WHERE-I Came Home And Found My Garage Empty. My Motorcycle — A Custom Harley I’d Built Over Two Years…

I Came Home And Found My Garage Empty. My Motorcycle — A Custom Harley I’d Built Over Two Years…

I came home and found my garage empty. My motorcycle, a custom Harley I’d built over 2 years, was gone. Dad answered casually. Your brother took it to impress a girl. He’ll bring it back. He didn’t. I found it on Facebook Marketplace. My brother had listed it for $9,500. I didn’t call dad. I called a detective.

When my brother showed up to deliver it to the buyer, my name is Red. I’m 35. I’m a dermatologist in Columbus, Ohio. And until 3 months ago, the dumbest emergency I had ever dealt with involved a man who tried to remove a mole at home using dental floss and a soldering iron. Then my younger brother stole my custom Harley to impress a girl and sold it on Facebook Marketplace.

For the record, this was not some dusty motorcycle I had forgotten behind a lawn mower. I built that bike over 2 years. I picked the frame, rebuilt the engine, painted the tank myself, installed the exhaust, replaced half the wiring after I accidentally smoked it the first time, and spent enough money on chrome that my accountant once stared at the receipts and asked, “Is this transportation or a cry for help?” My family knew how much that bike meant to me.

They just didn’t respect anything I cared about because according to them, I was still little rash boy. That is one of my family nicknames. There are others. Dr. Pimple Popper Red Edition, Captain Eczema, Rash Gordon, The Zit Whisperer, Dr. Skin Diesel, Mole Patrol, Epidermis Prime, Scarface, which makes absolutely no sense because I don’t have a scar on my face. My uncle calls me Dr.

Lotion and has done so for 11 years despite me repeatedly explaining that dermatology involves more than lotion. My mother calls me Red Velvet because my name is Red. My father calls me Doogie Howser with acne. I did not even have acne growing up. My brother Cody calls me Dr. Butthole freckle because he once learned dermatologists sometimes inspect suspicious lesions in embarrassing places and apparently decided this was the funniest fact in the history of medicine. Cody is 29.

I need everyone to understand that he is not 19. He is not a rebellious teenager who borrowed his brother’s motorcycle and made a dumb mistake. He is a 29-year-old man who once financed a hot tub despite living in a second floor apartment. The hot tub was never delivered because the delivery company looked at the stairs and refused.

Cody still made payments on it for 9 months. That is the intellectual framework we are dealing with here. I came home on a Thursday around 6 after a long clinic day. I’d removed two cysts, frozen about 30 actctinic keratosses, biopsied something I really didn’t like the look of, and spent 20 minutes convincing a college student that toothpaste was not an FDA approved acne medication.

All I wanted was a shower, leftover Chinese food, and maybe an hour in the garage working on a small oil leak on the Harley. I opened the garage, empty, not completely empty, obviously. My tool cabinets were there. My workbench was there. There was a bag of grass seed I had purchased in April and ignored with commitment, but the space where my motorcycle should have been looked enormous. I just stood there.

You know how your brain sometimes refuses to accept obvious information? Mine basically went interesting. The motorcycle is temporarily invisible. I walked inside and called my dad because my parents had a spare key. They lived 15 minutes away and my dad occasionally stopped by to steal my good drill bits. He answered on the fourth ring.

Hey, Captain Cortezone. Dad, where’s my Harley? Oh, Cody took it. There was a pause. I waited for the rest. There was no rest. What do you mean Cody took it? He needed it. For what? To impress a girl. My dad said this with the exact same tone someone might use to explain that Cody had borrowed a rake. I actually pulled the phone away from my face and stared at it.

Dad, he doesn’t have permission to ride my motorcycle. He knows how to ride. He crashed a rental scooter into a decorative fountain in Tampa. That fountain came out of nowhere. It was a fountain. Well, anyway, he said he’d bring it back. When? Tonight, probably. Probably. Relax, Red. Don’t go fool Dr. Rash Gordon over this.

That was the first moment I considered that I might be adopted and my real family could still be out there somewhere wondering why the hospital accidentally sent me home with these people. I called Cody. No answer. I texted him. Where is my bike? Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Then he sent me a selfie.

He was sitting on my Harley outside some rooftop bar, wearing sunglasses at night and a leather vest I had never seen before. Next to him was a woman with platinum blonde hair, holding up two fingers in a peace sign. His message said, “Bro, relax.” Making memories. I called immediately declined. Then he texted, “Can’t talk.” Social situation.

