The Boy and His Bike

a

short

story

by

J.P.Z

A man, named Elliot, spoke. He asked the boy, dead on the ground, if he could take his place. The red bicycle lay scattered, broken, like the boy, along the asphalt. The truck seemed to steam, its heat and anger so large, foreign, alien. It did not belong here; it was to blame. All those present, the selected, hated the truck as they prayed for the red bike and the red boy. Let me take your place, says the man, says Elliot, again. Up, up, we go as the dismal scene wavers on. The ambulance is a few blocks away. Late. It could only have been late. It was always late; there is no on time, or early; for the boy was Elliot’s envy: dead. Instantly. All slows, and all fades. Buildings rise up; windows tossing us light from the so far sun as their warmth fills, fills, fills, white.

***

You know that feeling you get when something bad is going to happen? It’s called a premonition or sometimes it’s called mother’s intuition. Well, Elliot has that feeling all the time. The feeling that death is on his shoulder at every moment.

I guess it doesn’t help that he works in a factory, where metal is moving, fire is leaping, wheels turning. Where accidents happen and where Elliot really could die at any time.

His mother tells him to get a different job and he gives her the same excuses.

“There really aren’t any jobs, Mother.”

Or “Switch my job in this economy, Mother?”

But the truth is:

Elliot doesn’t know any other way to live.

*

A red flash. A scratch, a bite, a tear. Rushing that fills the ears. Rain-drenched. Soggy shoes. A red blur, a crumple, a catch, a break.

Elliot woke, hot with sweat. It was the dream. The dream he had on bad nights. Rain tore at the window. Elliot flinched as thunder boomed the distance. He looked around the dark room and saw nothing but black, and a sea green and mint-blue 4:21 to his left.

He was thirsty. He lifted his covers and turned to drape his feet over the wood floor. They dropped and touched the ground. The familiar cold of the floor didn’t pinch like it should have. Elliot felt the usual fingers of panic begin to creep. Why is the floor warmer than usual? Is there a fire? The panic instantly ice-cold and stabbing. He pushed it away. No.

No, fires are loud monsters. The whoosh and they snarl. Fire is not one for sneaking.

The cold stabbing of the panic left with relief. Though fingers continued to creep, like they always did.

Casting aside the odd fluctuation in the floor temperature to a hope that it was from the generosity of his heating vents, Elliot applied his weight to his feet and stood.

He breathes heavily. Something is wrong. Well, nothing is actually wrong; Elliot is just having a panic attack. Not a strange occurrence, actually quite common for our character. You’ll see.

He stands in the hallway by his front door. Entryway if you will. The door is unlocked. Oh God, didn’t he lock it? Did someone else get in? It’s ice cold, the walls fluctuate with Elliot’s heart. They pull in then out. Out then in.

Of course, he simply forgot to lock the door; and of course no burglar or thief or murderer or insane person or animal or monster got in. Those would be improbable, and we’re looking for impossible here. Keep up, please.

But Elliot didn’t know any of this. He only knew that he was about to die at any moment. Let us see a few examples of what he’s thinking. He’s in the kitchen now. Okay. Go.

Somebody’s in here. They have a knife and are plunging it in my stomach. Stuck, stick, split.

The burner has been releasing gas. It’s going to blow. Heat, pressure, bang.

The fridge is tilting and is going to fall and kill me. Balance, no.

The fan is going to malfunction, speed up, fly off, and slice off my head.

The fan is on. Sweet death let me be!

Those are just a few of the eighty-three thoughts, I know I counted, that waltzed through Elliot’s mind, during the twelve seconds he stood in the kitchen. None of them came true.

Stillness, calmness, coolness. Breathe, Elliot, breathe. Breathe. Come on, Elliot, breathe, you know it helps. So he did, and so he calmed.

See. His panic attacks, well death attacks, as I like to call them, eventually end. He lifts his covers, gets into bed, is exhausted, drenched in sweat, and sleeps. Fairly well actually.

Good night Elliot.

*

“I just don’t understand why you don’t find a new job, Elliot, honey.” said Elliot’s lavender mother.

“This is delicious lasagna, mother.”

“I mean it’s just so dangerous. You could get hurt any moment in that awful place!”

“And good salad, too..”

“Couldn’t you just ask the foreman to transfer you to a safer department?”

“I like the new paint job, too, looks good.”

“I’m sure they would understand. That shouldn’t be too much to ask. I would allow you to transfer in a second, what with how smart you are.”

“Let me help you with that, Mom.” So they both stood at the sink doing dishes, like they would when he was younger. Elliot loved washing dishes. The hot water warming up his hands, then in turn his whole body. Most of all he loved to scrub a dish completely clean. Every crumb and debris eradicated from the dish till it was new. Brand new.

