The Last Studebaker. Robin Hemley
Bend's not a very good climate if you have sinus trouble,” Henry said. “The humid summers, the lake-effect snow.”
Sid took his hand away and stared at Henry. Then he let out a sharp laugh like a karate yell. He stood and wandered around Henry's bare room, ending up by the open closet. He stretched his arms and touched either side of the door frame, then lifted his head. To Henry, he looked like Samson about to make the temple come crashing down.
“Henry,” he said softly, “Come here.” Sid stepped aside from the doorway and pointed. “I want to show you something.”
“Sure thing,” Henry said, and joined his landlord at the closet door.
“What's this?” Sid said.
“Clothes.”
“I mean under the clothes.”
“A frying pan.”
“What's in the frying pan?” Sid said. “That's what I want to know.”
Henry extracted the frying pan from the closet. Inside, some gray lumps sat on a bed of hardened noodles. A fine green fuzz made a canopy over the top. Henry sniffed and drew back. “Beef Stroganoff, I think.”
Sid took the frying pan from Henry and lifted his index finger. “This is exactly what our meeting was about,” he said. “Buy your own refrigerator, tape your mouth shut, feed yourself intravenously. I don't care what it takes.”
Henry had never seen Sid so angry. He wondered if he was the cause. Henry thought Sid might have a heart seizure. “Don't worry,” Henry said.
“I will.”
“I'm sorry.”
“You sure are,” said Sid.
“I won't do it again,” Henry promised.
“Yes you will. I'm afraid you will.” Sid shook his finger at Henry and left the room. Henry knew what that shaking finger meant. He had one more chance. He could feel that shaking finger lingering in the air, chasing him wrathfully around the room like some disembodied cartoon finger. One more chance. Henry Martin, you pirate, you scoundrel, you rogue. One more chance to prove you're a normal human being.
Henry ran his bike down three flights of stairs, tires bouncing. Getting the bike out the front door could be a cumbersome process with only one working hand, but Henry had perfected it over the past few months. First, he balanced the bike against his body, let go of the handlebars, then flung the front door open. He whipped out the door and around the front of the bike, grabbing the handlebar at the same time. He braced the door open with his shoulders, flung it back again, and dragged the bike through the door. Outside, he bolted across the porch and scrambled down the front steps.
All this for a cup of coffee. He just wanted a chance to wake up before getting hold of himself, before changing his life, taking responsibility. He didn't want to keep disappointing Sid.
Instead of going directly to Macri's, he went in the opposite direction. He wasn't sure why. He just felt like it. Chance events, disconnected synapses, random neurons firing. These things ruled him.
Henry rode his ten-speed up Notre Dame Avenue to Howard Street. A Mustang passed and honked three times. He turned in its wake and rode in a straight shot down Howard, his bike in tenth gear. He felt his muscles burning as he pumped the pedals. He stood in his seat and took his left hand off the handle. He thrust his chin forward, as if he was bracing against a stiff wind, but the day was muggy and dead calm. The only motion in the air came from the cottonwood spores drifting like snow past him.
He rode past Niles Avenue and down the hill to the bottom, where Leeper Bridge crossed the St. Joseph River. He turned around and started climbing the hill, weaving slowly back and forth so he could make it up without stopping. Hard enough with two hands, the climb seemed nearly impossible with only his left. His veins bulged, but he didn't give up. Another car honked as it passed and someone whistled. They probably thought of him as a hazard, weaving that way. At least if he crashed or hit someone he'd only hurt himself.
He wished he could go faster. He enjoyed going fast on his bike. Of course, braking could be a problem. The left-hand brake stopped only the front wheel, so he had to pump the brake slowly to stop or else he'd tumble over the handlebars. That had happened several times, but he just couldn't stop himself from going fast. When he went slowly, he started remembering too much. He saw himself in the car, arguing with Carla. He remembered the interminable trip, the incredible heat. He remembered following some kind of antique car for miles, and what someone had written in dust on the back of its hood: Clean Me!
By the time he'd reached Niles Avenue, he was weaving from one side of the road to the other to maintain his balance. If a car had been coming over the hill, he wouldn't have been able to see it. He glistened in the heat and his hand kept slipping on the handle. He sang to himself like soldiers do when they're marching, loud bursts to match the rhythm of his bicycling. “Carla and Matthew,” he sang, a tuneless song. “Carla and Matthew.”
He turned down Niles Avenue and coasted down the hill. Now he could forget again. Life seemed easier and clearer, and he had that old feeling of limitless space in front of him. Every direction he traveled seemed West, every mile a new frontier. He knew he could go faster in a car, but right now, coasting down the hill felt fast enough. He didn't trust himself to go any faster.
As soon as Henry entered Macri's Bakery, he knew something was terribly wrong. The two gray-haired women behind the counter, usually so friendly, just stared at him. He looked down and saw he wore only his stretched-out B. V. D.'s with the pee stain in front and the rips in the rear. Henry and the women faced each other off without saying a word. The women looked like they were about to start dueling, one holding a loaf of Italian bread, the other a sausage.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I left something at home.” He walked sideways out the door so they wouldn't see the pee stain or the rips in his underwear.
On the bike ride back, he avoided the curious gazes of drivers as they passed, the hoots and whistles. He kept his eyes straight ahead and his jaw set, but he didn't feel too upset. This incident didn't concern him. He'd simply slipped up, made another minor error. Another oversight. Not a big deal. An accident.
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