Joe Zauner
(Writer’s note: Tuesday’s ride with Jim is a fictitious serial that appears sporadically on Tuesday. The first four installments are here.)
TST
I’m at the Tahuya-Seaback-Tahuya Road Race near the Olympic
Peninsula. It’s April, 2001. It’s misting cold rain. Jim is not here. My heart aches
and it’s because I miss him. It’s been more than four years since I last saw my
brother. I called everyone. No one knows where he’s at. Somewhere in the world he
is lost and I wish only for his return.
The last I saw him was in Louisville, Ky. I was stationed
nearby at Fort Knox. He followed me there after his Other Than Honorable Discharge
from the Army. When my ETS paperwork came through I left for a civilian newspaper
job in North Carolina. He stayed. Self-employed, building web sites, and then
gone without a trace. Apartment, clothes, almost everything left behind. This
wasn’t the first time Jim disappeared. It was the second. The first time was in
twelfth grade. Gone three weeks from our home near Gainesville, Fla., he sent
me a letter from Seattle. He said he wanted to see the Northwest for himself:
“…It’s
amazing… Clean air… Mountains… Well intentioned
people… There is a bird here called the Steller’s Jay. It’s crested like a cardinal
but with dark electric-blue plumage fading to a deeper and deeper black.
They’re so smart. I saw three hopping around a loaf of bread at a city park in
Portland full of tall conifers. Six big crows flew in and pushed them off but Steller’s
Jays don’t back down. What they lacked in size they made up for in tenacity and
planning. They were faster on the ground than the crows in the air and once they
knew it the Steller’s Jays had a field day. The crows went insane chasing the Steller’s
Jays who skittered about but wouldn’t leave the ground. They kept looping back
picking off whole slices while the crows were still in the air. Then they’d fly
to nearby trees to hide each piece. They did this until the loaf was gone. Any
other bird would’ve given up. Out here I’ve learned not to give up and to always
try. Don’t give up, brother. And always try. It’s beautiful out here in the
world. You’ll come out and see it one day. Your friend and brother, Jim.”
I read it twice in Mrs. Plant’s first period English class
and again in Algebra. I could hear his voice. It was the first time he’d ever
called me brother. The first time he ever invited me out into the world. Where
was he now? I wish I knew.
(On a hot spring day
in the gated community of Rancho Santa Fe a young man in simple attire steps from
a 1997 Dodge Caravan, destination stickers still on the passenger window, new
car smell, temporary tags. A Top-10 pick that year by Car and Driver. He
carries a note pad in the palm of his hand. He writes as he walks down the driveway
to a mansion overlooking the city of San Diego. Elevation: high enough to snow.
A woman marches across
the neighbor’s plush lawn holding a plate covered with foil. She is undocumented,
Mexican, compact build, purposeful strides, a maid’s uniform, heavily accented
speech. She calls out, “Yeem! Yeem!” But she means Jim. He stops, turns and
smiles.
“They say you are
leaving us,” she says.
“Yes. We should all be
gone in the next three days starting tonight.”
“It is so sad.”
“Don’t be sad. New
beginnings are happy times. This will be a much better situation for all of us.”
“I hope so. Your
people have been so nice. Look, I bake you some cookies for the trip,” she says
extending the plate.
“You are such a
sweetheart.”
He takes the cookies
through a garage with stacked bags of beans and rice pushed against the walls and
into an expansive stainless steel kitchen where only a picnic table and two
people sit in folding chairs. One is an old man. The other a young woman. Both
with tightly cropped hair. They are working in front of computer screens. The
old man looks up.
“Jim, I can’t get this
image to work.”
Leaning over the old
man’s shoulder, balancing the plate in the palm of his hand, the young man studies
the screen and says, “You’re missing an equals sign in your H-ref.”
The old man types,
saves, drags the document from the desktop to an IE icon and drops. A web page
opens. The image appears.
“It’s always the
simple stuff,” the old man says and then adds, “Hey, the alarm guy stopped by today.
He turned everything off except the fire and carbon monoxide detectors. He said
those are with a different company. He wrote the number down.”
The old man hands the
young man a business card with a number on the back.
