Our President Walked Past Every Child in the Common Room and Sat Down Next to a 9-Year-Old Boy Alone in a Side Room — He Didn’t Give Him a Gift. He Just Sat There for Two Hours
I want to tell you about the Christmas visit.
We arrived at the home at 1:47 p.m. on Wednesday December 18th, 2024. Twenty-three Harleys in formation, parked in two long rows in the home’s small visitor lot. Twenty-three brothers in our cuts, each carrying a wrapped present in his saddlebag.
The weather was cold. About twenty-eight degrees. Light snow had fallen the night before. The walkway from the parking lot to the front door of the home had been salted by the maintenance staff that morning.
Mrs. Elena Salinas met us at the front door.
She is in her early fifties. She has been the director of the home for fourteen years. She is, by every account, the kind of person who will work in a children’s home for fourteen years.
She had her clipboard.
She walked down the line of brothers, handing each of us a small index card with the name of a child written on it and a small piece of additional information — favorite color, hobby, what kind of person they would be most comfortable receiving a gift from. The system was designed to make sure we matched gifts and presenters to kids well.
The cards were carefully done. Mrs. Salinas had spent, by her own count, about eight hours preparing for the visit.
When she got to Cisco at the end of the line, she did not hand him an index card.
She handed him an unmarked white envelope.
She said, “Cisco. This year, his name is Marcus. He’s nine. He’s in room 14. He came in on emergency placement on the third of December. He has not chosen to come into the common room since he arrived.”
Cisco took the envelope.
He nodded once.
He said, “Elena. Thank you.”
He looked at me.
He said, “Tyler. You’re with me this year.”
I said, “Sir?”
He said, “Prospect. You’re with me. Mrs. Salinas, this is Tyler. He’s our prospect. He’ll be in the room with us. He won’t say anything. He won’t take any pictures. He’s just learning.”
Mrs. Salinas looked at me.
She nodded.
She said, “Welcome, Tyler. Be quiet. Don’t sit between Cisco and Marcus. Sit on the far side of the room. If Marcus seems uncomfortable with you in there, leave.”
I said, “Yes, ma’am.”
She turned and led the rest of the brothers into the common room.
Cisco and I went the other direction, down the long hallway toward room 14.
The hallway smelled like old carpet and warm institutional cooking. The walls were painted the kind of pale yellow that institutional walls are painted. There were construction-paper Christmas decorations taped to the wall every few feet — paper snowflakes, paper Santas, paper menorahs that the home’s staff had put up to make the place feel festive.
We walked past doors with names printed on small laminated cards. Davion. Kayla. Brittany. Marquis. Sophia. The doors were mostly open, mostly empty — the children were all in the common room with the brothers and the cookies and the cider.
Room 14 was at the very end of the hall.
The door was closed.
There was a small laminated card on the door that said MARCUS.
Cisco knocked. Twice. Soft.
A small voice from inside said, “Come in.”
Cisco opened the door.
The room was small — maybe twelve feet by ten feet. There was a single twin bed against the right wall, made up with a plain blue blanket. There was a small wooden dresser against the left wall. There was a single window with a bare aluminum blind. There was a metal radiator under the window. There was a single wooden chair next to the bed.
Sitting on the wooden chair, with his small feet tucked up under him on the seat, was a small skinny nine-year-old boy.
He had close-cropped dark brown hair. A pale, careful face. Brown eyes. He was wearing a faded gray sweatshirt that was about two sizes too big for him and dark sweatpants and small white socks. He was reading a paperback book — I could see it was a worn copy of Hatchet by Gary Paulsen.
He looked up when the door opened.
He saw Cisco.
He did not flinch. He did not look afraid. He just looked.
Cisco stayed in the doorway. He did not enter.
He said, very quietly, “Hi, buddy. My name’s Cisco. I’m with the motorcycle club that came to visit today. Mrs. Salinas said you were in here. I wondered if I could come sit with you for a little while. You don’t have to talk to me. You can keep reading. I won’t bother you. I’d just like to come in and sit. Is that okay?”
The boy thought about it for about ten seconds.
Then he said, in a small careful voice, “Okay.”
Cisco walked in. Slow. Deliberate.
He did not sit on the bed.
He did not sit on the wooden chair next to the bed — that was Marcus’s chair.
He pulled a second wooden chair from the corner of the room, where it had been folded against the wall. He set it down about four feet from the bed. He sat down on it. His huge tattooed forearms rested on his knees. His big tattooed hands were folded between them.
He nodded at me.
