The Puddle
The first motorcycle hit the puddle at almost fifty miles an hour.
Brown roadside water exploded into the November air.
It struck the elderly man walking along the shoulder with the force of a physical blow, soaking him from his shoulders to his ankles. His thin gray hair flattened against his forehead. His glasses vanished beneath muddy droplets.
The paper grocery bag in his arms collapsed.
A carton of eggs fell through the soggy bottom and shattered across the gravel.
Two apples rolled toward the highway.
A fresh loaf of bread landed directly in the mud.
The old man stopped walking.
The motorcycle did not.
At the handlebars sat Wade Mercer, president of the local Black River Riders chapter.
He glanced into his rearview mirror.
He saw exactly what he had done.
Then he raised one hand in an exaggerated, theatrical apology.
“Sorry, Grandpa!” Wade shouted over the roar of his engine.
The riders behind him laughed.
Six more motorcycles followed.
There was plenty of room to move around the puddle.
They chose not to.
One after another, the riders drove straight through the water.
Another wave struck the old man.
Then another.
By the time the final motorcycle passed, the elderly man had disappeared behind a curtain of brown spray.
The riders accelerated toward the gas station half a mile ahead.
Only one motorcycle slowed down.
His name was Eli Foster.
At twenty-two, Eli had been riding with the Black River Riders for eleven months.
He wasn't a full member.
Not yet.
His black leather vest carried the club's colors but lacked the bottom rocker that signified full membership. He had no voting rights, no authority, and no voice in club decisions.
He was a prospect.
For eleven months, Eli had cleaned bathrooms, swept floors, guarded motorcycles, fetched drinks, repaired broken equipment, and endured insults.
He had done whatever was asked.
Because he wanted the patch.
More than that, he wanted belonging.
His father had died when Eli was sixteen. His mother worked two jobs in a nursing home and rarely had enough money left at the end of the month.
The Black River Riders had been the first group that made Eli feel noticed.
Wade had put a hand on his shoulder during his first week and said:
“You want the patch, you learn one thing first.”
“What?”
“Never embarrass the men wearing it.”
Eli had remembered those words every day since.
Now he looked into his mirror.
The old man was trying to retrieve one of the apples.
A delivery truck thundered past.
The wind from it caught the man's soaked brown coat.
He stumbled backward.
Eli's jaw tightened.
Ahead, Wade was already signaling toward the gas station.
The rest of the riders followed.
Eli knew what would happen if he stopped.
Wade would call him soft.
The others would laugh.
His final patch review was only two weeks away.
Eleven months of work could disappear in ten seconds.
The old man bent down again.
His left hand trembled.
One knee seemed barely able to support him.
Eli cursed.
He downshifted.
Turned the handlebars.
And turned around.
His motorcycle roared back toward the man.
The elderly stranger looked up.
He seemed to expect another wave of dirty water.
Instead, Eli stopped twenty feet away.
Killed the engine.
Removed his helmet.
The cold wind immediately struck his face.
“I’m not going to hurt you, sir,” Eli said.
The old man looked at him through mud-streaked glasses.
“You already participated.”
The words were quiet.
Somehow, that made them hurt more.
Eli looked at the ground.
“Yes, sir.”
The old man said nothing.
Eli stepped toward the scattered groceries.