Thug Slapped an 81-Year-Old Veteran in Front of 47 Bikers

Unaware that 47 motorcyclists were inside, the punk gave the elderly veteran such a violent smack that his hearing aid flew across the parking lot.

When I heard the smack, I was at the Stop-N-Go on Highway 49 getting gas. The clatter of something plastic hitting pavement, followed by that characteristic sound of palm meeting face.

Harold Wiseman, an 81-year-old veteran of the Korean War and Purple Heart recipient, was on his knees in the parking lot with blood streaming from his nose as I turned back.

The child above him was no older than twenty-five. While his two friends laughed, he filmed everything on his phone while sporting a backwards cap, face tattoos, and slacks that hung below his ass.

The punk zoomed in on Harold’s face and stated, “Should’ve minded your business, old man.” “This will receive a lot of views. “An old head gets dropped for talking shit.” “Grappa, you’re going to be famous.”
Harold hadn’t been saying garbage, but the punk was unaware of this.

To park his oxygen tank nearer the door, he had only requested that they relocate their vehicle out of the disabled space.

The punk was also unaware that 47 Savage Riders MC members were inside for our monthly meeting in the rear room, and that the Stop-N-Go was our usual fuel stop.

I am 64-year-old Savage Riders president Dennis “Tank” Morrison. We heard the disturbance when we were receiving our safety briefing.

I could see Harold straining to stand up through the window, his hands trembling as he looked for his hearing aid.

“Brothers,” I muttered. “We have a problem.”

Harold Wiseman is the one who visits to Stop-N-Go every Thursday at 2:00 PM to purchase a lottery ticket and coffee.

Since his wife Mary passed away fifteen years ago, he has been doing it. Singh, the proprietor, always had two sugars and no cream in his coffee.

After narrating stories about Korea while seated at the counter, Harold would scratch his tickets and head home.

Harold was well-known across the town. He had spent forty years working as a mechanic at the Ford dealership. When single mothers were unable to pay, cars were fixed for free. taught his garage’s oil change to half the town’s children. Never demanded anything in return.

Three punks were filming him for online points while he was on his knees in a parking lot.

Harold’s hearing aid was kicked across the tarmac by the punk. “Grampa, what’s wrong? Can’t hear me right now? “Get up!” I said.”

The fall had cut Harold’s hands. Skin doesn’t regenerate at age 81. It sheds tears. As he pushed himself up, blood mingled with the oil marks on the concrete.

Without using his hearing aid to measure volume, Harold’s voice was tremulous when he said, “Please.” “I only had to park—”

“No one gives a damn about your needs!The friend of the punk joined in, and they are currently filming together. “An elderly white man believes he owns the property.” We are now in this generation.

I gave the signal at that point.

Together, forty-seven bikers got to their feet. The store reverberated with the sound of chairs slapping pavement. Singh, who had been uncomfortably observing from behind the counter, took a step back.

We took our time. We didn’t run. Everyone in the parking lot turned as we left the business in a line, two by two, our boots making a rhythm. At first, the punk was too preoccupied with his video to notice.

“Hey, old man, say something for the camera. Sorry for being disrespectful—

When my shadow passed across him, he paused in the middle of his statement. He was staring at my chest when he turned around, his phone still recording. Then he raised his head. and upward.

“Is something wrong here?Calmly, I asked.

The punk made an effort to appear tough. Indeed, an elderly racist attempted to direct us to a parking lot. We took care of it.

“Racist?Still on the ground, I turned to face Harold. “Wiseman, Harold? The man who covered the cost of Jerome Washington’s burial when his family was unable to? The man who provided free auto repair instruction to half of the town’s Black youth? Harold?”Family games”

The swagger of the punk faltered. Suddenly acutely aware that they were encircled by a wall of denim and leather, his pals had halted their filming.

“He called us thugs,” I said.

“No,” Harold replied from the ground, “I requested that you vacate the disabled area. I am in possession of a permit. My oxygen—

“Stop talking!The punk held up his hand to give Harold another slap.

