
Our wedding isn’t fancy. We had a small party in the backyard with no shoes on, lots of tacos, and lots of fun.
Zuri is the boss. Mateo reads a poem that 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, I remember that day at the crossing.
I think about how quickly I made my choice.
How wrong I was.
There was no reason to worry about Cezar’s rough edges. He had learnt how to wear them like armor.
But he had a lot of heart.
I almost forgot that.
Almost.
So, here’s what I know:
The people that look intimidating could be the ones who help you the most. A tie doesn’t always mean you’re kind. Kindness occasionally 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 under its claws.
Please like and share this if it made you feel something. Someone else could also need the reminder.