David Hansen

Killer Bike

            There’s this guy and he’s staring at my bike. I get that a lot. It’s a killer bike.

            “Nice bike,” he says.

            “Nice girl,” I say.

            Because he’s got this girl with him.

            “Why I oughta . . . ” he says, rolling up a sleeve.

            Vroooom!

            A little later I catch another guy staring. Some old fart at the Dixon’s, just goggling, like I’m someone in a dream he’s having.

            “Can I help you, mister?” I say.

            “I remember when I was at where you’re at,” he says.

            It blows my mind that people talk this way. To strangers, no less. Strangers who are just popping into the Dixon’s, getting a little gas, trying to live their lives.

            “And where am I at,” I say.

            “You know where you’re at,” he says.

            “You’re right,” I say. “I do. But do you. That’s the question.”

            “You’re at where I was at when I was your age,” he says.

            “That is very clever of you,” I say. “But that’s not where I am.”

            “Well, wherever you’re at,” he says, “you’re doing something right.” He points at my bike. She’s over there, at the pump, waiting for me to come back to her.

            How I’d love to tell this schmuck. Tell him how I got that bike. Watch his face fall.

            “Oh,” he’d say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

            “That’s right,” I’d say, “you didn’t know. You just opened your big fat mouth and talked.”

            “You’re right,” he’d say. “I did.”

            “You never know what people have going on,” I’d say.

            “I’ll be more considerate next time,” he’d say.

            “You better,” I’d say, saddling up. “The next guy might not be as nice as me.”

            But I don’t say any of this. I just get my gas and go.

            Later on, I pull up next to a guy. He’s on a bike, too. It’s pretty killer. All black with metal flake and a futuristic spoiler over the rear wheel.

            On the back of his bike is a girl. She’s hugging him around the waist. She’s got long, long hair, and big sunglasses, even though it’s nighttime. She looks so cool.

            “Nice bike,” I say.

            “You too,” they say. Then, they say, “Don’t worry. You’ll make it. You’ll be all right. You just keep doing what you’re doing.” Like they can read my mind. They salute me and the light turns green and that bike just explodes off the line. It blasts ahead, into the darkness, and disappears.

            “Wow,” I think, that one little word a peephole into whatever.

            I putter around town for a while, thinking about them. I want to think a big thought, but all I can think is, “They must be halfway to China by now,” which feels like someone else’s thought.

            I go all over with this bike. Uptown, downtown, wherever. I pull up in front of nice outdoor bars and just sit, astride this bike, visor down, engine ticking, ting ting ting, like a badass. I go to this snooty place with boulevard tables on the main drag. I pull up, sit back, let my bike just purr.

            “Why don’t you shut that thing off,” says a guy, sticking a finger in his ear.

            He’s a real pencilneck. He’s at a boulevard table with other pencilnecks. They’re talking business, I bet. How to screw over the little guy.

            “Why don’t you come over here and shut it off for me,” I say.

            And I rev it. This bike’s got a real fine whine. Fourteen-hundred ccs of liquid-cooled power. My ears burn when I rev it, even here, inside my helmet.

            A waiter comes over to me, carrying a drink tray under his arm. Kind of a burly guy. You can tell he wasn’t always a waiter.

            “Hey, hey,” he says, really quiet, like he speaks my language.

            “Hey yourself,” I say.

            “This is a nice place,” he says.

            I look around. Over the boulevard tables there’s a trellis with fake ivy growing on it. The fake ivy is sprouting big red berries. But ivy doesn’t grow berries.

            “It is, isn’t it,” I say.

            “We don’t want any trouble from you,” he says.

            “Nor I from you,” I say.

            “So move along, huh?” he says. “Move along?”

            Everyone’s looking at us. Their pupils are aglow, like when you shine a light in a dog’s eyes.

            Now I cast my mind back, away from this lousy moment, to the good old days. In the good old days, it wouldn’t be like this. In the good old days, I’d be on a big black horse, this waiter would still be a waiter, these pencilnecks still pencilnecks.

