The young biker had just pulled into the Mindy’s Market on Davie Boulevard. It was a privately owned convenience store similar to a 7-Eleven, but with more of a homey atmosphere. The kind of place you wouldn’t associate with a franchise, but with a family-owned business.
He had just turned off his Harley and put the kickstand down. He was studying the knuckles on his right hand, which was still on the handlebar. His knuckles were scraped raw, and large chunks of skin were missing. There was a lot of blood. After a few seconds he took the last Lucky Strike from its crumpled packet, tossed the empty packet to the ground and wondered whether it was too early for a beer. He lit the cigarette, which dangled from his mouth as he closely examined his hand again. It was possible that he broke it. He had just come from what would eventually be a long list of fights too numerous to count. He would use the convenience store bathroom to clean up and make a better assessment. But first, he would finish his cigarette.
That’s when he saw her. She had just come around the side of the store. There was no parking on the side because it was right up next to a sidewalk that paralleled the road. He didn’t see an adult. She must have walked there by herself. He thought she looked small to be walking around alone, and he wondered how close by she lived. She was a cute little thing. Long brown hair held up in a sloppy ponytail. Bangs almost covering her oversized brown eyes. She wore a wrinkled pink T-shirt and cut-off blue jean-shorts. Her knees were scraped but not bleeding, and their whiteness was in stark contrast to her tanned, bony legs.
She had on white sneakers with purple pom-poms tied to them.
Just then, a boy who looked to be a little older than her came barreling around the store. Good. She’s not alone. She has a big brother.
Before the biker could ponder why he would even care, the boy spoke. “Hey Gwinny, your mom is a hippie-whore-pothead.”
No, this wasn’t her brother. He was a bully. The biker wondered if he’d deliberately followed her.
Without turning around to the boy she replied, “And you, Curtith Armthrong, will be begging her to thell you her pot when you’re a teenager.” The reply was delivered in a very calm and even voice with a whopping lisp. The biker noticed then that she was missing her two front teeth.
Curtis Armstrong didn’t know what to say to that, so he just waved her off and turned and ran back around the side of the store. She went inside.
The biker caught himself smiling, something he rarely did. Spunky little thing. He was almost finished with his cigarette. He lifted his sunglasses and wiped his face with his arm. He was sweaty and grimy from the fight.
He’d just put his sunglasses back down when she came out. She walked straight toward him. She was carrying a small brown bag. He threw the last of his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. He was still straddling his bike and crushing what was left of the cigarette with his heavy boot when she appeared at his side.
She reached into her brown bag and pulled out a box of bandages. She handed it to him and said, “Here, thethe are for you. Your hand lookths hurt real bad.”
He didn’t know what to say or do, so he found himself taking the box from her tiny hand. He was shocked by her observation. He’d been watching her when she first showed up and couldn’t remember her looking back at him. How had she noticed his hand?
Before he could reply, she bent down and picked up the discarded and crinkly cigarette packet he had so carelessly thrown down earlier. She turned around and walked toward the corner of the store where she’d first appeared. She tossed the litter into a garbage can. Then she stopped and looked back at him.
“You thouldn’t thmoke. You could get lung canther.” Then after a brief pause, “And nobody likeths litterbugths.”
And with that she was gone.
He couldn’t help himself. He smiled again. He got off the bike and walked around the corner of the convenience store. He saw her walking, ponytail swaying with each step. He didn’t see any sign of Curtis Armstrong so he turned around and went into the store. He walked up to the clerk at the cash register. He wanted to ask about the little girl, but he didn’t want the guy behind the counter to think he was a pervert.
“Just saw some bigger kid picking on that little girl that walked out of here. Looks like she handled herself pretty good for such a small thing.” He waited to see if the guy would say something. He did.
“Yeah, that was Gwinny. She walks here every day by herself to buy her mom cigarettes. She’s a sweet little girl. Smart, too. It was probably Curtis, and I’m sure she gave him a piece of her mind. He’s always picking on her.”
“I hope she lives close by.” And then after thinking about how that sounded, he quickly added, “If she has a long walk it’s more opportunity for the kid to bully her.”
“She lives down the street right here,” he said pointing to the side of the store where Gwinny had first appeared. “But I’m not sure how far. Did you want something?”
“Yeah, pack of Lucky’s.”
The clerk rang up his purchase without taking notice of the biker’s hand. At least if he did notice, he didn’t show it. The biker paid for his smokes and walked out the door. He tossed his newly purchased cigarettes into the garbage can. He’d been smoking since he was twelve. Maybe it was time to quit.
He’d forgotten all about the pain in his hand. He got on his bike and started it up. He rounded the store on the side where Gwinny went. He looked up at the street sign. S.W. 23rd Avenue. He idled as he looked down the street and noted it was a nice block with small houses on each side. He could see her far off in the distance. She obviously hadn’t arrived at her house yet or turned off any side streets.
When she turned a slight curve and was no longer in his line of sight, he slowly drove the distance to the curve. He cautiously rounded it. He didn’t want to scare her if she heard the bike and thought she was being followed, which she was. But it didn’t matter. She was no longer there. She must have gone into one of the houses.
He wasn’t real familiar with this neighborhood and figured that instead of turning around he would just follow the street and see where it came out.
Unfortunately, he came upon a dead end. The houses at the end of Gwinny’s block were fancier. A little more upscale. He could see through some of the backyards that these homes were on the water—hence, the reason for the dead end. He turned the bike around in the small cul-de-sac and headed back the way he came.
That’s when he saw her. He caught a flash of color on his right. She was on the side of a house trying to lift an oversized watering can to water some hanging plants. She was struggling under the weight of it. If she noticed him, she didn’t show it.
He found he wanted to watch her, but couldn’t. It wouldn’t look right and might scare her, or alert someone in the neighborhood to his presence.
He didn’t gun the bike until he was past the curve and out of view from anyone who may have seen him pass Gwinny’s house. He couldn’t help but wonder if her hippie-whore-pothead mother took care of her. He couldn’t fathom why he cared. Then it occurred to him.
The bandage offering was the first time in his life that someone actually did something for him. Never once had there ever been even a suggestion of someone who gave a damn about him. No one. This little moppet was the first.
He knew then what he was feeling was a brotherly protectiveness toward her.
He vowed then and there to keep an eye on the little girl. He could go unnoticed in the background and just keep tabs on her. Make sure she was okay. And that’s what he did. For the next nine years.
He had no way of knowing then that the brotherly care and concern for a child would turn into love. That she would become his obsession and the one true love of his life. That she would eventually be the reason for his death.
Even if he did know it then, he wouldn’t have changed a thing.
The End