Wheels

I don't intend to tell you here about the wheels of time or fate. I will not speak of the turning of the seasons or the circling of strange birds. This isn't about that album by Cream or Dylan's ballad of exploding disks, nor is it written in contemplation of Ezekial's fiery hoop; his holy desert hallucination.

 

I want to tell you about bicycle wheels.

 

I didn't name my bicycle. It had a name when I got it. It was written on the bright red, powder-coated frame in large, silver, cursive letters �" "Sidewinder." If it had not been written there, I think I might have named it something like this. It fits. It fits because Sidewinder seems a passable equine name and sometimes my bicycle has seemed like a trusted, candy-apple gelding; strong, dependable and swift. I am tempted, sometimes, to offer my faithful roan a carrot; perhaps a lump of sugar. Sometimes I even cluck my tongue as we turn into dangerous curves where the road is covered with sand. We have a relationship which ensures our mutual survival because, presently, these are the only wheels I own; the wheels of a bright, red bicycle with a cracked seat and twenty-one speeds.

 

***

 

I usually don't mind riding but I'm not so much for it today. It's cold and raining. I can hear the cars, slushing through the muddy gutters out there beyond the curtains, wrapping paper and glass which now keep me inside. I have no idea where they are going, these cars; end of swing shift I suppose. But I know where I am going in this chilly, noon gloom and it is a matter of five dollars, cash money; money I could have used later for a cigar and a coffee while I sit outside on my folding chair and watch the rain. I don't really want to ride today but I must.

 

I think back to the time I lived in "The Crest" with whatsisname; back when I didn't mind riding so much. Back then, I rode into town almost every day; down the long, fast incline and out of that stale stucco world; that immaculate ghetto of babbling bureaucrats and short, fat college professors with oriental wives. It was necessary to make this ride everyday in order to fool myself into believing I was doing something valuable with my time and it gave at least some rhythm to my days. I would visit Jeri on these rides; maybe stop and annoy Isaac for a few minutes and possibly share a bowl or two.

 

On some days I would ride down by the lake; usually when it was warm and heaven was cloudless. I would take Locust north to that short steep hill that borders the park, pull my hat down tight to ensure the proper friction, tuck in my chin a little and coast, baby; any chance to coast.  It was my budget thrill, when thrills were too few and becoming fewer.  At the bottom of the hill there was a sand layered curve which always made me edgy on approach but it was needful to maintain momentum enough to keep me coasting through the parking lot and onto the trail which circles the lake. I usually clenched my jaw and took my chances rather than braking; holding my breath and hunkering somewhat to keep from sliding. Once inside the park proper, I would begin my round of the lake; shifting into low gear and taking my own, sweet, unprofitable time along the footpath; dodging ducks and geese and chubby neo-nurslings nestled in injection-molded strollers from Mars. I was careful to avoid hitting the vendors, pushing their colorful curricles covered with brightly printed, peeling stickers, plying frozen fruit bars and other various Mexican snack-foods. These occasionally proffered sly grins from beneath the wide brims of cheap straw hats as they jingled past. As I slowly circumnavigated the brownish loch, with its faint odor of decaying palm fronds, algae and questionable fishes, I would compose psalms in various rhythms; syncopated beats of broken breath in time to pedals pumping. Sometimes I would stop and take a picture if near enough the golden hour and battery power was sufficient; perhaps one of the many anglers there or another smog painted, western skyline. Benches with green, plastic, slatted seats placed at intervals along the shore often beckoned and I would be content to perch, looking out across the dark, semi-stagnant pond at memories of cheap dates on quaint electric boats and carousels tinkling in the incandescent distance; memories of crayfish, tilt-a-whirls and random sex; memories of band-shell sessions and throngs of panting juvenescence, ambling hungrily about those oaken groves. These memories often superimposed themselves intrusively upon the canvas of my moment, creating a double, triple, or even quadruple exposure. Having had enough of all this, I would return my focus to the shore, littered there with odd debris, mount my crimson velocipede and resume trek. I would usually ride the bus back after dark on those days and try not to fall asleep en route.

