As we were being chased, the only thing I had on my mind was how much I wanted to drive a motorcycle when I got older. I want a motorcycle first, even before a car. And I want it to be red, cherry red, like his. And I want to look like him, a messy unshaved face, black leather jacket on my back, worn out denims, wearing a helmet with orange flames on the side of it. With my knees in the breeze, I would be a dirty biker.
…
We loved this car. Filled with joyous memories of road trips and laughter this car had been a part of this family longer than me. My dad was driving, with me in the passenger seat. He was humming along to some tune playing on the radio. We were driving through a suburb neighborhood where all the houses looked identical. So did the cars, everything seemed so generic, so similar. My neighborhood was very much like this. When I opened the window I heard some birds chirping and some odd fragmentary rumbling in the distance.
We turned onto a two lane road, and while our car is moving, I hear the weirdest thing, a kicking on the outside of our car. My curiosity gets the best of me, and I looked out the window to see a man with pitch black hair and a young face looking directly at my dad. He was driving a motorcycle and I was entranced. I don’t know which make or which model the motorcycle is, but it was the most alluring thing I had ever seen. It was radiant red color with polished black rims. I was mesmerized. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it, I was frozen. It was so lustrous, and to top of the motorcycle the man driving it was wearing a jet black leather jacket, and some aged leather boots. The front of the man’s helmet was pulled up and he was motioning for my dad to open the window. When my dad did the man was screaming from outside,
“You cut me off! You cut me off you damn bastard, you almost hit me. You could’ve killed me.”
We got to a stop light and he was right next to us, I was just waiting for an incoming car to come and to hit him, or an accident to happen, but there seemed to be no cars anywhere. My dad turned right to go up Madison Street, thinking the motorcyclist wouldn’t follow, yet he was right on our tracks. We turned left on to Oak Street and were getting closer and to our house, yet he was still following us. The whole time my eyes were peeled on the man. The only thing I heard was the fast thumping of my excited heart, and the quiet sound of the engine. We were almost on my street when my dad said with a straightforward voice,
“We can’t go home, he’ll follow us, he’ll know where we live, and he will come break our windows while we are sleeping.”
After about 5 minutes of my father continuing to drive, faster, turning on different roads, the man on the motorcycle kept following us, he kept kicking our car and screaming things at us. I was unable to control my urge to watch the motorcycle. I guess I didn’t understand the urgency of the situation we were in because all of a sudden the turns we start making are sharp, and I was sliding around on my seat. I managed to take my eyes off the bike and when I looked down at the speedometer, it was at a solid 75 mph. I am surprised my dad let me sit in the front seat, I bet he regrets it now. My dad was driving like a lunatic, yet I wasn’t frightened. Not at all. My dad turned to go to the busy streets, thinking if something happened, at least there would be witnesses. It was then that my dad decided to call the police.
With one had on the steering wheel and one hand in his pocket, he took out his cell phone and handed it to me saying,
“Look through my contacts until you find the number titled Johnston Police, once you find the number, hand the phone to me.” My hands were trembling, not in fear, but in excitement. Once I found the number I handed the phone back to my dad.
“Johnston Police, What your emergency?” I heard the woman’s calm voice through the phone.
“A man on a motorcycle is chasing us, and we can’t get away,” my dad stated very calmly waiting for further questions to be asked.
“What is your current location?” the 911 operator asked.
“We are driving down Elm Street, now turning on to 67th,” said my father. We were stopped at a stop light on a busy street. The man on the motorcycle came and parked himself right in front of us. He started yelling to other cars,
“This man hit me, he cut me off, and he almost killed me.” A woman driving a Cadillac was at the stop light with us too, looking at the man like he was crazy.
The man jumped off his motorcycle and walked up to my door. He opened the door. In the spur of the situation, my father forgot to lock the doors. I was looking at the man, while he was looking at my father, noticing that he was on the phone. My father turned to the man and said,
“I’m talking to the police--,” before my father could finish his sentence the man slammed my door, and moved to his motorcycle while screaming,
“Me too, me too, I’m calling the police too.” He had a worried look in his eyes.
He moved his motorcycle and turned into the nearest gas station and got his phone out. The police was still on the phone with my father. They said they couldn’t track our location until we stopped at one place. My dad turned into the Target parking lot where there were cameras and we waited for the police to arrive. I was turning around in my seat, looking, watching to see where the man on the motorcycle was. In a matter of two minutes two police cars came to us. While we were telling them of the incident, they were examining the shoe imprints left on the car. Another police car came with the man on the motorcycle following.
The police mentioned to us that the man chasing us had no license, no insurance, and was under the influence of drugs. They asked my father if he wanted to press charges. Without hesitation he said no. He didn’t want to have anything more to do with this man. The man on the motorcycle stayed with the police, and we soon after left.
On the way home my dad was humming to the tune playing through the radio, like nothing had happened. I on the other hand was forever changed. I didn’t care that the man had chased us, and broke the law. I still wanted to be just like him. A dirty biker.