I came in. I sat on the floor in the corner of the room, on the side of the bed opposite Cisco. I leaned my back against the wall. I did not speak. I did not pull out my phone. I crossed my legs and put my hands in my lap. I made myself small.
Marcus looked at us both.
He said, “You don’t have a present.”
Cisco said, “No, buddy. I don’t. I didn’t bring you one.”
Marcus said, “How come? The other kids are getting presents.”
Cisco said, “Marcus. I — I figured you’d rather have somebody sit with you for a little while than have a present. I might be wrong. If I’m wrong, I’ll go ask Mrs. Salinas to assign a different brother to you who has a gift. You can have a gift. That’s no problem. But I just thought — I just thought maybe you’d want somebody to sit with you. So I came down here without one. So you’d know I was here for sitting, not for the gift.”
Marcus thought about that.
He said, “Mister. You can sit.”
Cisco said, “Thank you, buddy.”
Marcus went back to his book.
For the next forty-five minutes, nobody in the room said a word.
Marcus read his copy of Hatchet.
Cisco sat on his wooden chair with his hands folded between his knees and his eyes resting somewhere on the middle distance — not staring at Marcus, not staring at anything in particular. Just present. Just there. Just sitting.
I sat on the floor in the corner.
I did not move.
I did not understand, at the time, what I was watching.
I understood it three hours later, in the parking lot of the home, when Cisco opened his wallet.
At about 2:34 p.m. — forty-five minutes into our sitting — Marcus closed his book.
He looked up at Cisco.
He said, “Mister. Can I show you something?”
Cisco said, “Of course, buddy.”
Marcus put the book down on the bed.
He stood up.
He walked over to the wall behind his bed — the wall between the bed and the corner of the room.
He pointed at the wall, about two feet up from the floor, behind the headboard of the bed.
He said, “Look. Right here.”
Cisco got up off his wooden chair. He walked over to the bed. He crouched down — the slow careful mountain-sitting crouch big men do. He looked where Marcus was pointing.
I got up too. I came over and stood behind Cisco. I looked over his shoulder.
On the wall, low to the floor, mostly hidden behind the headboard of the bed when the bed was in its normal position — visible only because Marcus had pulled the headboard a few inches away from the wall — was a small drawing in pencil.
It was a child’s drawing.
The pencil was old. The lead had faded to a soft gray. The drawing had clearly been there for a very long time — decades, maybe. It had been done with the careful, slightly shaky hand of a child who had been concentrating hard.
It was a drawing of a small motorcycle.
A simple stick-figure motorcycle. Two wheels. A gas tank. A handlebar. A small stick figure sitting on it with a smile.
Underneath the drawing, in small careful printed pencil letters, were three words.
ME ON MINE.
Marcus said, “Mister. I found this when I moved in. The lady said I’m not the first kid in this room. There were other kids before me. One of them drew it. A really long time ago, she said. From the way the pencil looks. Look. It’s been there for so long, you can’t even erase it anymore. It’s part of the wall now.”
He paused.
He said, “Mister. I think the kid who drew this was waiting for a motorcycle. That’s why I keep the bed pulled out a little. So I can see it. I think about him. I wonder if he ever got one. The motorcycle, I mean. When he grew up.”
He looked at Cisco.
He said, “Mister. Did you know that kid? Whoever drew this?”
Cisco did not say anything.
He just looked at the wall.
He looked at it for a very long time.
His face did not change.
But I — sitting four feet from him, watching him — could see his shoulders go very, very still.
After about thirty seconds, Cisco reached out his huge tattooed scarred right hand, very gently, and he put his fingertips against the pencil drawing. Just lightly. Like he did not want to smudge it. Like he wanted to make sure it was real.
He held his fingertips there for about ten seconds.
Then he turned his head.
He looked at Marcus.
He said, very quietly, “Buddy. I knew that kid. Yeah. I knew him.”
Marcus said, “Mister. Did he get a motorcycle?”
Cisco said, “Yeah, buddy. He did. He got one.”
Marcus said, “Mister. Was he okay? Did he turn out okay?”
Cisco was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, “Marcus. He turned out okay. Took him a while. He turned out okay.”
Marcus said, “Mister. That’s good. I’m glad he was okay.”
Cisco said, “Yeah, buddy. Me too.”
Marcus climbed back onto his wooden chair. He picked up his book.
He started reading again.
Cisco did not move from his crouch by the wall.
He stayed there, on his knees, for about another minute.
Then he stood up.
He walked back to his wooden chair.
He sat down.
He folded his big tattooed hands between his knees again.
He sat with Marcus for another hour and fifteen minutes, until 3:47 p.m., when Mrs. Salinas knocked softly on the door and said the brothers were getting ready to leave.