 

***

 

But, as I was saying, today the weather is inclement, though not quiet Siberian enough to keep me from returning that small change; that five bucks I once promised as a price for some brief reverie.  I go out and unlock the chain which keeps my bicycle from escaping. It is a stout chain with a keyed padlock which sometimes sticks, much like it is sticking now. Once freed, I wrap the chain around the seat-post and back the bike out, through the spring loaded, screen-door which has no screen. The opening is too narrow and one pedal hangs on the wooden frame while the other painfully dimples my shin. There will be a bruise, no doubt, and I realize there has already occurred… a glitch. I continue out; out into the water-logged atmosphere of noontide; lifting my simple machine down the three concrete steps in front of the house and onto the wet sidewalk where I wipe the rain from the seat with the cuff of my jacket and prepare to mount.

 

 I am in the bike lane now and I give the slight grade of Third Street some assistance by providing a few kicks to the crank and then I coast and the cars on my left come dangerously close. I wonder if they even see me gliding through this soggy street. In seconds, the tops of my thighs are wet; the denim soaked completely through. The square determination of my knuckles, as I choke the rubber grips, is muted by the water and the wind. It is damn cold. The raindrops sting my face. I try to pull my head down into my coat, like a turtle, leaving only my eyes for seeing. The water drips from the bill of my cap and my glasses begin to fog on the eye-ward side from whatever heat remains in my face.

 

As I approach Market Street the traffic thickens. The lunch monkeys are making their daily dash for burgers in the rain and trucks are rushing to their deliveries. I usually ride the white line to the left of the right turn lane so I can cross with the traffic but today I am forced to the curb by a truck of significant girth. The light is red and so I stop; braking slowly to avoid a skid… but no sooner have I come to rest when I am jolted by something from behind. There is a sudden displacement of mass which causes my rear tire to jump into the air while the bike makes a quarter-turn clockwise in space. I retain my grip, remaining connected and when the wheels finally resume contact with the pavement I am amazed at the fact that I am standing erect, still straddling the bike. There is also a noticeable ache in the area of my testicles. A quick glance over my right shoulder reveals my assailant who is just now opening the door of her car as she lowers the i-Phone still held in her left hand. The offending vehicle is a dark blue Toyota Rave 4 and the woman is a tall, slim blonde in professional attire. She stands behind the open door of her car for protection out there in the rain and asks me if I am alright. People are slowing down and I can feel their stares on my wet cheek. They are sitting in their nice warm cars and saying, "That woman just hit that old man." I take a few long moments to glare at this woman; this perfectly groomed and worried looking woman. I just stand there glowering at her for what I think is the appropriate length of time, partially because I am still in shock and my balls hurt and my heart is just now re-entering my chest. I stare at her because I have earned at least that much satisfaction and because she deserves it. I do this until I see just a hint of fear in her eyes and then I say…

 

 "Of course I'm not alright lady. You just hit me with your goddamn car."

 

I do not dismount. It would be a good thing for me to leave as quickly as possible.

 

"Should I call someone?" she asks, trying to sound concerned, while remaining behind the door of her car to shield herself from my wounds. I am beginning to hate her; not for hitting me with her car, but simply for being the bimbo she seems to be.

 

"No," I say, but what follows really riles me.

 

She says, "I'll pray for you." She says this in the manner a child might say "I'll be your best friend," when all they want is a piece of your candy.

 

She stands there barricaded behind a hundred pounds of steel and glass and meekly announces her intention. She will plead with God for intercession on my behalf. I wonder if her knees will hurt as bad as my cajones when she gets around to doing this.

 

"Lady," I say, "You have a lot of damn gall. Go ahead and pray if that's your thing. Just do it at a safe distance."

