The teen hit the old veteran so hard that his hearing aid flew across the parking lot. He didn’t know that 47 bikers were watching from inside.
I heard the smack when I was filling up my car with gas at the Stop-N-Go on Highway 49. The sound of a palm smacking a face, followed by the sound of something plastic hitting the ground.
When I looked around, I saw Harold Wiseman, an 81-year-old Korean War veteran and Purple Heart recipient, on his knees in the parking lot with blood coming from his nose.
The kid that was standing over him couldn’t have been more than 25. He had a backwards cap on, tattoos on his face, and jeans that hung below his ass, and he was shooting everything on his phone while his two friends giggled.
“Should’ve stayed out of it, old man,” the punk said, getting closer to Harold’s face. “This video is going to get a lot of views.” Old head gets dropped for talking shit. “You’re going to be famous, grandpa.
The punk didn’t know that Harold wasn’t talking trash. He had just requested them to move their car out of the way so he could park his oxygen tank closer to the entryway.
The punk also didn’t realize that the Stop-N-Go was our regular gas station and that 47 members of the Savage Riders MC were inside for our monthly meeting in the back room.
My name is Dennis “Tank” Morrison, and I am 64 years old. I am the president of the Savage Riders. We were having a safety talk when we heard the noise.
I observed Harold try to stand up through the window. His hands were shaking as he looked for his hearing aid.
I murmured softly, “Brothers.” “We have a problem.”
Every Thursday at 2 PM, Harold Wiseman goes to that Stop-N-Go to buy a coffee and a lottery ticket. For the last fifteen years, since his wife Mary died, he has been doing it. Singh, the proprietor, 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 known by everyone in town. For forty years, he worked as a mechanic at the Ford dealership. When single moms couldn’t pay, he fixed their automobiles for free. In his garage, he taught half of the kids in town how to change oil. Never asked for anything in return.
Now he was on his knees in a parking lot while three punks videotaped him to get points online.
The thug kicked Harold’s hearing aid across the street. “What’s the matter, Grandpa? Can’t you hear me now? I told you to GET UP!”
The fall cut Harold’s hands. Skin doesn’t bounce back at 81. It rips. As he tried to get up, blood mixed with the oil marks on the concrete.
“Please,” Harold replied, his voice unsteady because he didn’t have his hearing aid to tell him how loud it was. “I just needed to park—”
“Nobody cares about what you need!”” The friend of the punk joined in, and now both of them were filming. “An old white man thinks he owns the place.” “This is our generation now.”
That’s when I gave the go-ahead.
Forty-seven bikers rose up at the same time. The sound of chairs scratching against the concrete could be heard throughout the store. Singh, who had been uncomfortably observing from behind the counter, stepped back.
We didn’t hurry. We didn’t run. We left the store in a line, two by two, and the sound of our boots made everyone in the parking lot turn. At first, the punk was too engrossed in his video to notice.
“Hey, old man, say something for the camera. Sorry for being rude—
When my shadow landed on him, he stopped talking. When he turned around, his phone was still recording, and he was looking at my chest. After that, he looked up. And up.
“Is there a problem here?” I asked quietly.
The punk attempted to act tough. “Yeah, this old racist tried to tell us where to park.” We took care of it.
“Racist?” I looked at Harold, who was still on the ground. “Harold Wiseman? The guy who paid for Jerome Washington’s funeral when his family couldn’t? The guy who trained half the Black youngsters in this community how to fix vehicles for free? That Harold? “
The punk’s bravado started to fade. His pals had stopped recording and were suddenly very conscious that they were encircled by a wall of leather and denim.
“He… he called us thugs.”
“No,” Harold said from the ground. “I told you to get out of the handicapped spot.” I have a license. My oxygen—
“Stop it!” The punk raised his fist again to hit Harold.
I grabbed his wrist in the middle of his swing. Not hard. Just be firm. “That’s enough.”