“Thanks. I’m sure Do
will want me to turn that off as well. Speaking of Do, where is the Shooby Doobster?”
The young woman
giggles. The old man smiles.
“Don’t let him hear
you call him that.”)
We roll off the line and get up to speed. A pack of 75 mostly
Northwest Pro 1-2s. Sixty-five miles lay ahead. Normally this is Kenny Williams
race to win but there’s a couple guys here of note. One is Todd Littlehales. He’s
a professional two-time national champion. I’ve never met a national champion
who wasn’t at least bad ass. I’m pedaling next to him and I can sense his
presence. A minute passes and I look over. He means business. He has a
connection to his bike and its purpose that I can’t understand. I fade back
five wheels, maybe six before I shake the feeling of inadequacy. I remind
myself that he is not my competition today. I do understand though, he is one
of the guys who will decide how hard this race is going to be.
We’re climbing. We’ve been climbing almost since the start.
It’s shallow and I don’t notice until I see the first guy going backwards. Then
another. They’re in over their heads. This is nothing like the hard part. Nothing
like the steep pitches that make this race harrowing. But I’m fine. I’ve been fine
lately. Tuesday was the fastest ever for me three times over Repeat Hill. And as
I see two more guys going backwards I believe I can finish in the big group
today. The big group today. There
might be 20 guys in the big group today.
(An older gentleman
stands in the Mansion’s backyard. He looks out over San Diego. His arms are
crossed behind his waist. Dressed in white, he holds a Walkman. He’s almost
always holding a Walkman. The headphones dangle around his neck. It’s another
hot spring day and sweat rolls off his shaved head. His stubble is gray. He is
slim. A runner’s build at 65-years-old. He is pensive. Sure of a decision but
not its details. The young man walks up from behind.
“Do, how are you?”
“Jim, my son. I am happy
but sad. You have been a part of us in some way for almost 10 years. Yet you
are not coming?”
“No.”
“I trust our secrets
are safe?”
“I have given my
word.”
“I wish you would
reconsider.”
“It’s enticing but I
like it here for now,” the young man says.
“Here? This place is
hell. I wish you were joining us. We could use you. You’ve been right about so
many things. HTML.”
“Pretty easy, isn’t
it?”
“A trained chimp. It
was true. But now we exceed our needs and a window of opportunity presents
itself. I pray that you reconsider. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity.”
“I know but I’m going
to have to pass. I’ll help with the transition but I won’t be making the trip.”
“I understand. Did you
get your mini-van?”
“I did. Thank you,” the
young man says turning to walk away.
“Oh and Jim. Could you
see to it the carbon monoxide and fire alarms are turned off?
The young man takes his
note pad out, “Consider it done.”)
I’m in the vacuum of the peloton now, descending off the
first climb. It’s straight, shallow, non-technical. I’m coasting at more than
40 mph but it is not easy. The peloton is heaving like a city bus with a bad
transmission. It started earlier when we crested the climb but it has gotten worse.
Guys are overlapping wheels, charging the front like bulls. The speed is erratic.
I’m funneling into a tighter and tighter space. Some kid’s derailleur is too close
to the spokes of my front wheel. Brakes squeal. Mayhem. And then I hear it.
My peripheral sensory tunes up full. Somebody is screaming bloody
murder behind and they stop midstream after smacking the pavement. At the point
of impact the sound of equipment (like bottles
of beer) and bodies (like sacks of
dirt) hitting the blacktop radiate. A wood chipper inhaling riders without discrimination
moves in my direction. I’m on the wrong side of an overlapped wheel. Someone pushes
hard on my hip. I’m going down. I know it. I unclip from my pedal. And then the
pushing stops and the guy on my hip slams the pavement with such force that I
hear the wind expelled from his lungs. I swear I feel a warm gust hit the back
of my calf.
And that feeling persists and everything else is quiet
except for the hiss of skinny tires on moist asphalt. A third the field is all
over the road behind me. It’s surreal. A relief. I take inventory. I have time
to think. I am glad not to be in the group behind. They are far enough from the
first climb so chasing is an endeavor they will surely undertake but it’s going
to drive the strength from their legs. There can’t be too many guys back there
who can afford to do that.