 

"I didn't mean anything bad," she says looking puzzled.

 

I say, "You hit me with YOUR car lady. It's YOUR sin… Pray for yourself."

 

 My balls hurt NOW… too late for prayers to help that fact.

 

"I'm really sorry," she says.

 

"Just be more careful… PLEASE!"

 

I give the bike a once-over and there doesn't seem to be any obvious damage. I walk it a short distance to see if the wheels are bent. They seem to roll okay without any sound of unwanted friction. The woman gets back in her car and drives off. The traffic resumes its former pace and I decide to walk the remaining block to Save-a-Buck market. I am still shaken but there is no anger left in me.

 

***

 

When I get to Ike's place, I am soaked and very cold; especially my hands; cold denim clinging to sore thighs and droplets falling from my cap-bill and I knock… I knock again and then thrice. This is customary before gaining entry but all I can think about is getting warm. Once inside, I hand Ike the five I owe him and I take off my pack and my jacket and place them in front of the small, electric heater burning there on the floor. I sit down on the corner of the large futon relatively near the heater and I put my hands in front of it and I feel a little better. Ike is sympathetic and kind. I like that about him because it helps. He will also send me home with something green and I am also grateful for that but I do not stay long. I can hear that the rain has let up and I am thinking I should use this window of opportunity and so I leave.

 

It isn't so bad on the way home. The winds have died down and it is only sprinkling lightly.

 

***

 

The grade of Third Street has reversed now. It will take an effort on my part, but at least the rain has stopped and the wind has mostly settled. My hands benumbed, I bear down tooth to tooth but I'm not shivering now. It's the pumping; the effortless rhythmic cycling of the extremities. My legs are sore but the action is easy, even in wet jeans. It's that force which I provide. It's that choice which I make. When I think of it this way I don't feel so bad making my long way up the continuous grade of Third Street because I can feel that I'm alive and I'm grateful for that in a very deep way… at least for now. Things happen. That's just the way it is. Life is a necklace that we wear; a series of images and words strung together in time; and then there those things which are present; those things which are happening now and now that happens to be me, pumping and panting; aspiring to conquer Third Street and return to my room.

 

It is almost dark by the time I reach Mulberry and the rush hour traffic is heavy; the headlamps blazing through the enveloping mist. I have to wait for an opening in order to cross over. I stand there near the gutter and wait for beasts with yellow, burning eyes to pass; dangerous bicycle eating monsters. They don't see me and they will not stop for me. They are ravenous. They are predatory. I will have to make a dash for it and pray my foot doesn't slip. I will have to cheat them of another bloody kill when I bolt toward that lazy porch on the other side of Third Street.

 

Somehow… I make it to the other side with no tire tracks decorating my face and I finally roll onto the porch. I lean my bicycle against the low wall of the portico, unlock the deadbolt of my door and enter my room at last. I plug in the small electric heater, throw my pack on the floor and pull off my wet jacket which I hang from the back of my single wooden chair. I do the same with my jeans. I dry my legs with a towel and put on my flannel pants and my sandals and after all that is accomplished, I roll a joint and unwrap one of the cigars I bought earlier this afternoon. I go outside. I sit in that folding chair by the door; the one I have told you about. I sit in that chair and smoke and play with the images which join me on the porch and I wonder if they are, in fact, playing with me.

