They called him Big Mike—six-foot-four, beard to his chest, arms inked with military tattoos. He should’ve chased me off when he caught me stealing from his dumpster, but instead he said five words that saved my life: “You hungry, kid? Come inside.”
I was eleven, a runaway from a broken foster home. Mike didn’t ask questions. He gave me coffee, a sandwich, and a place to sleep in the back of his motorcycle shop. Over time, the bikers became my family. They taught me math, reading, and how to work with my hands. Mike made me go to school, called me smart, and promised I could be more than a “grease monkey.”
Years later, I became a lawyer. When the city tried shutting his shop down, I was too busy to help. Then he died—heart attack, alone.
He’d left me the deed and a letter: “This shop saved lives. Don’t let them take it.”
So I fought. We won. The shop’s now a school for at-risk teens—still with that cot in the back.
Big Mike saved me once. Now his legacy saves others.