Littlehales? Williams? Were they behind me? I can’t remember.
Where did I see them last? They could have easily slipped backwards without my notice.
But slip backwards. These guys don’t
slip backwards in regional races. They’re still near the front somewhere.
(Inside the mansion
people are walking to the living room, quietly sitting on the floor. In total
there are 40 souls. Before them Do stands. Headphones around his neck.
“Brothers and sisters,
take a seat. This is a big day. The first wave moves out in 10 minutes and we
will start this process. Tomorrow the second wave and the day after that, the
third. On the third day we will all be together and working towards our higher
purpose. In my hand I have a list of names belonging to those who will leave in
the first wave. I will use your real names and it will be the last time you
hear them.”
Do reads the list: “Thomas
Nichols, Bonnie Nettles, Sherry O’Donnell…”)
It’s smooth going now. The crash was a catharsis, a reminder
that not just glory but skin and bone are on the line here. Holly Hill is the
first big climb. It’s about three kilometers in length. I can see it forming a
ridgeline to my left. The first half of the race, the easy half, is done. We’re
moving. Trucking even. Downhill left hander on Holly Hill Road coming up. I
watch the front of the group barrel through the turn. I am halfway from the front
when the chasers from the crash behind overtake our backend. Soon after, mayhem
ensues. There are 10 guys from the group behind whose emotions are jacked from the
chase and they are committed to finding the front of the race. For them, dropping
down a gear is not an option. They are carrying their speed through the peloton.
They’re looking over at each other, racing each other. It’s fucking crazy.
We’re through the left hand turn now and immediately onto
Holly Hill. It’s like a Forest Service road. The wood line ends at the
shoulder. Blacktop, chip sealed. There’s no yellow line and for about 300
meters there’s no yellow-line rule that I can discern. The road fills with
riders. At the top of the first stair-step traffic is stopped on our left. Riders
cut back in just before the flagger. It’s insane.
I am sitting on Kirt Willetts’s wheel. Not a bad place to be.
He’s so small but boy can he climb. Jim held the leader’s jersey at the Vuelta
a Costa in Columbia just after the Gulf War. He said the Columbian pros there,
they looked like juniors, like little kids. He won the prologue and the next
day the course was flat and he said he looked down on them and felt shame for
pushing them off wheels in the crosswinds. He said they were childlike until
you got close and saw they had the weathered faces of 30-year-old professional
cyclists. He said people on the street, when he was wearing the jersey riding back
to the hotel, they said to him, just wait for tomorrow. You just wait and see.
You won’t be wearing that jersey.
And tomorrow came and it was the first climbing stage. There
were three climbs. The first he had no problems riding at the front. The second
was a little harder, but there he was, comfortable. A little ways up the third climb
he began to realize the first two ascents were done at something like a warm-up
pace. In nine kilometers the leaders took four minutes from him. The next day,
the new race leader wouldn’t even acknowledge him.
Willett is my Columbian. He will roll out the red carpet to
the front of this race or at least the most comfortable place my fitness will allow.
In his Prime Alliance kit he is a lure and I am a dumb big mouth bass. By the
time I realize he’s not taking the race seriously it’s too late. I’m on the
right side of his wheel overlapped and he is pulling off gradually to the right
and taking me with him. Guys are going around like we are glued to the
pavement. He gets drilled in the ribs with an elbow. He’s done. He’s getting off
his bike.
(Do announces the names
and each member stands.
“… Sherry O’Donnell…”
A tall, slender woman,
black hair, blue eyes climbs to her feet. Her smile is nervous. Like a child waiting
for a ride at Disney World. She gazes over the heads of those seated below and then
to Do. Her smile deepens and her shoulders relax. Her gaze is fixed on him
until another name is read and another member stands, blocking her view. Her
eyes wander across the faces seated below. She smiles at each until she comes
to the young man and then a frown and she looks away into an abyss.
Do is watching this.