Cisco stood up.
He said, “Marcus. I’m gonna go now. The brothers and I have to head back to the clubhouse. I want to ask you something, before I go. Is that okay?”
Marcus put down his book.
He said, “Okay.”
Cisco said, “Buddy. Would it be all right with you if I came back and sat with you again sometime? I won’t bring a present. I’ll just sit. Like today. Maybe in a couple weeks. Or maybe next month. Whenever you’d want.”
Marcus thought about it.
He said, “Yeah. You can come back, Cisco.”
Cisco said, “Thank you, buddy.”
He paused.
He said, “Marcus. One more thing. The drawing on your wall. That’s a good drawing. The kid who made it would want you to keep it there. I think he’d want you to keep your bed pulled out a little. So you can see it. So you can think about him.”
Marcus said, “Mister. I will.”
Cisco said, “Good buddy. Take care of yourself. I’ll see you again.”
He walked to the door.
He looked back at Marcus one more time.
He said, “Marcus. Merry Christmas.”
Marcus said, “Merry Christmas, mister.”
Cisco closed the door behind us.
We walked back down the hallway together — Cisco and me — past the construction-paper snowflakes, past the doors with the laminated name cards, back to the common room where the brothers were saying goodbye to the kids and helping pack up the wrapping paper.
We did not say anything to each other.
Cisco went into the common room. He thanked Mrs. Salinas. He shook hands with three of the older boys. He hugged a small girl in pajamas who came running up to him to show him a doll one of the brothers had given her.
He smiled the entire time.
It was not a fake smile. It was the smile of a man who was holding a very large thing and did not want any of the children in the room to see it.
We left the home at 4:08 p.m.
We rode out of the parking lot in formation.
Cisco was at the front.
He pulled over at a small gas station about three miles from the home.
He killed his engine.
He got off his bike.
He walked, alone, to the edge of the parking lot.
He stood there for about two minutes with his hands on his hips and his face turned away from the rest of us.
I was the last brother in the line. I had pulled in behind him.
I got off my Sportster. I walked over to him. Slowly.
I said, “Cisco. Are you okay?”
He did not turn around for about ten seconds.
Then he did.
His face was wet. His thick salt-and-pepper beard had two streaks of tears running down into it.
He said, “Tyler. I’m okay, prospect. I’m — yeah. I’m okay.”
I said, “Cisco. Sir. Why didn’t you give him a gift?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he reached into his back left pocket.
He pulled out his brown leather wallet.
He opened it.
Inside the main billfold of Cisco’s worn brown leather wallet, behind the cash compartment, in a small protective plastic sleeve that had clearly been added in 1985 or so to keep the contents from wearing out, was a single black-and-white photograph.
The photograph was about three inches by four inches. The edges were soft. The corners were slightly bent. The paper had yellowed at the borders. It had been carried in a man’s wallet for forty-six years.
He held it out to me.
I took it carefully.
I looked at it.
The photograph was of a small institutional bedroom.
A twin bed against the right wall, made up with a plain blanket.
A small wooden dresser against the left wall.
A single window with an aluminum blind.
A metal radiator under the window.
A wooden chair next to the bed.
It was the exact same room.
It was room 14.
The photograph had been taken, by a Polaroid camera by the look of it, in 1978.
I knew it was 1978 because the photograph had a small caption written on the bottom border, in faded ballpoint pen, in adult cursive handwriting.
The caption said: Cisco’s room. June 1978. Age 11.
I looked up at Cisco.
He was watching me.
He said, “Tyler. I came in on emergency placement on June 14th, 1978. I was eleven years old. My mother had just been hospitalized. My father had been gone for years. There was nobody to take me. I was in that room for nine months.”
He paused.
He said, “That photograph was taken by a kind social worker named Mrs. Annette Pomerantz, who used to take photographs of every kid who came through the home, so they would have something. So they would have a record of where they had been. So they wouldn’t disappear into the system without a single picture. She gave me that photograph the day I left the home in March of 1979.”
He paused again.
He said, “Tyler. I drew the motorcycle on the wall. I was the kid. I drew it in November of 1978. I had a single yellow pencil from a school art class. I pulled the bed away from the wall when nobody was looking and I drew the motorcycle and the stick figure and the words on the wall. I wrote ME ON MINE because I figured someday I’d have a motorcycle of my own and ride out of every place like that one.”
I did not say anything.
I held the photograph.
I looked at the wall in the photograph.
I could see, even in the small black-and-white image, the bare unmarked wall behind the bed.
The drawing had not been there yet. It was June. He had not drawn it until November.