 

I sit out on my porch and I light the joint and draw in deeply and I think, oh lordy, thank you Jesus. Thank you for making me linger. Thank you for requiring that I wait so long for this. I know it has been said before, but, if you are forgiving then you will have to forgive me. I waited for you and I waited a long time because somehow you had gotten inside me and created an extra voice; a voice which has haunted me throughout most of my days. You made me believe in ghosts and spirits and pardon my feeling of relief at finding most of them gone. It isn't that I don't love you. I do, in my own odd way. I know that your story has some truth in it; that it reflects something which is perhaps basic but maybe I am even wrong about that. It's hard to sort things out when you have been and still remain so mind-fucked.  Of course, you pass the popularity contest Jesus. We can all see how pretty you are and I actually like the part about friendship and the importance of positive action. I respect those things… but your literature is ambiguous and uncertain to say the least. There are many strange loops throughout. And why the disguise, man? It's pretty gruesome if you ask me and especially, why did you have to lie about things, man? Why couldn't you have just told the truth? Why so many contradictions? These are possibly worthy questions but the truth is this: There is no "other" with me now; no voice inside my head. It evaporates from my heated brain, softly whimpering as it leaves me. 

 

My mind then returns to remembered bits of real experience and I remember that I had recently been called a liar after posting on one of the literary threads. It was a story about my grandmother killing a sidewinder with a rock and this guy called me a liar. It was mildly upsetting but the important thing is this: The accusation caused me to think further about those days because they are interesting, and because they left such a strong impression on my young and pliant mind. I had planned on writing about them for some time. So, while I am sitting out here on the porch and smoking a cigar I suddenly remember my father's pride and joy; a 1960 Bug-eyed Austin Healey Sprite, barely larger than a bumper car and harder to steer… and it follows from there that…

 

I remember my sister and I riding with Dad in the Sprite; riding to Coachella It only had two seats and so one of us would have to crunch down in back and ride with the spare. It wasn't very comfortable back there and we would have to switch off. I usually got stuck back there the longest because my sister whined pretty loud and it smelled back there of rubber and oily rags. Sometimes we would stop off at Cabazon for the change over and maybe we would get something from Hadley's fruit stand; maybe a date-shake. Eventually we would spot the large sign by the side of the highway �" "Sea View Ranch."  That is where we would turn in onto the dusty unpaved road that flanked the northern-most grove and led to the ranch house. The ranch had a smell all its own; a fragrance poem of chicken s**t, diesel fuel and rust but it smelled like freedom to a young boy. It smelled like adventure and I remember that feeling of adventure I had while sitting here on this porch. I remember how I was glad to see Nana Myrtle and Papa Roy but I was much more anxious to leave the house and run; run through the perfect rows of pink grapefruit and valencias; rows so deep you couldn't see where they ended; running with the dog, through the trees and down to the irrigation canals that ran along the bottom of the ranch and beyond those the shore of the Salton Sea. Even then the sea showed signs of morbidity. The dead tilapia lay washed up everywhere on the mud and sand where they had died and rotted in the intense heat. The stench was overpowering and the flies… god, you have never seen so many flies and any dry thing that was above the mud was caked with a white crust of residual salts. I never spent long at the waters edge but the fish skeletons looked interesting and they crunched under your feet when you walked and I am seeing all this from my porch where in my mind I am petting Topper, the old ranch dog and I am thinking, if I told these things to others, would it make it any easier for them to believe that Myrtle once killed a Sidewinder with a rock. Would it make any difference if I told them about the bats at night and all those stars; the desert toads and the incessant hum of the cicadas? So I decide out there on the porch that whether or not they could be convinced of its authenticity, it is, nonetheless, a good story and I decide that the next thing I will do is write it and so I begin.

 

***

 

Safe inside and seated, I begin to write of these things and I haven't gotten very far into it when I hear a noise outside and I instantly realize that I have left the bike unlocked. I know what is happening. I jump to my feet and it is two long, quick steps to the door which I jerk open and what I see is an apparition which I can hardly bear because of boundlessness of my own stupidity; because after having gone through this once and so recently, it seems I have not learned my lesson; because there is a huge black man who now holds my bicycle in his hands only a few feet in front of me and he is looking at me and it is clear that we are both very afraid. He looks to be over two-hundred pounds standing there with my bicycle in his hands and he begins to turn the bike but he sees that the porch is too narrow and by that time I have already made a single leap and grabbed the handlebars with both hands. We are locked for a moment; frozen in each other's eyes and mostly I see defeat. S**t, I can smell it, like all those dead fish I was thinking about just moments ago and then he releases the bike and just stands there, apparently trying to think of what to do next. There are hints of reaching for something which make me startle a little, but he just turns that huge, hulking body slightly, shakes that huge stocking-covered head once over his shoulder and says, "Dawg."