Mid-strike, I grabbed his wrist. Not difficult. Simply firm. “That’s sufficient.”

“Dude, get off me! This is assault! This is being filmed by me!”

“Good,” exclaimed my sergeant-at-arms, Crusher. “Be sure to capture everyone’s faces. The police will want to know who saw you attack a disabled veteran who was 81 years old.

He wrenched his hand free, punk. “We’re heading out.”

“No,” I replied. “You’re not.”

“We can’t stay here!”

“I won’t keep you. However, after you apologize to Harold and get that hearing aid, you’ll wait for the police.

“I’m not saying I’m sorry to shit!”

Harold, still on the ground, shouted up at that point, his voice now more powerful. Dennis, let them go. I’m all right.

Harold was pleading with me to let them go as I looked down at him, bleeding, embarrassed, and with his hearing aid broken somewhere in the parking lot.

“Are you certain?”

“Violence is not the solution to violence. That was always Mary’s statement.

The punk chuckled. Yes, pay attention to your grandfather, motorcycle dude. Violence doesn’t resolve—

No one saw the slap coming since it happened so quickly. Not me. from the girlfriend of the punk, who had just arrived in her vehicle.

“What the FUCK are you doing, DeShawn?She appeared to be a nurse and was coming toward us in her scrubs after getting out of the automobile. Is Mr. Wiseman there? IS THAT THE GROUND MR. WISEMAN?”

DeShawn, the punk, became pale. “I can explain, baby—”

“My mom’s car was fixed for free by this man! Before you were fired for stealing, this man offered you a position at the dealership!She gave him another slap. “And you dropped him on the floor?”

“He was disrespectful to us—”

“How? By being? By being elderly?Pushing passed him, she knelt next to Harold. “Mr. I apologize so much, Wiseman. Allow me to assist you.

“Keisha?Harold narrowed his eyes at her. Williams, Little Keisha? Are you now a nurse?”

“Yes, sir, I appreciate the letter of recommendation you provided for my scholarship. Are you able to stand?”

While Keisha examined Harold’s wounds, two of my brothers assisted him in standing up. Crusher moved ahead of the punk as he attempted to creep away.

“Your girl is correct,” Crusher remarked. “You must confront this.”

“There is nothing for me to do! We’re leaving!”

However, his pals had already started to distance themselves by removing footage from their phones. They no longer desired to be involved in this.

Keisha continued to tend to Harold as she said, “DeShawn.” “Are you aware of the contributions this man made to our community? Why does he come here every Thursday, do you know?”

“I don’t give a damn—”

Memorial Gardens is where his wife is interred. She always told him he would win big someday, so he comes here to buy a lottery ticket after seeing her every Thursday. Fifteen years of doing it. He has never won more than fifty bucks, but he continues to play because it gives him a sense of intimacy with her.

DeShawn was losing his tough-guy persona. Everyone in the gathering, including residents and customers who had heard the disturbance, knew Harold. And DeShawn was the center of their attention.

“And you put him on the ground for what?” Keisha went on. Opinions? Favorites? Has that become who you are?”

Singh emerged carrying Harold’s coffee (two sugars, no cream) and a first aid kit. Mr. Harold, on the house. From now on, always on the house.

We discovered Harold’s hearing aid at that point. crushed. When he was grandstanding, the punk had stomped on it.

I informed DeShawn, “That’s a medical device worth three thousand dollars.” “I hope your video views will be enough to cover that.”

“I don’t have that much money.”

“You had better figure it out then.”

With Harold’s blood on her scrubs, Keisha got to her feet. “We’ve finished, DeShawn. Someone who disparages senior veterans for social media influence is not someone I can be with. Someone who disparages those who raised us.

“Please, baby—”

“No. If my grandmother found out that I was seeing someone who had harmed Mr. Wiseman, she would be furious. Leave my residence with your belongings. Today.

While my brother Doc, a real-life former Navy corpsman, correctly examined Harold, she assisted him to a bench. Ten minutes later, the police showed up. As usual, Harold declined to file a complaint.