He has been aware of a relationship between these two for weeks. He knows
because he’s felt it in himself and sees these feelings in the young man. He
thought, after his castration, that feelings for worldly desires would go away
and mostly they did, but Sherry is sweet, stunning, a goddess. He is
protective, wary. She is not for this world but only after the voyage is
complete. He wants her to himself.)
I’m off the back climbing Holly Hill. My decision to follow
Willett has put me in a hole. The big group is 15 seconds ahead. There are five,
maybe six guys in between and it looks like we’re going to catch most of them. I’m
tired but I’m not tapped. I’m with another six guys. I’m 34-years-old. There’s
a couple guys here my age who aren’t doing so well. They won’t make it. I can tell.
Their posture. They’re chopping at the pedals. And it’s too bad. I know guys
this age, if they’ve been racing a while, they know how to roll a rotating
paceline.
A rotating paceling. It’s the most effective way to make
time over flat or downhill roads. You’ve got have at least five guys to do it
right. Four guys? Not enough. Not for a long steady haul. Two guys on the left going
a little slower than two guys on the right. The whole thing rotating counter
clockwise if the wind is from the left. With a fifth rider, there’s always someone
pushing wind from the space between the two lines. If you’re reasonably tight,
the air between the two lines: it moves with you. The exposure is cut almost in
half. Just the outside is getting buffeted by wind. With four riders, maybe you
can make it work for a short clip, but you better be tight. Three riders? Doable,
yes but only for short explosive efforts and only if you’re touching elbows like
it’s a TTT.
I’m thinking about jumping, considering crossing alone because
I don’t like the make up this this group. There’s still 500 meters to the top of
Holly Hill and the big group is close enough to throw a Nerf football across
to, but it’s going to tap me and I might not make it anyway. I see Steve
Higgins. He sees me and he’s nodding his head yes. I learn later he dropped his
chain at the foot of the hill. He’s strong and good at calculating these
things. At 44, he’s got more than 100 pro-level races in him. There’s also a
big guy who looks like he might be an engine in the chase. He’s younger, but
it’s an established team he’s on. Broadmark Capital. He looks smooth and powerful,
but heavy. Maybe 180 pounds. Looks like he could kill it in a crit. Like
Higgins, I begin nodding my head too. I like this group and I decide to bank my
chances with it.
We tip over the top of the climb. Someone yells, “EEEleven
seconds!” The Big Guy takes the helm. He is chugging. I was right. He’s good. We
are hauling 34 mph downhill but the big group is going just as fast. Single
file in front of us. We will not make it back until they slow down and spread
out across the road. The Big Guy pulls left after more than a minute. He is strong,
an emotional kid and he barks, “You better not fucking jump me. You better not
fucking jump.”
It’s the furthest thing from my mind. I take a good pull at
the same speed but for less than half his duration. It’s all I can do. Higgins
pulls through and does the same. The next guy solo attacks. What is he thinking? I’m too tired to ask.
The next guy pulls through and immediately swings left. Another does the same. Four
more are sitting on the paceline and not because they’re waiting to play their
cards. I can see. They have no cards to play. And so I rotate through again. And
then Higgins. And then the two who just swing off and then Big Guy hits the
front hard. Another 30-plus mph pull for more than a minute. Halfway through
his pull we catch the solo attacker going backwards. Haggard. Mouth agape. He
does not look well.
Big Guys says in a nasty whisper, “You’re a fucking imbecile.”
(In the living room,
everyone stands. The announced ten surround Do and everyone else surrounds
them. Do is lightly touching their heads with his fingertips when he shouts,
“Rejoice!” Members embrace the ten and then disperse. They move like robots.
Like under a spell. They’re not always like this. Out in the world they’re just
as normal as can be. Doing business. Closing deals. Bemoaning the Padres.
The young man watches.
Sherry is robotic as well and she walks past inches away. She will not look at
him. He already knows this.
She wasn’t happy when he
showed up at The Ranch six months ago. She didn’t recognize him at first, the
father of her only child. Three days passed and he approached. She looked
straight into his face without recognition for more than a minute shaking her
head until something inside broke like water and she fell crying uncontrollably
on the kitchen floor. Members ran in but quickly left. It was nothing out of
the ordinary. A day seldom passed when a Heaven’s Gate member didn’t collapse
into tears somewhere on The Ranch.
