“Do you know who I am? I’m Patricia Henderson. My husband owns half the commercial real estate in this city. I could have you fired with one phone call.”
My cheek was burning. Tears filled my eyes. In twelve years, no one had ever hit me. Yelled at me, yes. Treated me like I was invisible, daily. But never physical violence.
I was shaking as I started mopping again. That’s when I heard the voice.
“Ma’am, you need to apologize to Rosa right now.”
A biker stood at the end of the aisle. Leather vest covered in patches. Gray beard. Arms covered in tattoos. He looked exactly like the kind of man this woman would call the police on for just existing.
Patricia laughed. Actually laughed. “Excuse me? Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“I know exactly who I’m talking to,” the biker said, walking closer. “I’m talking to someone who just assaulted a seventy-eight-year-old woman who’s working the night shift to survive.”
“She’s just a cleaning lady,” Patricia said dismissively. “And you’re just some trash biker. Security!”
But the biker pulled out his phone. “Interesting thing about this grocery store. They have security cameras in every aisle. HD quality. Audio and video.” He turned the screen toward her. “And I just downloaded the footage of you slapping Rosa.”
Patricia’s face went pale. “You can’t… That’s illegal. That’s private property.”
I nearly dropped my mop. Patricia’s mouth fell open.
The biker continued. “My name is James Mitchell. I built my business from nothing. Started as a stock boy when I was sixteen. Worked my way up. Bought my first store at thirty. Now I own a chain. But I still ride my bike. Still wear my vest. Because I never want to forget where I came from.”
He looked at me. “Rosa, how long have you worked here?”
“Twelve years, sir,” I managed to say.Continue reading…