“Get off of me, man!” This is an attack! I’m recording this!”
“Good,” remarked Crusher, my sergeant-at-arms. “Get everyone’s faces in the picture.” The police will want to know who saw you hit an 81-year-old crippled veteran.
The punk pulled his hand away. “We’re going.”
“No,” I answered. “You’re not.”
“You can’t keep us here!”
“I’m not holding you back.” But you need to get that hearing aid, say you’re sorry to Harold, and then wait for the police.
“Sorry, but I won’t apologize!”
That’s when Harold spoke up, still on the ground, and his voice was stronger. “Let them go, Dennis.” “I’m fine.”
I looked down at Harold, who was wounded and embarrassed and had a damaged hearing aid somewhere in the parking lot. He was begging me to let them go.
“Are you sure?”
“Violence doesn’t make violence go away.” Mary constantly stated that.
The punk laughed. “Yeah, listen to your grandpa, biker dude.” “Violence doesn’t fix—”
No one saw the slap coming since it happened so fast. Not from me. From the punk’s girlfriend, who had just gotten out of her car.
“DeShawn, what the hell are you doing?” She got out of the car and marched toward us in her scrubs, which made her look like a nurse. “Is that Mr. Wiseman? Is Mr. Wiseman on the ground?”
DeShawn, the punk, became pale. “Baby, I can explain—”
“This is the guy who fixed my mom’s car for free!” This is the guy who hired you at the dealership before you were fired for stealing. She hit him again. “And you put him on the ground?”
“He didn’t respect us—”
“How? By being? Because they are old? She pushed him out of the way and knelt next to Harold. “Mr. I’m very sorry, Wiseman. “Let me help you.”
“Keisha?” Harold squinted at her. “Little Keisha Williams? Are you a nurse now?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for writing the reference letter for my scholarship. Are you able to stand?”
Two of my brothers helped Harold get up, and Keisha looked at his wounds. The punk tried to sneak away, but Crusher got in his path.
Crusher responded, “Your girl is right.” “You have to deal with this.”
“I don’t have to do anything!” We’re out!
But his pals were already pulling away and removing videos off their phones. They didn’t want to be a part of this anymore.
“DeShawn,” Keisha murmured, continuing to take care of Harold. “Do you know what this man did for our community? Do you know what he does here every Thursday? “
“I don’t care—”
“His wife is buried in Memorial Gardens.” He goes to see her every Thursday, and then he comes here to buy a lottery ticket because she always told him he would win big one day. I have been doing it for fifteen years. He has never won more than fifty bucks, but he keeps playing because it helps him feel close to her.
DeShawn’s tough-guy facade was falling apart. Everyone in the crowd—customers, residents who had heard the noise—knew Harold. And everyone was looking at DeShawn.
“And you,” Keisha went on, “you put him on the ground for what? What do you think? What do you like? Is that who you’ve become?”
Singh brought out a first aid box and Harold’s coffee, which had two sugars and no cream. “On the house, Mr. Harold.” From now on, it’s always on the house.
We located Harold’s hearing aid at that time. Crushed. The punk had trodden on it while he was showing off.
I informed DeShawn, “That’s a medical device that costs three thousand dollars.” “Hope your views on the video can pay for that.”
“I don’t have that much money.”
“Then you should figure it out.”
Keisha got up, and her scrubs were covered in Harold’s blood. “We’re done, DeShawn. “I can’t be with someone who hurts old veterans to get attention on social media. Someone who hurts the people who helped us grow up.”
“Please, baby—”
“No.” If my grandma knew I was dating someone who wounded Mr. Wiseman, she would roll over in her grave. Get your things out of my place. “Today.”
She carried Harold to a bench, and my brother Doc, who used to be a Navy corpsman, looked him over properly. Ten minutes later, the police showed up. As usual, Harold wouldn’t press charges.
Harold looked at DeShawn and stated, “Boy’s lost enough today.”” His girlfriend, his honor, his good name. That might be enough punishment.
