Ol' Red

OL' RED
Carol St. Ann

W/C 1752

Steve grunted as he pulled back the heavy wooden doors of the rickety old barn that had doubled as his boyhood hideaway. Rubbing his back, he waited a second or two as the dust settled, and entered with caution. His concern for falling debris was matched by a state of brooding disquietude over the flood of memories now assailing him. Burying his grandfather was the hardest thing he'd ever done. Until now.

          As he wandered through the darkened structure, he could hear the frenzied scampering of its inhabitants while shafts of sunlight made the dust particles he'd stirred up shimmer and sparkle like stars forming a universe of their own. He stepped over tools and past an old tractor, saddles and tack, a steamer trunk, and an indeterminate amount of boxes, some dated as far back as 1939. Shaking his head as he brushed his hands against his trousers, he skimmed through sets of tools and turned the crank on an old RCA Victor phonograph to see if it would work.

          He decided to explore the barn alone before his brother arrived and the business of cataloging its contents became the order of the day. His breath caught in his throat as a glimpse of something red made everything else seem unimportant. Moving forward with a determined focus, he lifted boxes, crates, and barrels out of his way, clearing a path before he'd even realized what he had done.

          In no time, Steve's old bike stood before him like a time machine beckoning him back to days long forgotten. It had to be more than thirty years since he had laid eyes on it. He ran his hands along the cold metal fenders, now dull with age, remembering how they reflected the summer sun when his granddad gave it to him. He could still hear the old man's gravely voice telling him to open his eyes. It was a 1936 Elgin Bluebird, the coolest bike a kid could ever want.

          The corner of his mouth lifted as he fingered his initials in the seat before brushing off the dust. In another instant he swung his leg over with a moan, and bounced on the seat as he straddled it. “How about that, Red! Your springs’re still good,” he announced. He grabbed hold of the cracked rubber on the handlebars and thumbed the bell in spite of its crusted brown skin. The sound was more metal scraping on metal than the clear crisp jingle that peppered the soundtrack of his boyhood summers.

          Consumed with mischief, he thrust his heel back, pretending to flip up the kickstand. The action catapulted him back to 1954. The barn filled with deep, guttural sound effects as he leaned from left to right once again pretending he was Speed Racer and Red, his trusty motorcycle.

          He might have continued his nostalgic journey if he had not been yanked back to the present by the urgent flapping of the barn swallows who decided they'd had quite enough of this disturbance. Drawing his arms up and across his face, he waited for the conclusion of their hysterical winged aggression.

         “Well, Red,” he chortled, as he swung his leg back over the bike and snatched an old rag off the windowsill next to him. Wiping her down with long lingering strokes, he continued. “Seems I’m a might bit rusty, myself.”

          A tender smile overtook him as his eyes glazed over. The wind pressed into his face as sticky wet jeans and sneakers clung to his legs and feet as he rode side by side with his brother fast as they could, through every puddle, stream, or brook they could find. Daytime was for exploring natural pathways hidden deep in the woods and trying to out-race the onset of a thunderstorm with its ominous dark clouds setting lower and lower in the sky as the air turned cooler against his skin with each passing second. He’d have gotten caught in that storm if it hadn’t been for Red. After dad added a basket, he'd toss newspapers, one after the other, on his way to school. Red always got him there on time. That ol’ bike had been his boyhood companion, every bit as much, if not more so than his brother. It held all the same memories; knew all the same paths, and kept the secrets of the ones he should never have taken.

          Steve drew his thumb and forefinger inward across his eyelids and rested them on the bridge of his nose. How could he have forgotten?

          His eyes widened as he tossed the rag across the fender and brushed the dust from his sleeves and pants. Kicking a couple of old wooden crates out of his way, he buried his mouth and nose into his shoulder and squinted as the dust and dry dirt swirled around him in a chalky brownish cloud. He took hold of the handlebars once again and wheeled the old red bike out of the musty barn and into the mid-morning sun. Facing upward, he smiled. “How’s that, Ol’ Pal?" he spoke aloud. "Not a cloud in the sky. Bet that feels good.”

          He tried to lean the bike against the building, but each time he stood the bike against the dry wooden slats of the barn it slipped sideways as though it didn’t want him to let go. “You just stand right here,” Steve patted her lackluster fender. ”I’m gonna fix you up and take you home with me. Fine ol’ bike like you ought to have a boy, and I know just the one.”
__


          Steve angled his Range Rover into the parking spot and leaned over to lock the glove box. As he stepped out, he positioned the key in his fisted right hand with the pointed end jutting between his first two fingers. With an urgent gait, he made his way to Otis' Bike Shop avoiding eye contact with passers-by.