 

In a flash he is through the screen-door without a screen and out of sight for a moment as he dashes for the pavement. The door snaps shut like a director's slate and I am standing there on the porch holding my bike and he is trotting toward his own bike which he has left foolishly unattended at the curb. I stand there and watch him until he is just about to ride away and then I say…

 

"Dude,"

 

He looks over his shoulder and then I say it again.

 

"Dude. Hey listen," and I hold my right palm up as if taking an oath. I don't feel any large sense of anger. Mostly I feel shock and I have had far too much shock for one day. The general sense is a more or less calm recognition that I don't need any more of this kind of s**t and especially not today. I am also beginning to realize, more now than ever, that anger is bad for the heart.

 

He looks up and says, "S**t, man. I'm sorry. I seen it unlocked a few times and it was sooo temptin'. Times are hard, man. You know? Yeah, I can see you know. S**t. Man you gotta keep that s**t locked up man."

 

Something came over me at that point and I told him my name. I just said…

 

"I'm Keve man."

 

He shook his head and said, "Naaaw, dawg. Folks don't do that dawg. Folks don't be tellin' you they name and s**t… not these days." He grins a slight grin of embarrassment and rests both forearms on top of the chain link fence.

 

"Well, I guess I do, at least today anyway."

 

"Hey, I'm Mikey, man. Merry Christmas man."

 

"Hey Mikey," I say and I think it is a little odd that the man who just tried to rip me off in such a big way should be wishing me a merry Christmas but it doesn't seem to matter.

 

"Merry Christmas dude."

 

"Hey people aren't like you man. Nobody's like that. I'm tellin' you man, if anybody ever f***s with you, I will personally f**k with them. I mean that man… to the grave."

 

I say, "Thanks."

 

Mikey gets on his bike and starts to ride away. He dwarfs the twenty-six inch; this sad mother f****r of a sidewalk gansta; this beat-down behemoth on a bike. He waves quickly over his shoulder as he pedals off and the action throws him slightly off balance. He does a little slalom there by the old stone monument which announces in chiseled stone that this is, in fact, the corner of Mulberry and Third Streets.

 

***

 

My cell phone rings and it is Jeri. "I'm right out front," she says so I walk out and I see the familiar silver Jeep pulled up at the curb. By now it is dark and the draught horses are clopping down Third Street again; pulling psychedelic pumpkin coaches bedecked with countless shimmering embers; lighting up the night; this holy night. She has brought me a pack of smokes and I am glad for that because I need a little time-out from these cheap cigars. I can tell she is worried and she feels bad for putting me off but I don't feel the least distemper. I know how things are and I know how quickly things can turn down here in the hood because I was going to write about the ranch and fishing in the reservoir at sundown and now I have this other thing; this thing which has just now; some kind of magic thing which has just occurred on my porch.

 

I can see she is tired, sitting there in the darkness of her sanctuary on wheels; now temporarily at rest. She is at rest for this one moment; sitting in that refuge of vinyl and steel with her lovely face glowing softly in the hushed reds and greens of the dashboard lights.

 

I say, "You still like me, right?"

 

"Yeah baby. I still like you fine."

 

"I was only a little worried, ya know?"

 

"No baby, I'm just ragged and beat-down."

 

"I know," I say, "Don't I know, baby? You know I know."

