But none of that mattered to people like Mrs. Westfield, who saw a leather vest and imagined gang violence. Who looked at weathered men on motorcycles and saw only danger, not decades of quiet dignity.
The first call came the next morning. Cindy Parker, mother of twins I’d driven for six years.
“Ray, this is ridiculous,” she said without preamble. “Jacob and Jason are devastated. They said the substitute driver wouldn’t play their game this morning.”
The boys and I had a routine—they’d call out car models, and I’d honk once for American-made, twice for foreign. Simple thing, but it was ours.
“Sorry about that,” I said, unsure what else to offer.
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