I hate washing dishes. I despise it, absolutely despise it. I get too hot, and I hate when my hands are wet and not either getting more wet or drying off.

But there they went making each dish newer than it was before, until Elliot’s lavender mother said, “How have you been with your.. your.. have you had any attacks?”

Elliot takes a while to answer and I can tell he’s debating whether he should tell her or not.

After some time, “Yeah, just last night..”

“Oh, Elly..” she says turning to look at him, like he was glass. “It’s been so long, you’ve been doing so well.”

“It’s the third in a month.”

“Oh dear, so it’s getting worse.”

Elliot dries off his hands, brand new hands, and sits at the table, not answering.

Elliot’s lavender mother joins him, takes his hand, and quietly says, “I know a doctor you should see.”

The sink is still running. I want to turn it off.

*

Tan walls. Three degrees framed. A book shelf, a couch, a chair, a desk. Smelled like leather and aftershave. Nothing else.

The doctor looked a doctor. Picture a doctor. That’s the doctor Elliot’s lavender mother chose for him, but his glasses are a little smaller than that and he shaves closer. He spoke slowly and clearly and with a slight downward inflection. All I could think is that Elliot’s lavender mother had recommended a terrible doctor. The whole time. But who really knows, the appointment provided good information about what Elliot was going through and so on, but all Elliot heard was:

“This can easily be taken care of with some medication.”

Some medication.

I’m going to be giving you some medication.

We will be medicating you.

Medication will fix you.

Taken care of by medication.

Some medication.

Some medication.

Medication was going to kill Elliot. He knew it. He just knew it.

“And also, when you have another attack I suggest going for a walk.”

A walk huh? A fucking walk bullshit… Actually that’s a good idea.

Elliot left with a walk in his head and a prescription in his hand.

*

It’s always the worst early in the morning; waking up alone, driving in the dark, shuffling through the maze of metal monsters.

There’s the conveyor belt. It’s a snake. A never-ending snake, always slithering, always eating. Its scales grippy and rough. It pulls, it pulls, it pulls.

Its mouth opens to a furnace of lava. Heat, steam, and smoke billow out engulfing anything that enters its wake. The read coals stare out always, never blinking. They are always hungry, always eating.

Chains tangle themselves on one end of the factory floor. They coil and curl, searching for thumbs and pointer fingers to nibble off.

The lathe with its many eyes and arms that jot out waiting to strike from any direction.

Then there’s the grinder with its mouth yearning, always open, waiting to devour: a leg, an arm, a life, a waste of space.

Plenty of pressure gauges, thermometers, calibers, testers, turners, and knobs. Harmless enough, but Elliot knew one miss turn, or misread and the days without injury sign would flicker back to zero. Yet again.

I can’t feel fear anymore, and even I was afraid.

The men are kind but quiet. They trade Elliot a good morning and wish him a smile.

The foreman swivels and observes like a hawk. But a hawk sees only the mice.

It’s always the worst in the morning. But the machines sort of sing and Elliot gets into a rhythm. A rhythm and nothing falls apart. Nothing breaks, eats, or bites. Elliot screws in his four screws every twenty seven seconds, I counted, in his calm and his rhythm.

He daydreams away from the monsters. To a beach with his father, a red pail, a baseball glove, a picnic table with crinkly splitting wood, and the peach with the purple pit.

Elliot’s rhythm breaks as she walks in. Something strange happens. Even though his protective rhythm is broken he doesn’t hear death over his shoulder, he doesn’t fear everything, and he doesn’t despise himself. But instead he fears for her life. So the same panic is there but, yet, it’s still different. Elliot didn’t know why but I know why.

It’s because it was perfect. That moment. That moment, that second, when Elliot first saw her, his snowflake; it was perfect. And if anything were to happen it didn’t matter. He’d seen his snowflake.

A snowflake in a shower of dust.

And she was beautiful. She had a certain fireplaceness. She didn’t not belong anywhere. She fit exactly where she was, everywhere she was; she never didn’t look right. She was every single lost puzzle piece to every puzzle. Elliot liked her mouth. Her small Mona Lisa mouth that always had a wrinkle of a smile left on it. I could never tell if it was just a leftover smile spread across her lips or if the next smile was just locked away trying to get out. I know her face well; I can picture it if I close my eyes. It’s doing it. Her smiling thing. Where her small Mona Lisa like mouth can’t figure out whether it wants to laugh or sing.

The first thing she sees is Elliot and his dimples and his cowboy eyes and she likes him. And that’s all I know.

Snowflake is to observe the workers for some time then interview each individually.