I wrote, “Bring my motorcycle back now.” He replied, “You’re killing the vibe.” Then also, “She thinks it’s mine, so don’t be weird if she asks.” That sentence was so stupid. My anger briefly became curiosity. Who was this woman? Why did ownership of a motorcycle matter to her? Why was I apparently expected to participate in a conspiracy involving a Harley and some woman named, as I later learned, Bambi? Yes, Bambi. Not legally.

Her legal name was Michelle, but she had apparently retired Michelle spiritually. At 9 that night, Cody still hadn’t returned. At 11:00, nothing. At midnight, I called Dad again. He’ll bring it back, Dad said. He said, “Tonight.” Cody’s nights work differently. What does that mean? You know, Cody, that sentence has been used by my family to excuse things that would get other people featured in local news.

You know, Cody. Cody borrowed grandma’s mobility scooter to go through a Taco Bell drive-thru. You know Cody? Cody tried to start an exotic fish investment club. You know Cody? Cody rented a smoke machine for Thanksgiving. You know Cody? Cody once claimed a goose had stolen his wallet. I did know Cody.

That was exactly why I didn’t sleep. Friday morning. The bike still wasn’t back. Cody finally called around 10 while I was between patients. Dr. Nutsack Freckle. Where is my motorcycle? Good morning to you too, Cody. Jesus. Okay. There was a complication. Every sentence beginning with there was a complication becomes terrifying when spoken by my brother.

What complication? Bambi wanted to go to Cincinnati. You took my motorcycle to Cincinnati. It sounds worse when you say it like that. There is no good way to say it. She has a friend opening a holistic candle studio. I closed my office door. What does that have to do with my Harley? Nothing directly. That phrase nearly killed me. He promised he would bring the bike back Saturday. Saturday became Sunday.

Sunday became, “Bro, traffic is insane.” Then it became, “I think the battery is acting weird.” Then Bambi’s cousin knows motorcycles. Then, unbelievably, it’s actually safer where it is right now. I asked where it was. He said, “Secure location.” I asked for the address. He said, “Why are you interrogating me?” Monday evening, I drove to my parents house. Dad was grilling hamburgers.

Mom was cutting tomatoes. Cody wasn’t there. I told them I was reporting the motorcycle stolen if it wasn’t returned by that night. Mom looked genuinely horrified. Red Velvet, you would call the police on your own brother? If my own brother steals a $20,000 motorcycle? Yes. He borrowed it. Borrowing usually includes permission.

Dad flipped a burger. You doctors are so dramatic. You once called 911 because a raccoon was near your trash cans. It was acting suspicious. It was a raccoon. It was staring at me. Mom jumped in. Cody is going through a difficult time. I nearly laughed. Cody had been going through a difficult time continuously since he was 13.

At 16, his difficult time involved stealing dad’s credit card to buy a 6-ft fiberglass shark. At 22, his difficult time involved joining a pyramid scheme selling mushroom coffee. At 26, his difficult time involved losing $4,000 trying to breed French bulldogs despite owning zero French bulldogs. What difficult time? I asked. He’s trying to figure out his future. He’s 29.

People develop at different speeds. Glaciers develop faster. Dad pointed his spatula at me. Don’t insult your brother. I haven’t even started. That night, I filed a police report. Not because I wanted Cody arrested, at least not yet. I wanted my motorcycle back. The officer who took the report listened while I explained that my brother had taken the bike with my father’s help supposedly to impress someone named Bambi and had now refused to return it for 4 days.

He stared at me. Your brother’s name? Cody Mercer. And your name? Red Mercer. Red? Yes. He looked at his computer. Any nickname? I sighed. Not one you need. Tuesday morning, I was eating breakfast before work when my friend Marcus texted me a Facebook Marketplace link. Marcus knew the bike.

He had helped me install the rear suspension. His message said, “Dude, please tell me this isn’t yours. It was mine. There it was. My motorcycle, my custom Harley, listed for $9,500. $9,500. That was insulting on multiple levels. First, because Cody had stolen it. Second, because he was selling it. Third, because the idiot had undervalued it by at least 10 grand.

The listing read, “Custom Harley, very rare, celebrity style, fast, loud, women notice you immediately. Built by professional doctor engineer, no lowballers. I know what I have. Professional doctor engineer.” I stared at the screen for maybe 30 seconds. Then I noticed the seller name, Cody Cash King Mercer.

