When I looked up, I saw Arthur Callahan, eighty-two years old, World War II veteran and Bronze Star recipient, lying on the asphalt with a trickle of blood running from his cheek.
The kid standing over him could not have been more than twenty-four. A backwards baseball cap, sleeves covered in tattoos, jeans hanging so low his underwear peeked out. He was filming everything on his phone while his two friends laughed.
“You should have minded your own business, grandpa,” the punk sneered, zooming in on Arthur’s face. “This is going viral. People are going to love this.”
Arthur had not said anything rude. He had simply asked them to move their car from the handicapped spot so he could park closer to the door.
What the kid did not realize was that the Maplewood Express was our usual pit stop and inside the café thirty-five members of the Iron Wolves Motorcycle Club were attending our monthly meeting.
I am Hank Radcliffe, sixty-six years old, president of the Iron Wolves. When we saw Arthur struggling to reach for his hearing aid I quietly told the others, “Brothers, we have a problem.”