A Sudden Ambush On The Sidewalk
A crumpled brown paper sack flew out of the open car window and slammed into the sidewalk right beside the elderly man’s boots.
Food wrappers, empty soda cups, and greasy takeout napkins exploded across the concrete, tumbling against his brown leather shoes. The red convertible sped forward a few yards, the passenger pointing backward out of the open cockpit while his companion steered toward the curb.
The older man gripped his wooden walking cane with both hands. His shoulders rounded as he leaned forward, staring down at the debris scattered across the walkway.
His knees bent slightly, his fingers trembling against the polished wood handle of his stick. He moved his feet an inch forward, attempting to bend down, but his back stiffened, leaving him immobilized on the walkway.
Engines Rumble Along The Curb
A line of heavy motorcycles rolled into view behind the red car, their dark chrome reflecting the morning sun. The lead rider cut the throttle and brought his front tire directly against the sidewalk curb.
Four men in heavy leather jackets swung their boots over their seats before the engines had fully settled into an idle. They did not shout. Their heavy work boots struck the asphalt in steady, rhythmic strides as they closed the distance to the old man.
One rider crouched down onto the concrete immediately. His thick leather gloves gathered the torn paper sacks and scooped up the strewn cardboard containers one by one.
Another rider stepped beside the older man, placing an open palm firmly against his forearm to steady his frame. The man looked up, his breathing shallow, his knuckles white around the grip of his cane.
A third man took the older gentleman by his shoulder, guiding his steps toward a dark green wooden bench bolted to the sidewalk bricks.
Returning What Was Thrown
Two of the men remained on the walkway while the debris was packed back into the large brown bag. The crouched rider stood up, folding the top edges of the bag tightly into a thick cuff.
He walked directly toward the rear fender of the idling red convertible, his companion tracking beside him. The two occupants in the front bucket seats turned around, their smiles instantly dropping as their backs pressed hard against the upholstery.
The biker reached both arms across the low windshield frame. He inverted the paper bag directly above the driver and passenger, shaking the contents loose across their laps, the dashboard, and the center console.
Sauce-coated paper wrappers and crushed cups showered across the boys’ clothing and settled into the crevices of the leather seats. Neither occupant moved his hands from the steering wheel or lap; their eyes remained wide as paper cups rolled beneath their pedals.
The two men turned their backs on the convertible and walked away down the street without looking behind them.
Company On The Bench
The rider carrying a fresh bottle of cold water twisted the cap loose and handed it down to the older man seated on the bench.
The elderly man took the bottle with two hands, his shoulders dropping down from his ears as he took a sip. Two of the riders took seats on either side of him along the wooden slats, resting their forearms on their knees.
Down the street, the two young men in the red car stood beside their open doors, picking up stray pieces of greasy trash one handful at a time.
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