I Watched Thirty Bikers Rob A Convenience Store At 3 AM And The Owner Just Stood There Smiling

“Motorcycle club,” three bikers corrected in unison.

My head was spinning. “So this whole thing… the robbery… the bags… it’s all…”

“Charity,” Marcus said. “Has been for twelve years. We started after Hurricane Sandy hit the coast. Bunch of folks in our county lost everything. Government aid was slow. Red Cross was overwhelmed. So we started collecting supplies and delivering them ourselves.”

“After the hurricane recovery ended, we kept going,” another biker added. His vest said “Tombstone.” “Realized how many people in our own community were struggling. Old folks who couldn’t afford groceries. Single moms choosing between food and medicine. Homeless vets living under bridges.”

“We’re the Friday Night Raiders,” Marcus said proudly. “Every Friday, we raid Earl’s store. Then we ride.”

I looked at the bags they’d filled. Dog food. Cat food. Baby formula. Diapers. Canned vegetables. Soup. Crackers. Medicine. Tampons. Toilet paper. Toothpaste. Soap. Bottled water.

“You bring all this to homeless people?”

“Homeless people. Struggling families. Anyone who needs it.” Marcus pulled out a worn notebook. “We have routes. Regular stops. Mrs. Henderson on Oak Street is eighty-seven and lives on $600 a month social security. The Martinez family on Mill Road has four kids and dad just got laid off. There’s a camp of about fifteen homeless folks under the Route 9 bridge, mostly veterans.”

“We know everyone who’s hurting in this county,” Tombstone said. “And every Friday night, we show up for them.”

Earl put his hand on my shoulder. “These boys saved my life, you know. Twelve years ago, I was ready to close the store. Couldn’t compete with the big chains. Was losing money every month. They came to me with this idea. Give them the stuff I couldn’t sell, report it as loss, and they’d make sure it went to good use.”

He wiped his eyes. “My grandfather opened this store in 1952. I would have lost it if not for these men. Now I’ve got a reason to keep going. Every Friday, I know I’m part of something that matters.”

“You want to come with us tonight?” Marcus asked. “See what we do?”

I should have said no. Should have gone home and minded my own business. But something in me said yes. Maybe it was the way these terrifying-looking men talked about helping old ladies and homeless veterans. Maybe it was the kindness in Earl’s eyes. Maybe I was just tired of being alone in a new town.

“Okay,” I heard myself say. “I’ll come.”

“She can ride with me,” a woman’s voice said. I turned and saw a woman in her fifties climbing off one of the motorcycles. She had gray hair in a long braid and a leather vest just like the men.

“That’s Chief Morrison’s wife,” Officer Jim said. “Linda. She’s been riding with the Saints for eight years.”

Linda handed me a helmet. “First time on a bike?”

“First time doing anything like this.”

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