The Minibike

Summer 1969, Brandon,West Greenville, SC
It was a typical hot and muggy evening as my brother and I wrapped up the day by doing chores. We had been out all day trying our damnedest to leach the remaining few weeks out of summer before the dreaded school bell rang, calling us back into a world of order, regiment and peer pressure. I had chained the minibike to the 2x4 stud on the inside of the corrugated tin garage after a long day of cruising around the hood, as was the custom. The garage was certainly inauspicious, looking and behaving like any garage that was common to the neighborhood. But how did they know to look in my garage?

The gang of boys slithered along the dark streets of Brandon, almost Italian in their movement. The short, swaggering leader, followed by the big dumb muscle boys who hung on his every word and followed close behind. They knew that he knew where to go-after all, he had scoped out the minibike earlier that day on a walk by of the premises. He had heard through his sister that 'Linda's brother' over in Brandon had a minibike and was showing out on it and he decided to take a look at it for himself. Tonight he would own that minibike.
Now he led the way, the night air heightening his senses and making the hair on his neck stand. The prize for this night's work would be a quick sale of the booty to a fence, who would then unload it to a minibike chop shop. Then the bike would be stripped and repainted, a new serial number added and BAM! - the minibike is sold on the black market overseas. Thoughts of the quick $50 made him quicken his gait. The dumb muscle boys accelerated as well.

The Heist
"You suck, you bastard. You always get to clean the den when there's no cleaning to do" brother Gary whined. "Get over it" I retorted. Translated into today's lingo I was basically saying "get yo bitch ass back in da kitchen and wash those pots and pans! And close yo pie hole!". We had a schedule of chores divided between the three brothers - kitchen duty (the worst), Den duty (the easiest), and the bathroom (sucks - but it ain't the kitchen). This week I was den-man. I was floating along now, floor done and dusting 90% complete. I heard the noise outside but was distracted by Gary's whining about the unfairness of life, so I failed to react to the strange sound.
Fast forward 20 minutes.
Gary has finished the kitchen and talked about making a run to Edwards store for an RC Cola. I agreed to accompany him and we stepped out the back door. As we closed the door behind us, Dad was pulling the old station wagon into the driveway. When his headlights illuminated the garage, a crime scene unfolded right before our eyes. The garage door akimbo (well, it was standing open), an emasculated chain drooping down from an angle-attached 2x4, and an empty, lonely space where the minibike had been parked. My heart started racing as questions from my Dad and my Brother whizzed by my head..."did you lock it?"..."did you have the garage door closed?"..."Yes!" I cried, I did have the door closed! "Yes!" I screamed, I did lock the bike! Truth is, I did have the door closed, but the chain was not locked. I had lost the key after fastening the lock to the chain and so I would just drape the chain around the frame of the bike, making it appear to be chained. This was my fault. This was all my fault. "Who took my fucking bike?" I yelped at anyone and no one. My Dad was the picture of calm as he exited the station wagon and went into the house, obviously ignoring my sweat-laced profanity. The next two hours would be hell!
These are the life moments that shake you and wake you and, for the next couple of hours I was a whining little hormone-filled bitchy, pissy-assed teenager trying to hide a truth, one which my dad already had the answer for – the locked chain. The chain was key to the theft. The lost key led to the weakness of the chain. I had lost the key, making the chain as useless as a fake security camera.
All heavy thoughts for a 12 year old. I had fucked up, been busted, called out and had to admit that I alone was to blame.
A deep scar now runs along another young man's psyche.


Minibike Recovered
The gang of boys walked along the street, taking turns pushing their new minibike. The streets of Mountain View Apartments were well lit and only the small space between the street lamps gave any cover. The brick apartments all looked alike, the only differential being the make and model of the car parked on the street in front of each unit.
Built just after World War 2 and located about a half mile north of Brandon, the neighborhood had become an early form of “project” housing. Like the villages, it was a healthy mix of good people and scum and villainy. If a 1952 ford was on blocks in front of your apartment, you had been there for awhile and were not new to the hood. If a 1948 dodge were sitting out front, had boxes loaded in the back seat and the bare mud front yard of the apartment were strewn with tricycles, chances are you wouldn't be staying there long.
"We should ride it before you unload it", said one of the big dumb muscle boys.
"You crazy?" the leader barked. "We can't start this thing up tonight. Somebody'd hear it and call the heat. Don't be stupid".
Great leaders, no matter what their calling, rise to the top by making quick, sound judgement when problems arise. A problem was about to arise.

Mr Gillespie had received the news about the minibike from his daughter Lucy, a friend of my sister.
Lucy and Linda were yacking on the phone when Linda casually mentioned to Lucy that her brother's minibike was stolen that very evening. After overhearing this news flash, Mr Gillespie, driving his one-owner, red and white 1965 Chevy pickup, was heading for Edward's store for an RC and a pack of smokes when he happened upon a group of hooligans pushing a minibike. He stopped and inquired as to what they were up to. Stepping into the full light of the street lamp, Mr Gillespie recognized the boys as a gang of neighborhood wannabe tough guys. Having seen the powerful minibike on previous trips to our house, Mr Gillespie recognized it as mine and had the hooligans load it into the back of his pickup. As Mr Gillespie drove away (smiling that he'd made the bastards load the thing into the truck) with the gang's new found prize, the gang's leader realized that he had a bit of work to do to achieve his true greatness potential.
Mr Gillespie pulled into our driveway at 11:12 pm on the nose. He and dad exchanged pleasantries and both made sure that I had indeed 'learned a lesson' from this event. That night, the minibike stayed with me in my room, the bike and I to be forever parted only a few months later by another of the notorious gang of thieves (okay, maybe one dude) from the Brandon hood.
True story!