But I wasn’t finished. “Is it DeShawn?”
He nodded, and all his swagger was gone.
“You will have to pay for that hearing aid.” You’re going to help out at the Veterans Center, where Harold goes every week to help out. And you’ll understand what respect really means.
“And what if I don’t?”
I smiled. Not a pretty smile. “That video you were so proud of? The one that your pals already got rid of? Our security cameras caught it all. Every single second. You even said you hit someone. You have a choice: redemption or prosecution.
I am at the Stop-N-Go for our monthly meeting six months later. Harold is there, just like usual, with a new hearing aid that DeShawn had to pay for with three jobs. 2 PM on Thursday: coffee and a lotto ticket.
But he isn’t the only one. DeShawn is sitting next to him and listening to Harold relate a narrative about the Battle of Chosin Reservoir. Not for the views. Not for the content. Just listening.
“Then the Chinese surrounded us,” Harold said. “Below zero, no food, no ammo.” We thought we were done.
“What happened?” DeShawn asked, really wanting to know.
“We helped one another. When it’s thirty below and you’re outnumbered ten to one, it doesn’t matter if you’re black, white, or Hispanic. ” We made it through because we had each other’s backs.”
DeShawn nodded his head. He had been helping out at the Veterans Center for five months. Once you got past the kid’s bad attitude, you could see that he had potential. He was skilled with technology and helped the older veterans video call their grandkids. Started a program to educate people on how to use smartphones.
“Mr.” DeShawn whispered softly, “Wiseman.” “Sorry.” Once more. For what I did.
“Son, you’ve said you’re sorry fifty times.”
“Not enough.”
Harold gave DeShawn’s shoulder a pat. “Since then, your actions have been enough of an apology.” Keisha says you’re going to community college.
“IT program.” I thought I should use my computer abilities for something useful instead of what I was doing.
“She also says that you two are talking again.”
DeShawn grinned a little. “Slowly.” She says I need to show that I’ve changed, not simply say it.
“Smart girl.”
“Yes.” “I was a fool.”
“Sometimes we all are.” A guy is not defined by how many times he falls. It’s if he gets back up. And how he handles people who can’t.
I went over to their table. “Harold. “DeShawn.”
DeShawn got tense. He was still afraid of the motorcycles six months later. You can’t blame him.
“Take it easy, kid.” I just wanted to let Harold know that we’re going on a ride on Saturday. Poker run for the center for veterans. You in?”
Harold laughed. “I’m 81 years old and have a terrible hip and hearing aids. What am I going to do on a bike? “
“Get in the support vehicle.” Someone needs to be with the truck driver.
“I’ll think about it.”
I looked at DeShawn. “You can come too.” If you wish.
“I… I don’t know anything about bikes.”
“Harold didn’t either when he was your age. After that, he spent three years taking care of them in Korea. He might be able to teach you.
I heard DeShawn ask, “Would you?” after I went away. Show me?”
Harold answered, “Maybe. But first, please scratch this ticket for me. These days, my hands shake a lot.
DeShawn scratched out the ticket. “Mr. Wiseman, you won a thousand dollars, Wiseman!”
Harold stared at the ticket and then up to the ceiling. “Okay, Mary. Fifteen years later, you were right. He looked at DeShawn and said, “I did win big.” “But don’t talk about the money.”
On that Saturday, Harold rode in our support truck with DeShawn at the wheel. They got $5,000 for the Veterans Center. DeShawn came to our activities at first only to help, not as a member. He set up online donations, streamed the rides, and utilized the same social media abilities he had used to hurt people before to accomplish something good.
The footage of him hitting Harold never got very popular. However, the video depicted him helping Harold onto the stage at the Veterans Center Christmas dinner, where Harold received an award for his volunteer work. That had a million views. The caption reads, “I attacked this hero six months ago.” He calls me son today. “This is what it means to forgive.”
