I made them pay before they ate because I didn’t trust them, and that truth still sits heavy with me. When fifteen bikers walked into Maggie’s Diner at nine o’clock on a quiet Tuesday night, every old instinct I had flared up at once. Leather vests marked with patches, thick beards, boots echoing against the tile floor—I’d been running this place for thirty-two years, and I told myself I’d learned to recognize trouble. Without thinking long enough to question myself, I told them I needed payment upfront. The room went still. For a moment, I expected resistance or offense. Instead, the largest man in the group met my eyes calmly, nodded, and said he understood. He paid generously, thanked me for being honest, and led his group to a back corner booth without a single complaint. Continue reading…
