I roll my eyes at him and wonder why I’m still standing here talking to him instead of getting into my car and driving away. There’s something in his voice, a small catch or something that evokes a sense of sympathy in me. He sounds like a man who’s stung by the feeling of being misunderstood, and it makes me feel sorry not just for him but for prejudging him like everybody else.
I mean, if I’m being honest with myself, the guy doesn’t seem like a gangbanger to me. Not that I know any, or anything, but I’ve seen enough news programs and documentaries about gangs, and he doesn’t seem to fit that mold. But that’s not really any reason to let my guard down. Maybe bikers aren’t the same as gangbangers, but they’re still something dangerous. That much I do know.
