So, it had been his mother.
Memorial Day. Mid-morning arrived like the opening scenes of Blue Velvet. That was a good movie. Bright and sunny, landscape brushed overnight by an outer band of some tropical storm that faded, then hit South Carolina softly. That was his favorite kind of storm. The old man decided today was a special occasion, so he climbed aboard a bike he shouldn’t have bought and went for a ride.
More flags than ever, more than seems necessary. Mostly American. A couple Confederate flags and a Puerto Rican flag. The neighbors were all up in arms about that Puerto-Rican flag. I mean, really, what next? We need to build a wall, they told him. We already have a fence and patrolling guards twenty-four-seven and deed restrictions and golf fees and pool passes and HOA liens and lawn-watering regulations, he could have told them. But he didn’t want to waste his breath.
The soil is sandy and after the rains, little dunes, pale brown drifts seemed to greet him at every corner. 1986, he had the sports car, the downtown condo in Northweird PDX, a steady paycheck. Back then, the old man raced his mountain bike up Thurman and into Forest Park, try to find some elks for the next couple of hours. Stump jumping. Almost got run over by a herd in the Coast Range, but that’s another story.
He wasn’t that guy any more. We need to celebrate the dead more when they’re alive. That daredevil acrobat has been replaced by a creaky arthritic, no longer a particularly good bike handler. Balance could be better, too. He lacked confidence and, to be honest, the old man was a bit scared. There, I said it.
Imagine jumping out of a moving automobile at thirty miles per hour and that should give you some idea of his fear. That could fuck him up. Seriously and good. Maybe forever. Which when you think about it, won’t be much longer.
At first the old man thought he’d caught a glimpse of an actual pro-Clinton bumper sticker, but then realized might’ve been Hillary For Prison 2016. Far more likely in this place. The community was sufficiently large, he could do a thirty-mile ride and never leave the neighborhood. Sunday morning were best because THEY were at church and then on to The Cracker Barrel and finally on to Sam’s to buy in bulk. Sunday is also Free Sample Day. The old man didn’t go there on Sundays; too dangerous. He had actually seen a fat woman in a motorized wheel-chair racing another old lady with a walker for a free Vienna-ish sausage in a ‘special’ sauce. The chair crashed into the food cart, knocking over the old Asian lady slicing weenies.
So, the roads are normally clear. Liquor stores don’t open until noon. Wouldn’t be right. Geezus. When they say Make America Great Again, do they mean more blue laws or less? A single solo quail hotfooted it across a backcountry lane, looking lost. More wild animals and less pavement, now that would be a good start to a greater America. Squirrel!!!
Dressed like a candy-colored clown, all glo-in-the-dark orange with a helmet made him look like one of those special kids in Mr. Curry’s class. Scared a gopher tortoise munching breakfast by the side of the road. Can you imagine racing around a downhill curve and run over one of those? The oxygen felt good. The sun felt good. One thing about cycling, you can count on a breeze. Even if you don’t go fast.
We interrupt this scene. Found a flat little road, thought he’d do an out and back, kinda take a rest. When you are really fit and you are on a bike, you feel like you have to push it. That’s just the athlete trying to do the work, that’s just the aging guy trying to hold on. But he couldn’t shake the slo-mo replay of the leader of the Giro d’Italia somersaulting over that cliff. They kept showing it and showing it. And the old man had kept watching.
Hold on. He had long been puzzling a serious and frightening question – what happens when an old man crashes his bike and his arthritic ass is thrown through the air?
Answer? No skidding. Just a single bounce and a surprised ooomph!
He wondered why no mono-theistic society had ever decided to worship the God of Luck. Really, what is faith all about but the concept you’ll get lucky some day. If not here, then in the hereafter.
The old man was just free-wheeling slowly, reaching for his water bottle, when a half-naked woman came out from behind a tree and he crashed into the curb. Well, he had to look, didn’t he? His mental movie screen, which mostly played long distant re-runs, could still produce vision Early Seventies of a coed, probably from Southern California – cause that’s where most of the best ones came from – near the indoor track at Northern Arizona. Only saw her that once but he had actually run over a parking meter as she walked past.
Before he hit the ground, which – luckily – was a thick and lush green grass, he had a single thought: this is so stupid. The green grass might have been thick and lush, but it was still the damn ground. He was taking inventory when the half-naked woman leaned over him with concern. She would not be hot in any other neighborhood. Are you okay, she asked. He, the old man, actually said this: Thought it was a good way to meet you.
Old habits are so hard to break. Don’t you agree?
Her husband comes out of the house and he’s just laughing and laughing. He had seen the whole thing, witness the entire event, and he was just howling.
He says, I told you not to go out dressed like that, I told you, you’d cause an accident.