Elliot is excited and afraid and confused and excited. His screws take forty-three seconds instead of twenty-seven. I know I counted.

He watches as the other men go into a room upstairs, then out again. They don’t look any different. Didn’t they know they were with a snowflake? Each one is different you know. Sometimes I wonder if other planets could snow different colors. Imagine an amber snowflake, a forest green snowflake, an indigo snowflake. Then I just think they’re best as they are. The color snowflake.

The men file through like boring rag dolls and suddenly Elliot is called.

Strange things happen to a man always drenched in fear that swiftly fears nothing. His stomach fills up with fire and his heart is bigger than the moon and he has courage. He’s never had courage before so he doesn’t know that normal people hide their courage because it makes them do things that aren’t normal and it makes them feel things that aren’t normal. Courage doesn’t fit in a shoebox on a shelf with a label.

So Elliot’s courage walks into the room and says,

“Will you have dinner with me tonight?” right as the snowflake says, “Yes.”

She says yes of course, she knew he would ask the second his courage filled the room.

Elliot had his snowflake.

They chat the rest of the interview about boring things I didn’t care much about, though they cared. I liked, though, the way they buzzed and hummed while they spoke to each other. Like bees making honey. Then their half hour was up and, still buzzing, they returned to work, after agreeing on where to meet at seven.

I don’t know the details of the date. I wasn’t allowed to go, but I know it went well. Really well. I remember snowflake came home giggling.

She never giggled. She only ever almost giggled, with her Mona Lisa like mouth.

*

Elliot was happy, with his snowflake and little red pills that actually worked, for two months.

Then his little red pills ran out.

Then his snowflake had to cancel a date.

Then his dinner tasted stale.

Then Elliot was afraid. Again.

Elliot was afraid for the first time since his snowflake and the pills. His life was going great, and now everything was about to kill him. Everything was about to fall and squish him, jump out and stab him, fly off and slice him.

The panic fingers spread and clawed.

A walk.

The doctor had said take a walk.

I don’t know.

Elliot, take a walk.

Re-fill your prescription. Remember, they actually work.

It’ll be fine.

A walk.

Take a walk.

That’s how Elliot convinced himself. It’s raining outside.

Of course it’s raining. It’s always fucking raining. I could slip and break my neck. I will slip and break my neck. I will.

A walk.

Elliot walks through the easy rain. The streets flicker and flack as the light refracts at different angles as Elliot moves.

The walk isn’t working. Elliot’s terrified. Pinching, falling, scraping, slipping, gnawing; they each follow and taunt him. But the meds will help so he hurries. The pharmacy closes soon. The panic grows.

A boy, a young boy, is a red blur. He’s on a red bike weaving through the streets; he swerves around people, dogs, cars, the raindrops.

Hurry Elliot.

People move to get out of the boy’s way, but not with hurry or annoyance, just with expectancy, for they know what it is to be a boy and his bike. Everybody should know what it is to be a boy and his bike.

Hurry Elliot.

A walk, just a walk.

The boy is a needle and continues pulling his thread, weaving through cars, seemingly increasing his danger ten-fold.

The rain glints.

The meds will help.

Elliot hurries.

Elliot turns the corner, and the boy and his bike fly past him, a blur of red. The red strikes a chord in Elliot as he remembers the dreams. Clarity dawns his face as he sees everything slower than it should be and he understands what he must do.

Two trucks are down the street filled to the brim with young men, still boys by Elliot’s reckoning. Their light turns green, filling the rain scattered streets turquoise, as the trucks take off in a race.

Elliot’s fear is gone, it doesn’t exist. It holds no relevance in this moment, because it never did. Not when he’s lived this moment so many times in blurs and scratches. He knew that this was the moment, the single point in his whole life, his whole otherwise meaningless existence, that he was meant for.

And he saw it with such clarity, like glass after rain, that when he leapt a trash can and bounded after the boy and his bike, it wasn’t skill or instinct that told his body exactly how to move; it was a rehearsal. He was merely doing what he knew

he must do

he could do

he would do.

His lean factory built muscles shifted and bent and worked as he tackled the boy and his bike to safety.

Elliot turned and saw the headlights he knew were there, just as they tore at him and killed him instantaneously. He knew in that instant that he had lived his miserable life all the way through for this single, beautiful purpose.

***

I used to dream a recurring dream of red blurs and rain. Of being ripped apart. Of being broken. And then a man, with cowboy eyes, a man, named Elliot, spoke. He ask me his question, the question he was given. He asked me, dead on the ground, could he take my place and I answered,

“Yes.”

Because that is the answer I was given.

And that is the story of how Elliot, the man who feared, the man who spoke, saved my life. Saved the son of a snowflake.