Harold looked at DeShawn and remarked, “Boy’s lost enough today.” His reputation, his dignity, and his girl. Perhaps that suffices as punishment.

I wasn’t finished, though. “Is it, DeShawn?”

Without any more bluster, he nodded.

“That hearing aid will be paid for by you. Harold volunteers every week at the Veterans Center, where you will be volunteering. And you will discover the true meaning of respect.

“What if I don’t?”

I grinned. It’s not a pleasant smile. Then the video of which you were so proud? The one that your pals have already removed? Our security cameras have it all. each second. This includes you confessing to assault. Redemption or prosecution is up to you.

I attend our monthly meeting at the Stop-N-Go six months later. DeShawn had taken three jobs to pay for the new hearing aid, and Harold is there as usual. Coffee and lottery ticket Thursday at 2:00 PM.

He’s not alone, though. Harold is narrating a story about the Battle of Chosin Reservoir to DeShawn, who is seated next him. Not for the sake of views. Not for the content. Simply listening.

Harold was stating, “Then the Chinese surrounded us.” “Below zero, no food, no ammunition.” believed we were finished.

“What took place?With real interest, DeShawn inquired.

“We supported one another. When it was thirty degrees below and you were outnumbered ten to one, it didn’t matter if you were black, white, or Hispanic. We were able to survive because we supported one another.

DeShawn gave a nod. For the past five months, he had been helping at the Veterans Center. It turned out that the child had potential if you looked past the attitude. He assisted the elderly veterans in video calling their grandchildren because he was proficient with computers. launched an initiative to educate children how to use smartphones.

“Mr. Wiseman,” DeShawn muttered. “I apologize. Once more. for my actions.

“Son, you’ve apologized fifty times.”

“Not enough.”

DeShawn received a shoulder pat from Harold. “Your subsequent actions are sufficient apologies. You’re applying to a community college, Keisha informs me.

“IT program.” I reasoned that rather than doing what I was doing, I should put my computer talents to good use.

“You two are speaking again,” she adds.

DeShawn gave a small smile. “Slowly. She says I can’t just say I’ve changed; I have to show it.

“Wise girl.”

Indeed. I was a fool.

“Everyone is, at times. Whether a man falls or not is not a good indicator of him. Whether he gets back up is the question. and the way he handles people who are unable to

I approached their table. “Harold. DeShawn.

DeShawn stiffened. He was still afraid of the motorcycles six months later. You can’t blame him.

“Calm down, child. I wanted to let Harold know that on Saturday, we will be going on a bike. Run for the Veterans Center like a poker player. Are you in?”

Harold chuckled. “At eighty-one, I use hearing aids and have a poor hip. What will I do while riding a motorcycle?”

Take a ride in the assistance car. The truck driver needs to be kept company.

“I’ll give it some thought.”

I gave DeShawn a peek. “You are welcome to attend as well. If you’d want.

“I… I have no knowledge of motorcycles.”

Harold didn’t either when he was your age. After that, he maintained them in Korea for three years. Perhaps he will instruct you.

I heard DeShawn inquire after I left, “Would you? Educate me?”

“Perhaps,” Harold remarked. First, however, please scratch this ticket for me. These days, my hands shake too much.

The ticket was scratched by DeShawn. “Mr. You won a thousand dollars, Wiseman!”

Harold glanced up at the ceiling after glancing at the ticket. “All right, Mary. You were correct, but it took fifteen years. Looking at DeShawn, he said, “I did win big.” “But without mentioning the money.”

DeShawn drove our support truck that Saturday, and Harold rode along. For the Veterans Center, they raised five thousand dollars. DeShawn began attending our gatherings as someone who want to assist, not as a member. He would stream the rides, set up online donations, and use the same social media techniques he had previously employed for harm to now be used for good.

He slapped Harold on the video, but it never went viral. But the footage of him assisting Harold in getting a volunteer accomplishment award and going on stage at the Veterans Center Christmas party? A million people viewed that. “I attacked this hero six months ago,” reads the caption. He calls me son today. This is the manifestation of forgiveness.