He had changed his Facebook display name. There were 14 photos. In six of them, Bambi was sitting on the motorcycle. In one, Cody was shirtless. In another, he was pointing at the engine like he had personally invented internal combustion. The last photo showed him giving two thumbs up beside the bike with the caption, “Ready for new owner. Serious buyers only.

Need funds for business opportunity.” I didn’t call dad. I didn’t call mom. I didn’t call Cody. I called the detective whose number was listed on my report. Detective Harper was approximately 50, sounded permanently tired, and had the voice of a man who had spent his entire career discovering new ways adults could disappoint him. I sent him the listing.

He called me back 10 minutes later. That’s definitely your bike. Absolutely. You have receipts, title, VIN, everything. And your brother listed it publicly under his own Facebook account? Yes. There was a pause. Is he okay? That depends on your definition. Harper told me not to contact Cody.

They were going to have someone message him as a buyer. Apparently, Cody responded in under two minutes, which was faster than he had responded to any message I’d sent all week. The undercover account asked why the Harley was priced so low. Cody replied, “Need Liquid Capital ASAP. Launching luxury lifestyle brand.” The detective sent me screenshots.

I had to sit down. The fake buyer asked, “What kind of lifestyle brand?” Cody responded. Can’t disclose before NDA, but imagine Red Bull meets Gucci meets emotional wellness. I called Marcus. Do you know what Cody’s doing? No, he says he’s starting Red Bull Gucci emotional wellness. Marcus was silent for several seconds.

Did he get kicked in the head by a horse? Not recently. The detective arranged to buy the Harley Thursday afternoon in the parking lot of an abandoned big box store. Cody wanted cash. Of course he did. But before Thursday came, we discovered something even more insane. He had already taken deposits, three of them. Cody had apparently listed my motorcycle on multiple local groups and accepted $500 deposits from three separate people, telling each person he was holding it exclusively for them.

When one buyer asked how three people could have exclusive holds, Cody wrote, “Different tiers of exclusivity. I wish I were making that up.” One buyer demanded his deposit back. Cody replied, “Deposits are being reinvested into brand infrastructure. That infrastructure turned out to be a fog machine, two velvet ropes, and 600 custom drink stirers. I learned this from Bambi.

” She called me Wednesday night. “Is this Dr. Red?” “Yes, this is Bambi.” “There are moments in life when hearing a ridiculous name confirms you are about to receive ridiculous information.” She sounded furious. “Your brother is insane. I’m aware. He told me you gave him that bike. I did not. He said your parents gave you more attention because you’re a doctor, so you gave him the motorcycle as reparations.

I closed my eyes. Reparations for what? Being the less celebrated son. Cody got a jet ski for graduating high school. He told me that was an educational marine vehicle. Of course he did. I asked what was actually happening with the business. Bambi explained. Apparently, Cody had decided they were going to launch a premium nightclub experience called Wolf and Orchid.

I asked what Wolf and Orchid was. She said, “Honestly, I still don’t know.” The concept, as far as she understood it, was a combination of motivational speaking, luxury parties, exotic mocktails, personalized astrology, bottle service, and wolf-based masculine networking. “I had no words,” she continued. Cody had convinced her that wealthy entrepreneurs would pay $250 per ticket to attend events where men learned predator confidence while women received goddess frequency coaching.

Their first event was scheduled for Saturday. They had no venue, no permits, no speakers, no employees, no insurance, but they had ordered 1,200 black napkins with a gold wolf wearing sunglasses. That was why Cody was selling my Harley. He needed launch capital. How much has he spent already? I asked. Bambi got quiet. Like a lot. Define a lot. She listed it.

$1,800 on a custom neon sign. $900 on a fog machine that she said looks like something from a school play. $1,200 on imported mineral water because Cody believed normal water gave events middle class energy. $700 on a life-siz fiberglass wolf. $450 on business cards. $600 on the drink stirers. $1,100 on something called a VIP scent experience.

What is that? A guy sprays cologne when guests enter. I put my head down on my kitchen table. She wasn’t finished. Cody had spent $2,400 hiring a social media consultant named Blae. I asked what Blae had done. Three Instagram posts. What kind of posts? One is just the wolf naturally.

The second was Cody standing shirtless beside my motorcycle. The third showed a champagne glass beside a quote, “Success is just trauma wearing a watch.” I laughed so hard I had to mute my phone. Not because it was funny. Exactly. It was more like my brain had exceeded its safe operating temperature. Then Bambi dropped the last part.