In the end, Keisha accepted him back. Now they’re engaged. Harold is going to give her away at the wedding because her father died years ago and she asked Harold to do it.
But the big moment happened last Thursday. I spotted them at the Stop-N-Go purchasing gas. They were at the same table at 2 PM. Harold was showing DeShawn how to play cribbage with a board that seemed like it was older than both of them put together.
Harold was stating, “This was my father’s.” “Carried it through World War I, then through Korea.” One day, I’ll give it to someone who deserves it.
“That’s great, Mr. Wiseman.”
“Harold. Please call me Harold. “Now we’re friends.”
Buddies. A white veteran who was 81 years old and a black kid who was 25 years old and had slapped him for social media views. Buddies.
Singh gave them coffee—two cups, each with two sugars and no cream.
Singh said, “On the house,” like he always did.
“You can’t keep giving me free coffee,” Harold said, as he always does.
“I can and I will.” You too, DeShawn. “Heroes get free drinks here.”
DeShawn swiftly stated, “I’m not a hero.”
Harold gave him a look. “Not yet.” But you’re getting better. Being a hero doesn’t mean being faultless. It’s about making the choice to be better than you were yesterday.”
When I drove away, I observed DeShawn help Harold get to his car with his oxygen tank. The same hands that had hit him now helped him stand up.
That’s the issue about redemption. Not right away. You earn it in modest ways, like carrying an oxygen tank, learning how to play cribbage, and hearing war stories. You have to face the people you hurt and do better to get it.
DeShawn still has the picture on his phone from that day. Not the video; it’s gone for good. But a picture of Harold on the ground with blood on his face. He retains it to remind himself of who he was so he never becomes that person again.
The Savage Riders voted on something that had never happened before last week. We voted to support DeShawn’s membership. Not as a full patch; he doesn’t ride yet. But as a potential investment, someone worth your time.
Everyone voted the same way.
He smiled when I told Harold. “Good. The boy needs good male role models.”This is real brotherhood, unlike the fake tough-guy persona he was displaying.”
“Do you think he’ll make it?”
Harold scratched off his lotto ticket. He was still playing, still hoping, and still thinking about Mary.
“He stood in front of a room full of veterans and told them what he did to me. Faced their rage and their judgment. But he kept coming back. Keep it up. He kept attempting to obtain forgiveness that he thought he would never get. Harold glanced at me and said, “Yeah, he’ll make it.” Dennis, we all fall. But not everyone gets back up. He did.
The punk who assaulted an 81-year-old veteran for his opinions is now the young man who helps the gentleman educate other veterans on how to use computers. The thug who kicked the hearing aid became the guy who worked three jobs to get a new one. The kid who filmed the attack grew up to be the man who streams charity rides and gets thousands of dollars in donations.
It all happened because 47 bikers left a store and shouted, “That’s enough.”
An 81-year-old veteran said, “Let them go,” and that was it. “Violence doesn’t solve violence.”
All because the young woman in scrubs loved that old man enough to ask her partner to do better.
All because there is a chance for redemption, even for those who seem too far gone.
Every Thursday at 2 PM, Harold still goes to the Stop-N-Go. But now he seldom ever has to be alone. DeShawn joins him there with other young males from the area who had heard the story. They sit with Harold, listen to his stories, and learn from what he knows.
The punk who hit him? He is no longer here, and someone better has taken his place. Someone Harold would be proud to call his son.
And somewhere, Mary Wiseman is smiling because she knows that her husband’s ability to forgive has improved another person’s life.
That’s the genuine prize in the lottery. Not the $1,000. But turning a lost young guy into someone who deserves to carry on Harold’s legacy.
We have bronzed the hearing aid that flew across the parking lot and put it in our clubhouse. A modest plaque over it:
“The sound of redemption is often softer than the sound of violence.” But it lasts longer.
DeShawn put that plaque there. The wording was helped by Harold.