It was another week before
he talked to her again. She would not say a word, would not listen but she knew
why he was there. She hadn’t thought about it for so long and he didn’t say the
word, but she knew. He was there to take her home.)
It’s 10 minutes and we are still chasing. I’m tired and
having doubts. Nothing has changed: 11 seconds behind mostly a single-file peloton;
the Big Guy taking long hard pulls; Higgins and I pulling roughly half his
load; two guys just rotating through and the rest sitting on. I’m on the Big
Guy’s wheel when he looks over his shoulder squarely into my eyes. It is jarring
but to his front I see what he sees. The field is spread across the road. A
steep sprinter’s hill rises in front of them. The Big Guy taps his hip. I look
over my shoulder at Higgins and tap mine. He nods. We’re going across.
The Big Guy is letting a wheel length open between him and
the rider in front. The guy to his left-front cocks his head at the same time
Big Guy stands on it.
And I stand on it.
And Higgins stands on it.
And we are flying up through the paceline and there is
nothing they can do. Two guys hang their heads as we hammer by. I know it’s not
right, but after we’re clear I look back for just a second. One guy is pounding
the top of his bars with his fist. The rest are spread across the road looking
at each other, trying to understand what just happened and hoping someone can
do something about it.
But no one answers the call.
I’m spinning up to speed, a sprint to Big Guy’s wheel. I’m locked
on now but it isn’t easy and I hurt and he does another long hard pull that gets
us halfway across. I come through. My legs have something but they won’t last long
at this speed. I have to swing off. Higgins comes through. He’s in about the
same shape. Big Guy pulls through and now we’re rotating. Our wheels,
shoulders, hips are inches apart. We’re tight despite great fatigue. Big Guy
comes through and I accelerate off his wheel and swing off for the fourth time.
“It’s do or die,” he says as I go by. “Do or die.” Higgins comes through. Then
the Big Guy again and this time he brings us up to speed. He aims to close it.
I’m in the drops, head down looking at his rear hub when I see a lone rider
from the big group under my shoulder going backwards. Then another. I can tell
we’re on the hill now but I see only the hub. I’m fixated on it.
It’s red. Mavic Helium. Flangeless. Beautiful. One of my
favorites. I like the way the stainless steel straight-pull spokes radiate from
the hub body. And I like the brushed finish and I’m about 15 seconds from
blowing up and I can’t believe this guy is still pulling.
He’s carrying our speed into the group, staying in the
saddle and then standing and then suddenly he’s over extended. I can see it.
He’s chopping at his pedals. It’s getting ugly. I have to go around or lose
momentum. I want to put my hand in the small of his back and push but if I do I’ll
push myself right out the back of this group. I go by him. There’s nothing I
can say or do. A war veteran told me once that even good guys die on the battlefield.
Those words echo through my head as I find a place in the group now on the
downhill and I take a second to mourn the loss of Big Guy. He will live to
fight another day. Just not this day.
(Do stands in the
living room, arms outstretched. He smiles as the young man approaches.
“I thought Sherry was
going in the third wave?”
“It has changed,” Do
says. “She is looking forward to her voyage. And I am looking forward to
joining her.”
“But we talked. I need
her design skills. On that project before she leaves. You know I’m not a
designer. I don’t have that eye.”
“Jim, Tom is the
better designer. He leaves on the third wave. Use him… And Jim. Rejoice. Send
your brothers and sisters off with a smile. They’re leaving in 10 minutes and
you’ll never see them again. Pull yourself together and come wish them well.”)
I am tucked in the draft of the peloton. Near the front it
is dicey but not too hard. We are crossing an open space. It’s a clear cut. The
Hood Canal is near but there is no wind. There are maybe 40 riders left. Dewato
Hill is our next objective. After that it’s smooth sailing, mostly downhill, ten
kilometers to the finish. But getting over Dewato with the group will not be
easy for me. There are guys here who will flatten this climb. Russell Stevenson
or maybe the new kid from Oregon, Evan Elken. My name isn’t on the list. Even
fresh I can’t climb at the pace these guys will ascend this hill. My legs are
feeling it. Earlier I told myself that the chase did me good. Cleared things
out. But as the words formed my head I knew it was not true. Even if everything
had gone perfectly, this course, like my first wife, does not forgive.
