This Biker Called Me By A Name I Haven’t Heard Since I Lost Everything Forty Years Ago

This biker called me by a name I haven’t heard since I lost everything forty years ago. I was standing in the rain outside a fast food restaurant, digging through the trash for something to eat, when this massive man in a leather vest grabbed my shoulder and whispered, “Mr. Harrison? Is that you?”

Nobody has called me Mr. Harrison in four decades. Not since I was a high school teacher. Not since I had a house and a wife and a purpose. Not since the world decided I wasn’t worth remembering.

I’m seventy-three years old. I’ve been homeless for eleven years. I own a rusted bicycle, a torn jacket, and a sleeping bag I found behind a church. That’s everything. That’s my whole life now.

The biker was crying. This big, scary-looking man with tattoos and a gray beard was standing in the pouring rain with tears streaming down his face. And he was staring at me like I was someone important.

“You don’t remember me,” he said. His voice cracked. “But you saved my life. Forty years ago. You’re the reason I’m still alive.”

I looked at him. Searched his face for something familiar. But my memory isn’t what it used to be. Too many cold nights. Too much hunger. Too many years of being invisible.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t… I don’t remember.”

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