Cody had placed an order for a live camel. I unmuted. I’m sorry. A what? A camel? Why? He says luxury brands use animals. Which luxury brands? I asked him that and he said, “Think Dubai. There are family problems and then there is your brother trying to sell your stolen Harley to finance a camel for an unlicensed motivational nightclub.

” Thursday arrived. Detective Harper told me to stay away from the meeting. So, naturally, I stayed away from the meeting mostly. I parked at a Wendy’s across the street where I could see the parking lot from a distance. Harper probably knew I would. At 3:12 p.m., Cody arrived on my motorcycle wearing a white suit, no helmet, white loafers, and for reasons known only to God and whatever demon controlled his decision-making, a red scarf blowing behind him.

Bambi followed in her Nissan. Two detectives were waiting near an SUV. One played the buyer. Cody parked, removed his sunglasses, and immediately began giving what looked like a sales presentation. I later got to see the body camera footage. It was better than any television show I have watched in my life. So, Cody said, patting the seat.

This is a one-of-one custom. The detective nodded. You built it? Cody hesitated. I oversaw the build. How long? Couple years. What engine? Cody stared at it. Harley engine. What size? Large. The detective asked for the title. Cody smiled. Title is currently in transition. What does that mean? Family paperwork. whose name is on it.

Technically my brother’s but spiritually mine. That sentence is now framed in my office. The detective asked Cody whether his brother knew he was selling the bike. Cody apparently sensed danger for the first time in his life. He said, “My brother’s a dermatologist.” The detective waited.

Cody added, “He makes dermatologist money.” As though that transferred ownership. Then the detective asked why he needed $9,500. and Cody, because silence has never once defeated him, explained Wolf and Orchid. All of it. The luxury networking, the goddess frequencies, the scent experience, the camel. At one point, Detective Harper, standing a few feet away pretending to look at his phone, had to turn around because he was laughing.

Then the buyer said, “Okay, I think we’ve got enough.” Harper walked over. Cody Mercer. Cody smiled. Yes, sir. Are you interested, too? I’m Detective Harper. The smile disappeared. According to Harper, Cody’s first words were not, “I can explain. They were,”Is this about the camel?” I almost crashed through the Wendy’s window, laughing.

They detained him. Bambi immediately put both hands up despite nobody accusing her of anything. Cody started talking fast. This is a family misunderstanding. Harper asked whether he had permission to take the motorcycle. My dad said it was fine. Does your dad own it? Not legally. Did your brother give you permission? Not verbally.

Did he give it in writing? No. Did he give you permission in any form? Cody thought about it. Emotionally, I feel like yes. Harper later told me that was the moment he stopped asking questions. My parents called me within 20 minutes. Dad was furious. Not at Cody, at me. Dr. Lotion, what the hell did you do? What did I do? You got your brother arrested.

He tried to sell my motorcycle. He was going to pay you back with what the business. The camel business. It’s not a camel business. Dad sounded offended that I had simplified it. Mom got on the phone. Red Velvet. He made one mistake. One. He got excited. He stole a motorcycle. He borrowed it. He listed it for sale.

He panicked. He accepted deposits. He’s entrepreneurial. He ordered a camel. There was a pause. Mom finally said, “I don’t know what the camel has to do with anything. Neither does anyone.” Cody was not actually hauled off to prison that afternoon because the situation was still being sorted out and my bike was recovered undamaged.

But there were charges related to the attempted sale, the deposits, and some other financial nonsense I didn’t fully understand at first. And somehow that still wasn’t the dumbest part because while all this was happening, Cody had already spent most of the deposit money. The 600 drink stirs were delivered to my parents house Friday morning. Mom called me furious.

There are 12 boxes on my porch. What’s in them? Plastic sticks with wolves on them. Those are brand infrastructure. This isn’t funny. Red. It’s a little funny. Then the fiberglass wolf arrived. 7 ft tall, gold eyes, black fur, wearing molded sunglasses. My father refused delivery.

Cody had apparently paid extra for executive wolf customization so the manufacturer wouldn’t take it back. It now lives in my parents garage. Dad hates it. I love that wolf. I named him litigation. Then came the mineral water. 48 cases Italian. Mom tried one and said it tasted exactly like water. I told her not to be ridiculous.

