When I was a little girl, my momma worked part-time at a music theater in Atlanta. They had a live band and singers who would perform oldies from the fifties and sixties, big-band style. Momma sold tickets before the show, was an usher when folks were ready to take their seats, and worked the concession stand during intermission. It didn’t pay well, but it supplemented Dad’s sheriff income enough for us to enjoy some luxuries, and Momma loved listening to live music and meeting new people.
When their shifts overlapped and there was nobody to babysit, Momma took me with her to work. “You can sit in the back,” she would tell me. “But you have to be a quiet little mouse. Can you be a quiet little mouse while I work?”
I didn’t mind it. I enjoyed watching all the customers slowly fill the theater, and then listening to the show itself. The alternative was sitting up in the manager’s office, which wasboring. So I was Momma’s quiet little mouse in the back of the theater, watching with my eyes and sitting very still.
As Jayce walked down the row of bikers with Sid, I was that quiet little mouse again. I picked up trash slowly and smoothly, making as little noise as possible. I stayed mostly hidden behind the truck where I wasn’t directly in view. And I didn’t say a word.
Just like Jayce had commanded. Something in his voice told me I would regret it if I didn’t.
It was my first run-in with a biker gang, not counting seeing the guys at the jail. I wasn’t impressed. Tattoos were sexy on a good-looking guy, but most of the Copperheads were far from attractive. They were either too fat on their bikes, or so skinny they looked malnourished. It was an alarming contrast.
But I respected their weapons. They carried pistols on their hips, displayed prominently with their jackets flared open. Some had special holsters built into the side of their bike to hold pump-action shotguns. Sid himself didn’t have anything but the silly crowbar strapped to his back, but then again, a general didn’t need to carry a weapon when he was surrounded by his army.
Everything was quiet. I was too far away to hear any of their words—all that drifted across to me was the general tone of their conversation. It seemed light. Like two friends discussing the weather.
It took everything I had not to scream when Sid swung the crowbar into Jayce’s arm. He dropped to one knee and I tore my eyes away, focusing on the trash underneath my stick and trying not to whimper.
Quiet as a mouse, I thought, repeating the childhood mantra in my head.I promised Jayce I wouldn’t say a word.
Sid laughed. The sound sent a shiver up my spine. I waited for him to do more, to lash out with the weapon again. What if he broke Jayce’s arm? Or smashed his knee?
What if hekilledJayce?
I could call the police. My phone was in my pocket. The only thing stopping me was that the Copperheads might see me.
I bunched up the rest of the trash bag to make it look full, then began walking back to the truck. Once I was right up against it, I could make a phone call without them seeing me. I walked slowly, trying not to attract attention.Quiet as a mouse.
I tried not to think about the fact that copperhead snakes ate mice.
When I reached the truck, I took a peek around the side. Jayce was back on his feet but a biker was restraining him. Sid was walking back toward me.
And he had the most sickening smile on his face.
I slid the phone back in my pocket as Sid paused next to the truck. His face might have been handsome if not for the hideous tattoos covering one side, and the unwashed white-guy dreadlocks hanging down the back of his head. He stood like a man who had nothing in the world to fear.
One minute he was totally calm and in control, and the next he was swinging the crowbar like a madman. He smashed Jayce’s windows, then tore a gash in the front tire. Moments later, he was back to being totally calm.
He took a bite of Jayce’s sandwich, paused to grope me with his eyes, then strolled back to his bike. I was close enough to hear him tell Jayce, “Next time it won’t be your truck I smash.”
Jayce ignored him and walked toward me, arm hanging limply at his side. I remained completely still until he reached the truck.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” he whispered, although his face told the truth: he was in immense pain. He glanced over his shoulder and then said, “Don’t look at me.”
His pride was wounded along with his arm. I could understand that. But he didn’t need to act tough around me. Not after taking a crowbar to the arm.
“Let me see it,” I said, reaching for his arm. “We should get you to a hospital while—”
“Don’t touch me,” he hissed. Now Sid and the others were watching from their bikes. Jayce glanced at them and then stuck his middle finger in my face.
“Fuck off,cunt,” he practically shouted. “I don’t need your pity.”
The words were like a dagger to my gut, one which twisted with every passing second. I’d never been called the c-word before. It was like being doused with ice water. My entire body froze in place, confused.
Jayce walked around to the back of the truck while Sid and the Copperheads roared with laughter.
I stood very still by the truck as the Copperheads mounted up and rode past us, disappearing around the bend as quickly as they had arrived. When their rumbling bikes faded into the distance the only sound remaining was Jayce wincing with pain as he iced his arm with a water bottle from the cooler.