If Holly Hill is the bookend on the left Dewato is the one
on the right. In between are the Books of
Cycling: The Book of Crosswinds; The Book of Sprinter Hills; The Book of Slick Roads; The Book of Crossed Wheels. Each tells a
rider’s story, sometimes tortured. But these narratives fall on deaf ears. No one is around for miles. If the roads here are
for any purpose other than servicing the forests, it’s a mystery to me. No
homes. No farms. Just Mother Nature
stretching her lovely, strong, unforgiving arms in every direction.
Last year I made it to Dewato in the big group. Maybe there
were 40 of us left. I rode a perfect race. Felt good. Dodged crashes. Chased
back on twice but when I got to Dewato it was one hill too many and I got dropped
halfway up. I was alone, chasing a chase group that was behind a chase group chasing
a chase group. Now Dewato towers in front of me. We are at her foot and I pray
to the cycling Gods. A feeling develops in the pit of my stomach. I’m not sure
I can do this.
(It’s evening at The
Ranch. The young man stands in the kitchen, palms down on the granite counter,
head hung but not defeated. Like a cyclist in a race over his head, he’s
looking for a wheel.
In less than 10 minutes
10 souls will form a line. They will be dressed in black sweat suits and
wearing matching Nikes. They will take a handful of capsules. Cyanide and arsenic.
They will wash them down with vodka, lie in bunks and wait for their voyage to
begin.
A call to the police
would delay only the inevitable. Somewhere in outer space there’s another comet
on its way. The voyage would be rescheduled. The flock would tell the police
whatever Do told them to tell the police. The capsules? Down the toilet. The
young man knows his mentor. There’s always a backup plan. Always an escape
route.
The stakes are high.
The wheels are flying by. He’s looking for one moving at the right speed. Wasn’t
there something he was supposed to do? He pulls the notepad from his pocket. “C0/Fire
alarm off.” His eyes wander and suddenly snap to attention. He pulls the
business card from his pocket. There’s a phone on the wall. He picks it up and
dials.
“You have reached
Western Hills Security. For a customer service representative, press one…” )
I’m halfway up Dewato and I’m going backwards. But it’s okay.
On the flat roads leading up to the climb I positioned myself close to the
front without being on the front and now, on the climb, I go up slower as riders
pass.
And they start to do so in single file. This is not the
frenzied pace of Holly Hill. Yes, there are guys on the font putting it down. I
can see Stevenson. I recognize his style. And skinny Rusty Beal. But I can only
watch for a few seconds as their outlines grow smaller against the horizon. I
wonder who will win. This course favors either the best climber who can sprint
or the best sprinter who can climb. Climbers like Stevenson and Beal are on the
front playing their hand. Sprinters like Williams and Littlehales are behind following
wheels playing theirs. If the climbers can’t separate from the sprinters, the
sprinters will shepherd them to the line like sheep to slaughter.
Behind the winners, all is single file, quiet except for labored
breathing. I count 15 riders in front of me. It’s time to start looking for a
wheel. I let a few more riders go by. I look over my shoulder. Higgins is near.
I’ll take his wheel when he rolls by. We’re both going the same today. A wheel
passes followed by a gap where I expect to see Higgins. I look back. Higgins.
He’s chopping at his pedals. His head is hung deep between his shoulders. He’s
not going to make it. Behind him riders are scattered in ones and twos weaving.
The wheel in front of me, the gap grows to two, now three bike lengths. I stand
but my weight does not go into my pedals. It goes into my bars, into the palms
of my hands. My legs fail. I fall hard on my saddle. The bike wobbles. I try
again and again I’m back in the saddle.
I didn’t see this coming so early on the climb. I am done now
and my eyes un-focus and wander. My chin comes up. My shoulders squeeze
together and on the side of the road I see standing like critical spectators three
Steller’s Jays.