            “What can I do for you, mister?” this waiter would say.

            “I’d like a room,” I’d say. Then, thinking a bit bigger, I’d say, “A room and a girl.”

            “Yessiree.”

            I’d leave my horse with him. He’d take her gently, reverently by the reigns and lead her away.

            Inside, there’d be a poker game going. A poker game with some real tough hombres.

            “Deal me in,” I’d say, sitting down.

            And I’d clean them all out.

            One of the hombres would get sore about it.

            “I don’t like it,” he’d say, chewing on the end of his nasty cigarillo.

            “I don’t blame you one bit,” I’d say, dragging the big pile of chips my way.

            “Know what I think?” he’d say. “I think you’re holding out. That’s what I think.”

            And I’d stop. Everyone would stop. The guy playing piano would stop, right in the middle of his song.

            “That’s a really serious accusation,” I’d say, giving him a chance to take it back. Because I don’t want to hurt this guy. I really don’t. I talk a good game, but inside, I’m a gentle soul. A pussycat.

            “Darn tootin’ it’s a serious accusation,” he’d say.

            “Your funeral,” I’d say.

            Out we’d go, into the street. The whole bar would come with. These pencilnecks, this waiter, everyone.

            “All right, gentlemen,” the waiter would say, standing aside, like a referee. “On three.”

            Up ahead of me, I see the tough old hombre in the moonlight. He’s shaking. Because he might die, and he doesn’t want to. Who does?

            “One . . . two . . . three!”

            And pow!

            I shoot the gun right out of his hand, spin my gun on my finger, slip it back into my holster.

            Everyone goes wild. They’ve never seen shooting like this. The pencilnecks throw their hats in the air. Even the hombre comes up to me, tips his hat.

            “Mighty decent of you,” he says.

            “No better than you deserve,” I say, tipping my hat right back.

            Up in my room, there’s a girl waiting for me. A pretty girl with long, long hair, in fancy lace underwear, and black stockings that come up only partway.

            “Hey, loverboy,” she says.

            But I’m not in the mood just now. I’m in a mood, but it’s not that mood. I sit on the edge of the bed, looking out the little window, into the night.

            “Don’t talk much, do you,” she says, tickling the nape of my neck.

            “Leave me be,” I say. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

            What’s weird is, I don’t want her to leave me be. Yet I say I do. What’s with that?

            “Suit yourself,” she says.

            And she snuggles down into this big red easy chair with huge wings and opens her book, a paperback. She’s halfway done with it. It’s called Master at Arms. Its pages have bright yellow edges.

            I think about my past. I don’t mean to. I’m not a guy who thinks about his past all the time. But sometimes my past forces me to think about it. My past is a wind, and it whips up every rotten thing I’ve ever done, blows them right in my face.

            My side of it is, I had my reasons for doing the things I’ve done. Other people forced my hand, most of the time. So why do they weigh on me like this, these things I was forced into doing? Why do I carry them from town to town, into my dreams, even?

            My brother, too. I think about him. I think about him a lot. A lot a lot. He was a complex guy for sure. He was no angel. When his ex talks shit about him, or his kids—my nieces—or anyone, when they talk shit about him to me, I don’t say peep. Because, I get it. But still. He was my brother. It didn’t have to end how it ended. No one deserves that.

            Outside, I hear my horse breathe really heavy. Once, twice. She doesn’t like being tied up all night. She wants to run.

            It stirs my heart, to hear her, just to think of her. Because god almighty, I love that horse. And I want to run, too.

            “Hey,” I say to the girl. “Want to see something?”

            The girl shuts her book on her finger, to save her place.

            “Sure do,” she says.

            I bring her over to the window, pull the curtain back.

            “See that horse?” I say, pointing down at my horse. “That’s my horse.”

            And my horse is so black, you can barely see her down there in the dark. You’d never see her at all, but for her eye, which is lit from the inside, like a cup with a candle in it, shining right back up at us.