 

"I need to go see my Mom or somethin'," she says and I know when she says this it's time for me to pay attention because I know about the connection and how devastating that loss has been for her. I can also tell you this: That woman must have been a saint to have given birth to a child like Jeri; modest and mysterious with eyes like the earth. I know the profoundness of her feeling when she speaks of her mother and I know we have come to a time when only the dead might answer; when only they would own the knowledge which could speak to us. I think of how I have appealed to the lifeless and the sleeping. I think of gravestones inscribed with lullabies �" "With roses delight." �" and an eleven year old boy standing on the perfect lawn and with tears flowing behind black, thick rimmed glasses. I can still taste the salt of them and sometimes I still peer through the blur of those tears. I also remember how my Jesus came to me at night with little Mellisa in tow like he was making an introduction at a high-school dance; smiling gloriously and leading her in by the hand from that place where he held her; leading her through ethers to that space above my bed when all I really wanted was to make sense of things. There was no fairness in everything shattering so suddenly and eternally and no one seemed to have the intelligence to speak to me of these things. They couldn't answer me and so I made inquiry of the dead and I didn't tell anyone about she and Jesus visiting me at night. It was my secret… my own little mystery. So, I know what is going on with Jeri and I know why she can't say that much about it and I tell her that I understand when perhaps I really don't as she sits there in the obscurity of shadows cast by LED lights looking nervous and irritable.

 

I don't tell her about the attempted theft.

 

"Man…my head is poundin'," she says and she brings her fingers to her delicate temples.

 

"Have you got anything?"

 

"I got some Advil at home," she says.

 

"Good. Just relax then baby. You don't have to drive tomorrow."

 

"I might. Depends on if Glen gets back in time from Ontario."

 

"Well, I hope he does."

 

"I gotta go," she says and then she says she will call me but I'm not counting on it. I know she will probably go back to her place and fall asleep in that high-backed office chair, wrapped in a down comforter with her swollen feet propped up in front of her.

 

"Okay baby. Call me… please. Let me know that you're okay. I worry aboutcha."

 

I lean into the vehicle and I kiss her lightly.

 

"I'm okay," she says, "Just feelin' tore-up. I'll be okay. It's not you."

 

"I know. I know."

 

"You have lipstick," she says.

 

Reviews

[Sbernie18]

good work

[RainQueen]

Ah. I've held this last chapter for my little reward, and you didn't disappoint...
I mean,
"...down the long, fast incline and out of that stale stucco world; that immaculate ghetto of babbling bureaucrats and short, fat college professors with oriental wives. "

The word-pictures you paint are vivid, even when thy're gritty urban gray. Your rich prose is dense. Your aside about your feelings on God...Those profound thoughts flashing through the artist's mind. We've all been there. The treasure of you making friends with the would-be bike thief...Jewels.

It demands mulling, chewing, savoring, but when you get to the end, your sweet reward at the end of the day...Seems like the trials you endured are worth it...

More!

[Gypsy_Laughing]

I like this--life on the edge, the fringe. I know what that's like, and it rings true. I looked up, every once in a while, just to make sure of the furniture.

I kept coming to these places where I thought, "Wait, what just happened?" and then I'd read the sentence over and over again until I recovered, and it was safe to go on.
You know?
I've really enjoyed these Chapters, so far. I hope you have more. Soon. I am so curious... .

[bookworm]

I have no idea how I could possibly communicate what I'm feeling from your book thus far...I poured over every paragraph, every sentence, every syllable with a sense of enamoured splendor...this is truly gorgeous in its profundity, its aesthetic appeal, its detailed accounts drawing the reader into your world. I completely fell wildly in love with the narrator in all of his glorious brilliance....yet I also felt his love and devotion toward his lover...and deeply understood her distance, yet wished she could see past her ghosts in order to enjoy the beauty of your glorious exchanges...

That being said, if this story is true and you are unemployed, I am so sorry for your situation. However, I can't possibly stress this enough, my dear friend, there is nothing else you should be doing with every waking breath but finishing this insanely gorgeous book of your's! This is divinity in its most pure physical form...truly and sincerely captivated by your work!