Steller’s Jays. I
am hallucinating. These are not coastal birds. There are no conifers nearby.
It’s a clear cut. But I hear Jim’s voice:
They are crested like a cardinal… What
they lack in size they make up for in tenacity and planning. My hair stands
on end. Electric. The wheel I want is still near. Within reach, I think.
I am not done. I click to a smaller gear. My eyes re-focus.
I spin it up, grunt, stand and slam it down into a bigger gear and I’m there
and I’m hanging on and we’re tipping over the top and I look back and Higgins
is on my wheel and we’re the last guys on.
(The young man stands in
the garage pondering a disc-shaped smoke and CO detector above the door that
leads to the kitchen. He pushes a doorbell button beside the door. The garage door
cranks opens. He walks to the mini-van, starts it and backs in. Stepping out, he
closes the garage door and ponders the detector and the exhaust coming from the
mini-van.
He shakes his head. It’s
not enough.
He looks around the
garage. There’s a stack of 20lb bags of rice. He lifts one. Opens the mini-van drive
side door and drops the bag on the accelerator. The engine roars. Loud. Blue exhaust
rises. The young man again ponders the detector. Ringing his hands. Tapping his
foot. Come on. Come on. The kitchen door opens. A man pokes his head out.
“Jim, what’s going on?”
But the young man
doesn’t take his eyes off the detector until: BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEP!
“Get out of the way!”
The young man pushes
through the door. In the living room Do is at a console feverishly pushing
buttons. The alarm is deafening.
“Jim! I told you to
turn off the fire detector!”
“I know! But I changed
the code instead!”
“You did what! Why
would you do that? Give me the code!”
“Give me Sherry!”
“Jim, we don’t have
time for this!”
“You’re right! Police
and fire are on their way!”
“God damnit, Jim! Give
me the fucking code!”
The young man stares
at Do sternly.
Do takes a deep breath
and says, “Somebody get Sherry!”
“Say this, Do! Say,
Sherry, go with Jim. It is God’s will! Say it!”
Sherry runs up.
Do says, “Sherry, go
with Jim!...”
“Say it!”
“It is God’s will! Go
with Jim!”
Sherry is confused. Her
eyes dart to and from the faces that surround her. To Do. And she stops. Her
face is a question mark.
“It’s God’s will!” he
says.
The young man takes her by the hand. He takes
the Walkman from Do. He puts the headphones on Sherry’s ears and turns the machine
on, the volume up. They head for the door.
“Jim! The code! The
code!”
“Seven, seven, seven!”
Do punches in the code
as the young man and Sherry walk briskly to the garage. The alarm stops.
“Sherry, come back.
It’s not God’s will! It’s not! Jim is not the prophet here!”
But she cannot hear
him. Just the Bee Gees: How Deep is Your Love.
The young man puts her
in the mini-van passenger seat and closes the door. He throws the rice on the
ground. They drive down the street of mansions overlooking San Diego. She looks
over to him. She removes the Walkman. Her eyes fill with tears.
“Home?”
Eyes fixed on the road,
he says, “Yes. Home.”)
I’m sitting in my car. It’s running. Doors closed. Heater on. Windows fogged. I’m
damp. Cold, but the creases of my mouth are up. The race is over. Williams won.
I finished 22nd, Higgins 18th. I’m fine with the outcome.
When the pace ramped up for the sprint I opted out. No chance to place. A bad
attitude, I know. I knew it when it happened. But I’m okay with it. I’ve learned to accept
my limits given certain situations.
I look at my cell phone on the dash. One missed call. I don’t recognize the number.
Twenty minutes ago.
Twenty minutes ago.
My eyes dart around the inside of the car. RPM. Cigarette
lighter. Radio, but I see none of it.
Twenty minutes ago.
I was on Dewato 20 minutes ago. I ask Higgins later and he says
he never saw the Steller’s Jays on the side of the road.
Twenty minutes ago.
My pulse quickens. I pick up my phone. I ring the number
back.
My brother’s voice answers, “Hello.”
My eyes fill with tears. I can hardly speak.
“Jim.”
There’s a pause.
And then, “Hey, brother.”
--30--
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