But the room was the same room.
The exact same room.
Forty-six years apart.
Cisco said, “Tyler. I have come to that home every Christmas for eleven years. I have asked Mrs. Salinas every year to give me the kid who is not in the common room. The kid who is alone. I have sat in that room — and others, when there have been other kids in other rooms — for two hours every year, with a kid who didn’t have anybody.”
He said, “This year, when Mrs. Salinas told me the boy was in room 14, I knew before she gave me the envelope. I knew. I knew which room. I knew which wall. I had been thinking about it for forty-six years.”
He took the photograph back from me. Carefully. He slid it back into the protective plastic sleeve.
He closed the wallet.
He put the wallet back in his pocket.
He said, “Tyler. The kid who drew the motorcycle on that wall in 1978 needed somebody to sit in his room with him. Nobody did. I figured it out at eleven years old that nobody was coming. I drew the motorcycle because I had to give myself something to look forward to. Some way out. Some version of myself in the future who was going to come back to that room someday.”
He looked at me.
He said, “Today I came back, Tyler. I came back to that exact room. There is a different kid in it now. He is nine. His name is Marcus. He is going through a version of what I went through forty-six years ago. He showed me my own drawing on the wall. He asked me if I knew the kid who drew it.”
He paused.
He said, “Tyler. I told him the kid turned out okay.”
He paused again.
He said, “Prospect. The reason I didn’t bring him a gift is because I am the gift. I am the kid who drew the motorcycle on the wall. I am the version of him in the future who was going to come back. I have been the gift for eleven years. Different kids, different rooms. This year it was Marcus. This year it was room 14. This year the kid I came back for was the kid who was sitting on the same chair I was sitting on in 1978.”
He said, “That’s why I sat. I didn’t bring a present, Tyler. I brought myself.”
I sat down on the curb of the gas station parking lot.
I cried for about five minutes.
Cisco let me.
He did not say anything.
He stood there with his hands on his hips and waited.
When I could finally speak, I said, “Cisco. Sir. How many of the brothers know.”
He said, “Tyler. None of them. Not one. Not in twenty-six years of riding with Iron Crown. The wallet has been in my pocket. The photograph has been in the wallet. The story has been mine.”
I said, “Sir. Why are you telling me.”
He said, “Because you are the prospect, Tyler. You are the next generation. The brothers who came before me — none of them were ever told. I could not tell them. They were the brothers I rode with after I got out. I was a different person by then. I had built the version of myself who was going to come back. I did not need them to know.”
He paused.
He said, “You — you are going to be the next president. Maybe not next year. Maybe in fifteen years. Maybe in twenty. But somebody who is twenty-six right now and prospecting with this club is going to be the man wearing this cut someday. And he is going to ride out to that home every Christmas. And he is going to ask Mrs. Salinas — or whoever she has handed it off to — to give him the kid who is not in the common room.”
He said, “Tyler. I am telling you because somebody needs to know. So the chair gets sat in. After I am gone. Forever.”
I said, “Sir. I’ll sit in the chair.”
He said, “Prospect. I know you will.”
He put his hand on my shoulder.
He left it there for a long time.
Then he said, “Come on. Let’s get back to the clubhouse. The brothers are waiting.”
We rode back.
The brothers were waiting.
We did not tell them.
We have not, in the eleven months since, told them.
The story is mine and Cisco’s now.
And, in writing this down, the story is yours.
I want to tell you what Cisco asked me to do, in March of this year, after Marcus had been at the children’s home for three months and Mrs. Salinas had told him, on a Saturday morning visit, that Marcus had been formally placed with a long-term foster family on the south side of Wichita and would be moving out of the home within the week.
Cisco called me on a Tuesday night.
He said, “Tyler. I need you to do something for me.”
I said, “Yes, sir.”
He said, “I need you to drive over to the home on Saturday morning. Mrs. Salinas is expecting you. She’s going to take you to room 14. The bed is going to be pulled out from the wall. I need you to bring a small piece of clear plastic — like a plexiglass sheet, about ten inches by twelve. I need you to bring four small finishing nails and a hammer. I need you to mount the plexiglass to the wall over the drawing. Carefully. Without damaging the pencil work. I want to protect it. I do not want it to fade. I want it to be there for the next kid in that room. And the kid after that. And the kid after that.”
He paused.
He said, “I do not want my name on it. I do not want a plaque. I do not want a label. Just the plexiglass over the drawing. Quiet. Nobody will know but Mrs. Salinas, you, and me.”
I said, “Yes, sir. I’ll do it.”
I drove over that Saturday.
Mrs. Salinas met me at the door.