It tasted like water with upper middle class ambition. The neon wolf and orchid sign arrived after that. Dad plugged it in. Only half the letters worked. It said, “Wolf and Or Marcus suggested we hang it above litigation. My parents did not appreciate the idea.” Then two weeks later, a man named Ernesto called my father asking where to deliver Apollo.

Apollo was the camel. Dad hung up. Ernesto called back. Dad thought it was a scam. It was not. Cody had put down a non-refundable deposit on a camel rental for a promotional photo shoot at a vineyard that had never agreed to host them. For 3 days, my father had to negotiate with a livestock entertainment company because his adult son had rented a camel using money obtained while attempting to sell my stolen motorcycle.

Dad stopped calling me Dr. Lotion after that for almost a week. Cody eventually took a plea deal on the theft related mess and had to repay the deposits. My parents helped him with some of it, which annoyed me, but I stayed out of that part. The important thing was my Harley came home.

I changed the locks on my house. I changed the garage code. I installed cameras. I also put an air tag on the bike. Dad called that paranoid. 3 weeks later, he asked if I could help him install cameras at his house because Cody had tried to borrow the fiberglass wolf. Apparently, he wanted to use litigation in a dating profile.

I said no. Not because I couldn’t help, because consequences matter. Things with Bambi ended immediately after the arrest. She sent me a message apologizing for the whole situation and said she genuinely thought the Harley belonged to Cody. Then she told me she was starting a podcast about recognizing financial red flags in relationships.

I told her she had excellent source material. Cody insists she stole his concept. I asked what concept. Personal growth. Apparently Cody owns that now too. 6 weeks after the marketplace incident, we had a family barbecue at my parents house. Cody was there. We had not spoken much. He had picked up a job managing inventory at an appliance store and was temporarily living with my parents because shockingly Wolf and Orchid had not become the next global luxury empire.

He walked over while I was getting a beer. Hey, Epidermis Prime. I looked at him. He smiled. I’m trying to normalize things. Try my actual name. Red. Better. He shoved his hands into his pockets. So, you still mad? Yes. It’s been like 2 months. You tried to sell my motorcycle. I was going to replace it. With what? A better motorcycle.

With what money? The event revenue. You didn’t have an event. We would have. You didn’t have a venue. Details. You rented a camel. He sighed. Okay. Everybody keeps bringing up the camel like the camel was the central issue. It was not the central issue. Thank you. The central issue was the felony. He rolled his eyes. Alleged felony. You took a plea deal.

Legal technicality. There it was. Classic Cody. He was sorry the situation had become inconvenient. He was sorry everyone had overreacted. He was sorry Bambi had left. He was sorry the detectives made him look stupid. But I’m still not totally convinced he understood why I had called them. Then he said something that confirmed it.

For the record, $9,500 was just the opening price. I stared at him. What? I was testing the market. You listed my $20,000 bike for less than 10 grand. Yeah. To create demand. You had three buyers. Exactly. Because it was stolen price cheap marketing. I walked away. There are some conversations medicine cannot treat.

Later that afternoon, Dad came outside while I was checking the Harley. You still keeping it here? No, probably smart. He scratched his chin. Then very casually he said, “You know, Cody really did think he was going to make enough money to pay you back.” I looked at him. “Dad, I’m not saying it was right.” Dad, I’m just saying his heart was in the right place.

He spent stolen deposits on a fiberglass wolf. Dad looked toward the garage. Through the open door, litigation stared back at us in permanent goldy judgment. Dad sighed, “Yeah, the wolf was a mistake. The camel. The camel had potential. That is my family. My mother still calls me Red Velvet. My uncle still calls me Dr.

Lotion. Cody has upgraded Dr. Butthole Freckle to the epiderminator, which against my better judgment, I actually think is pretty good. And my father recently started calling me detective dermatology because apparently reporting grand theft makes me Batman. Now I don’t care anymore. The Harley is safe.

Cody is not allowed inside my garage. The locks are changed. The cameras work and litigation. The 7- foot fiberglass monument to my brother’s stupidity still stands in my parents’ garage behind their Toyota Highlander. Last Sunday, mom sent me a picture. Dad had put one of his old baseball caps on the Wolf. Under the picture, she wrote, “Your father says litigation is part of the family now.

” 10 minutes later, Cody replied in the family group chat. Actually, I paid for him, so technically he’s mine. Dad responded immediately. With what money? Nobody heard from Cody for the rest of the day.