          He heaved a quiet sigh of relief as he grabbed the door handle and nearly bumped his face against the door's beveled glass when it refused to open. With a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes, he slipped the car key into the pocket of his jeans. He spit into his hands and rubbed them together. Holding the handle with his left hand, he pounded the latch with the heel of his right hand and threw his shoulders back as the heavy wood-frame door swung in submission.

          The bell above the door tinkled as Steve walked in. "Otis?"

          The old shopkeeper, who was huddled behind the counter over a mass of grimy bicycle parts, looked up and snarled.

          Steve called out again. “Otis, is that you? You still haven’t fixed that broken latch?”

          The old man, using his cane for leverage, stood and mumbled through unkempt yellowish beard and mustache, “Yeah, what’s it to ya? 'S my shop. 'S my door. You want some’um, or did you just come here to complain about the latch?”

          Steve looked around the shop. He couldn’t believe it looked exactly as it had when he was a boy. The lever-operated cash register was as big as an air conditioner. Bicycle parts were stored in disarray in barrels and wooden crates. The smell of new rubber and old leather combined with a fowl stench that permeated every square inch of the place.

          As Otis stepped from behind the cluttered counter, Steve remembered why, as a boy, he’d always preferred to ride the extra twenty minutes to the less well-stocked bike shop in Bakersfield. The old man’s moth eaten clothes were covered in grime. His fingernails were darkened, the tips black with filth, and his wrinkled skin a mass of creases inhabited by a dark malodorous sludge. Steve took out a piece of paper and recited the alphanumeric code he’d scribbled. The old man snatched the wrinkled scrap from his hand then thrust it back with a snort. “Inner tube. You can get it yourself. Aisle two, down the end. Well, go on. I ain’t your damn servant." The old man’s volume was bested only by the distance covered by projectory spittle.

          Steve blinked back the moisture in his eyes as he headed down aisle two seeking a box with matching code. Standing on his toes, he inched the box forward with the tips of his fingers lowering his face as debris rained down on him.

          He read the price on the box, and counted out the exact change. Holding the box up and calling out the price to Otis, he laid the money on the counter and offered a libelous, “Good t’see you again,” as he made his hasty exit.

          Steve eyes darted back and forth as he walked toward his car, brushing dust from his hair, shoulders, and sleeves. He'd just stepped off the curb and was about to cross the street diagonally when the deep tones of a familiar voice resonated from behind.

          “I had a feeling I might be running into you."

          As Steve slowed his pace and turned, smiling, bespectacled eyes met his as a warm hand welcomed his grasp. It had to have been fifteen years, but Pastor Joe hadn’t changed a bit, well, except that the Reverend’s shadow cast a much wider girth than Steve remembered.

          “How are you, Steve?" the pastor started still grasping Steve's hand. "I was so sorry to hear of ol' Doug's passing. Such a good man, he was. Whole town'll miss him. What brings you over here to Ripley Street? Now, things are not the same as they were when you were a boy." The rotund preacher gestured Steve's attention to a flashing police car at the end of the block. Looking up, over his glasses, he continued, "I suggest you take care of your business without lingering.” With that, he pushed up his sleeve to check his watch. Shaking his head, he shrugged as he stepped past Steve. “I’m on a tight schedule today. You be sure to stop over and see us before you leave town.”

          Steve stammered his response to the back of the Pastor’s bald head. “Er, yes, Sir, I will.”

          He unlocked his car, sat in, and locked it again. On his way back to the farm, he realized he’d forgotten to get a bell. Opening the windows as he drove past the last traffic light before the interstate, he turned on the radio and headed for Bakersfield.


CSA
Saturday, February 9th 2008
8:02 PM
Cover Photo 1938 Elgin Red Robin
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Prompt: Tell the following story in 1000-3000 words:

"Steve went to the bicycle shop. He was worried because it was way over on the bad side of town. While he was at the shop, he bought a tube for his front tire. The guy who waited on him was old and grouchy and Steve was glad to leave.
On the way back home he ran in to the minister from his church who he hadn't seen in a long time. He spoke briefly to the minister and went on his way home."