She walked me to room 14. The room was empty. Marcus had moved to his foster family two days earlier. The bed had been stripped. The dresser had been emptied. The next intake had not yet arrived.
I pulled the bed away from the wall.
I knelt down.
I looked at the drawing.
Forty-seven years old. Faded but visible. ME ON MINE.
I cut a small ten-by-twelve piece of clear plexiglass to size with a utility knife. I drilled four small mounting holes at the corners. I held the plexiglass against the wall, centered carefully over the drawing. I tapped four small finishing nails into the plaster, gently, with a small finishing hammer. I made sure the plexiglass was flat against the wall. I made sure no pressure was on the drawing itself.
I stood back.
The drawing was now under glass.
I pushed the bed back against the wall.
The headboard came to the bottom edge of the plexiglass. The drawing was still visible — barely, only if you pulled the bed out a few inches and looked.
The next kid in that room would find it.
Mrs. Salinas was standing in the doorway.
She said, “Tyler. Thank you.”
I said, “Mrs. Salinas. He asked me not to tell anyone.”
She said, “Tyler. I have been the director here for fourteen years. I knew Cisco was the kid in 1978. I figured it out the first year he came. I have not told a soul. I will not tell a soul.”
She paused.
She said, “He has been sitting in those chairs for eleven years. I have known for ten of them. I am not going to take that from him.”
I said, “Mrs. Salinas. Thank you.”
She said, “Tyler. When he can’t come anymore, you come.”
I said, “Yes, ma’am. I will.”
She walked me out.
I drove home.
I did not tell Cisco I had cried in the room before I put up the plexiglass. I had cried for a long time. I had cried for the kid in 1978. I had cried for Marcus. I had cried for the kid who would come next and find the drawing and ask the next adult who sat with them, “Mister, did you know the kid who drew this?”
And the next adult — me, eventually, or Cisco for as long as he could, or somebody — would say:
“Yes, buddy. I knew him. He turned out okay.”
Marcus is, by Mrs. Salinas’s account, doing well at his long-term foster family.
His foster parents are a couple in their late forties named Ana and Hector Robles. They have two older biological children. They have been licensed to foster for nine years. They have a stable home. They have a small dog named Pancho. They have, by Mrs. Salinas’s last update to Cisco in October, told Marcus that they are open to adoption when he is ready.
Marcus has not yet decided.
He is nine.
He has time.
Cisco visits him. Once every six weeks. He drives over to the Robles’ house with a six-pack of root beer and they sit on the back porch and they talk for two hours.
Marcus has, by Cisco’s report, not asked again about the drawing on the wall.
He may, when he is older, ask.
When he does, Cisco will tell him.
Until then, Cisco sits.
He is the chair.
I will tell you the smallest version of this story, in case you skipped to the end.
In December of 1978, an eleven-year-old kid named Eduardo “Cisco” Velez was in a room in a private children’s home in north Wichita. He was alone. Nobody came to sit with him. He drew a stick-figure motorcycle on the wall behind his bed in pencil. He wrote three words: ME ON MINE.
In December of every year for the last eleven years, fifty-eight-year-old Eduardo “Cisco” Velez — president of the Iron Crown Riders MC, master electrician, husband to Liliana, father of Mariana — has gone back to that home with twenty-some brothers and asked the director to give him the kid who is not in the common room.
He has sat with that kid for two hours.
He has brought no gifts.
He has been the gift.
In December of 2024, the kid he sat with was a nine-year-old named Marcus, in room 14, the same room he had been in himself.
Marcus had pulled out the bed and shown him a pencil drawing on the wall.
Marcus had asked Cisco, “Mister. Did you know the kid who drew this?”
Cisco had said, “Yeah, buddy. I knew him.”
Marcus had asked, “Mister. Did he turn out okay?”
Cisco had said, “Yeah, buddy. He turned out okay.”
He had not told Marcus that he was the kid.
He may tell him, someday, when Marcus is older.
He may not.
The drawing is still on the wall, under a piece of plexiglass that I mounted on a Saturday morning in March 2025.
The next child who lives in room 14 will find it.
That child will ask the next adult who sits with him, “Mister, did you know the kid who drew this?”
And the next adult — me, or Cisco, or somebody — will say:
“Yes, buddy. I knew him. He turned out okay.”
That is the entire story.
If this story moved you — follow the page. There are more men out there carrying old Polaroid photographs in old leather wallets in old back pockets. More small drawings under plexiglass on the walls of children’s homes. More chairs that need sitting in. There are more stories the world doesn’t see — and I will keep telling them as long as someone keeps reading.
