The biker who raised me wasn’t my dad. He was a dirty mechanic who found me sleeping in the dumpster behind his shop when I was 14.
Big Mike was what they dubbed him. He was six feet four inches tall, had a beard that reached down to his chest, and military tattoos on his arms. He should have contacted the police on the kid who took his sandwich crusts and ran away with them.
Instead, he opened the door to his business at 5 AM, saw me hunched between trash bags, and said five words that saved my life: “You hungry, kid?” Come in.
Twenty-three years later, I’m in court in my three-piece suit, watching the state try to take his motorcycle store away because they think motorcyclists are “degrading the neighborhood.” They don’t know that their prosecutor is the youngster who was thrown out by this “degrading” biker and became a lawyer.
I ran away from my fourth foster home because the dad’s hands kept wandering and the mom behaved like she didn’t see it.
I thought it would be safer to sleep behind Big Mike’s Custom Cycles than to stay in that house for another night. I had been living on the streets for three weeks, eating from trash cans, and staying away from cops who would just put me back in the system.
That’s how it all started. He never asked me why I was in his trash can. Did not contact social services.
He paid me twenty dollars a day to do things for him, and when he “accidentally” left the door open at night, I could sleep on a cot in the back room of the shop.
Other bikers started to arrive and watch the thin child scrubbing floors and putting things in order.
They should have been intimidating because they wore leather vests, had skull patches, and rode bikes that sounded like thunder. Instead, they brought me food.
Snake taught me math by having me measure engines. The preacher made me read to him while he worked and told me how to say things better.
Bear’s wife gave me clothes that were too big for her “son” but fit me well.
Finally, Mike asked, “Do you have to be somewhere else, kid?” after six months.
“No, sir.”
“Then I guess you should clean that up.” The health inspector doesn’t like a dirty place.
My house was just like it. Not legally, because Mike was officially hiding a runaway. But in every way that mattered, he was like a father to me.
He made the rules. Even though other parents looked at him funny, Dad drove me to school on his Harley every morning.
I had to work in the shop after school to learn a trade, “because every man needs to know how to work with his hands.”
I had to go to Sunday dinners at the clubhouse, where thirty bikers would grill me about my schoolwork and said they would beat me up if my grades plummeted.
One night, Mike observed me reading one of his legal documents and exclaimed, “You’re smart.” “Smart in a way that scares me.” You might be more than just a grease monkey like me.
I told you, “It’s okay to be like you.”
He messed up my hair. “Thanks for that, kid.” But you could achieve something even bigger. We’re going to make sure you use it.
The club paid for me to take the SAT. They threw a party that shook the whole neighborhood when I started college. Forty bikers clapped for a skinny kid who got a full scholarship. That day, Mike cried, but he said it was because of the smell of the engine.
There was a major change in culture when I went to college. A motorcycle gang dumped off the boy, leaving behind kids with trust funds and summer houses.
I quit talking about Mike and home. My roommate asked about my family, and I told them that my parents had died.
It was easier than claiming that a motorcyclist had formally snatched me from a dumpster and made me his father figure.
It was awful in law school. Everyone was chatting about their legal parents and connections and making new ones.
When they asked about mine, I stuttered something about how I worked with my hands. Mike showed up to my graduation with the only suit he owned, which he had bought specifically for the occasion. He also wore motorcycle boots since dress shoes hurt his feet.
I felt bad when my friends gazed at me. I told my study group that he was “a family friend” when they asked.
He never said anything about it. He just hugged me, told me how proud he was, and then drove home alone for eight hours.
I obtained a job with a terrific company. Did not go to the grocery as often. When the club called, I stopped answering the phone. I kept telling myself that I was doing well in life. The kind of life that would never put me in a dumpster.
Then, three months ago, Mike called.
“Not asking for me,” he said, which was how he usually started when he needed help.
“But the city is trying to stop us.” They called us a “blight” on the community. Decreasing the worth of property. They want me to sell to a builder.
Mike had run that store for forty years. I’ve been fixing bikes for people who couldn’t afford to pay the dealer price for forty years.
He supported runaways like myself for forty years without anyone knowing. Later, I learned that I wasn’t the only youngster who had to sleep in his back room.
“Get a lawyer,” I told them.
“Can’t afford one that can take on city hall.”
I should have made an offer immediately away. Should have gone down that night. I said I’d look into it instead and hung up, afraid my coworkers would find out about my background.
Jenny, my paralegal, saw me crying at my desk and told me to stop. Snake had just sent me a picture of the store with a “CONDEMNED” sign on the entrance. Mike was sitting on the steps with his hands on his head.
I said, “That’s the man who raised me,” and then I showed her the picture. “And I’m too scared to help him because I don’t want people to know I’m just a lucky trailer trash.”
Jenny looked at me with disgust. “Then you’re not the person I thought you were.” She went, and I was left with the truth about who I had become.
I went to the supermarket that night. Five hours later, still in my suit, I stepped into the clubhouse. There were thirty motorcycles there talking about how they could get enough money together to hire a lawyer.
I said from the door, “I’ll take the case.”
Mike looked up, and his eyes were bloodshot. “Son, I can’t pay you what you’re worth.”