At last, Keisha brought him back. They are now engaged. She requested Harold to fill in for her father, who went away years ago, and Harold will give her away during the wedding.

But last Thursday was the big day. I saw Harold and DeShawn at the same table at 2:00 PM while I was in the Stop-N-Go getting gas. Harold was using a board that appeared to be older than the two of them put together to teach DeShawn how to play cribbage.

Harold was stating, “This belonged to my father.” “I carried it through Korea after carrying it through World War I.” I’ll give it to a deserving person one day.
“Mr. Wiseman, that is great.”

“Harold. Give me a call, Harold. We are now pals.

companions. He was once slapped by a 25-year-old Black child and an 81-year-old white veteran for social media opinions. companions.

Singh handed them two cups of coffee without cream and with two sugars.

As usual, Singh said, “On the house.”

“You can’t continue to give me free coffee,” Harold objected as usual.

“I will and I can. DeShawn, you too. Here, heroes are allowed to drink freely.

“I’m not a hero,” DeShawn blurted out.

Harold gave him a look. “Not just yet. You’re learning, though. Being flawless is not what it means to be a hero. It’s about making the decision to improve upon yesterday’s self.

DeShawn assisted Harold in transferring his oxygen tank to his car as I pulled away. He was now supported by the identical hands that had smacked him down.

That’s the redeeming factor. It takes time. Little things like carrying an oxygen tank, playing cribbage, and hearing war stories are how you earn it. It is won by doing better and confronting the individuals you have harmed.

The screenshot from that day is still on DeShawn’s phone. Not the video, which has been permanently removed. But a screen grab showing Harold with blood on his face on the ground. In order to prevent himself from ever being that person again, he maintains it as a reminder of who he was.

The Savage Riders made an unexpected decision last week. DeShawn’s sponsorship for membership was approved by our vote. He doesn’t ride yet, so it’s not a whole patch. However, as a potential investment, a worthy one.

There was a unanimous vote.

I told Harold, and he grinned. “All right. A boy needs good masculine role models. Genuine fraternity, not the tough-guy crap he was acting out.

“Do you think he’ll be there?”

Harold scratched his lotto ticket, remembering Mary, still playing, still hoping.

He acknowledged what he had done to me while standing in front of a group of veterans. confronted their rage and criticism. However, he continued to return. Continue to assist. Harold glanced at me and said, “Yeah, he’ll make it.” Harold continued to strive to gain forgiveness that he believed he would never receive. Dennis, we all fall. However, not everyone recovers. He did.

The young man who helped the 81-year-old veteran teach other veterans computer skills was once a punk who smacked him for views. After kicking a hearing aid, the attacker went on to work three jobs to replace it. The man who streams charity rides to raise thousands of dollars was once a child who recorded an assault.

All because 47 motorcycle riders declared, “That’s enough,” as they left a store.

For the simple reason that an 81-year-old veteran stated, “Let them go.” Violence doesn’t make it better.

All because an old man was so adored by a young woman in scrubs that she demanded greater treatment from her boyfriend.

All because even people who appear to be beyond redemption can be saved.

Harold continues to visit the Stop-N-Go on Thursdays at 2:00 PM. He is rarely alone today, though. There, DeShawn and other neighborhood young guys who have heard the story meet him. They sit with Harold, hear his tales, and absorb his knowledge.

Who hit him, the punk? Someone better has taken his place. Harold would be honored to call him son.

Mary Wiseman is grinning somewhere because she knows that her husband’s forgiveness has just transformed another person’s life.

The true lottery victory is that. Not the $1,000. However, the development of a lost young man into a person deserving of continuing Harold’s legacy.

Our clubhouse now has the bronzed hearing aid that flew across that parking lot. A straightforward plaque over it:

“The sound of violence is frequently louder than the sound of salvation. It echoes longer, though.

That plaque was placed there by DeShawn. He got aid from Harold with the language.