“You already did.” Twenty-three years ago. When you didn’t contact the police about a kid in a dumpster.
There was no noise in the room. Bear then replied, “Holy shit.” Is that skinny? “Is that you in that suit of a monkey?”
It didn’t take long for me to get home.
The case was terrible. The city had money, contacts, and influence. They turned the store into a place where gangs could hang out and threaten the community. They brought in people who lived there to comment about noise and feeling “unsafe,” even though they had never met Mike or any of his clients.
But I had something better. I knew what was true.
I brought in every student that Mike has quietly helped over the last forty years. Some of them were doctors, teachers, technicians, and social professionals who had been kids in need of a place to stay at Big Mike’s Custom Cycles. I exhibited twenty-three years of giving to charity, toy runs, and rides to help veterans. I showed security footage of Mike fixing mobility scooters for free for older people, educating kids in the area how to take care of their bikes, and having AA meetings at his store after hours.
Things changed when I put Mike on the stand.
“Mr. Mitchell, you admit to hiding runaway kids in your store?” the city’s prosecutor said with a laugh.
Mike just said, “I admit that I gave kids food and a safe place to sleep.”
“Without telling the cops? That’s holding someone captive.
“That’s being nice,” Mike said. “Something you would get if you were 14 and had no place to go.”
“So, where are these kids now? These kids that ran away and you “helped”?
I got up. “Objection: Is it relevant?”
The judge looked at me. “I’ll let it happen.” Mr. Mitchell, please answer the question.
Mike looked right at me, and I could tell how proud he was. “One of them is right there, Your Honor. I selected my kid, even though he is not my biological son. He is defending me today because I didn’t throw him away like everyone else did twenty-three years ago.
The courtroom was quiet. The prosecutor stared at me.
“Are you?” she asked. “You’re one of his projects?”
“I am his son,” I said firmly. “And proud of it.”
The judge, who had been cold the whole time, leaned forward. “Is this true, lawyer? You were staying at the defendant’s business since you didn’t have a place to live?
“Your Honor, I was a child who was thrown aside. Living in a dumpster, eating trash, and being hurt in foster care. Mike Mitchell saved my life. He and his “biker gang” took me in, made me go to school, paid for my education, and turned me into the man you see above. We might need to alter what we mean by “community” if his store is a “blight on the community.”
The judge declared it was time to stop. By the time we arrived back, she had made up her mind.
“This court does not see any proof that Big Mike’s Custom Cycles is a threat to the community.” The proof demonstrates that Mr. Mitchell and his friends have helped a lot of young people who are in trouble for a long time by offering them support and a safe place to reside. The city doesn’t get what it wants. The store stays.
Things became crazy in the courtroom. Forty bikers celebrated, sobbed, and hugged each other. Mike hugged me so tightly that it about crushed my ribs.
He told his son, “I’m proud of you.” “Always have been.” Even when you were embarrassed by me.
“I was never ashamed of you,” I told him.
“Yes, you were. That’s OK. Kids should grow up and move out of their parents’ homes. But you came back when it mattered. That’s what counts.
That night, at the gathering in the clubhouse, I got up to speak.
“I’ve been a coward,” I said. “Acting like being with bikers would make me less of a person, hiding where I came from and who raised me.” But the truth is that all the good things about me came from this store, these people, and a father who chose to retain a son who was supposed to be thrown away.
I looked at Mike, who was my father in every way that counted.
“I’m not hiding anymore. I changed my name to David Mitchell ten years ago, but I never told you, Mike. I am a senior partner with Brennan, Carter & Associates. And my father rides a motorcycle. Bikers raised me. “I’m proud to be a part of this family.”
The roar of approval shook the windows.
Today, there are images from the business on the walls of my office. My coworkers know exactly where I came from. That makes some people respect me more. People talk about me when I’m not around. I don’t care anymore.
Every Sunday, I ride to the store. Last year, Mike taught me how to ride. He thought it was time for me to learn. We work on motorcycles together, and I get grease on my nails. He secretly enjoys listening to classical music on his antique radio, which doesn’t fit with his image as a biker.
Kids still come by every now and then, hungry and in need. Mike gives them food, work, and sometimes a place to live. And now I can aid them with their legal issues.
The store is doing nicely. The city gave in. They had to meet the motorcyclists they were scared of, and they learned what I had known for twenty-three years: leather and loud pipes don’t create a man. What you do matters.
Mike is getting older. He shakes his hands and forgets things sometimes. He still opens the business at 5 AM every day, checks the dumpster for hungry kids, and still asks, “Are you hungry?” Come in.
Last week, we found another one. Fifteen, scared, injured, and trying to steal from the cash register. Mike did not call the cops. I merely gave him a wrench and lunch.
He asked, “Do you know how to use this?”
The kid shook his head.
“Want to learn?”
And so it goes. The biker who hit me from behind and another kid who didn’t care. He taught me that family isn’t blood, home isn’t a place, and that the scariest people can occasionally have the kindest hearts.
David Mitchell is my name. I’m a lawyer. My dad is a biker.
And I’ve never been more proud of where I came from.