[Backstory: Owen got his buddies to help push his wrecked-out '55 Chevy Nomad-8 wagon out from the tangle brush of the Car Graveyard and down an old logging road to the roaring Fish Hawk River. Just as the Nomad hit the water, Owen jumped up on it's roof. Vick tossed him a scrap of a two-by-four and Owen commenced to paddling. ...]
Down river Owen
was riding high. A couple turns ago he'd
rested the paddle board beside him on the car roof. No need to guide the Nomad.
She and the current were double-teaming real good. Flow-going and
go-flowing.
The current
was a wide stream. Within it ran rows and rows of wet tire tracks, the sunlight
giving them tread-like texture. Owen thought some pack of Jesuses had motor biked
down-river just ahead of him, laying down watery tread. Wild and raucous they
were, hootin' and a-hollorin'! Pulling wheelies on the water! Skimming the
surface. One hand raised high like some kind of eight-second bronco-busters,
only the steeds were supercharged ethereal choppers.
RUN-RUNNN!
URRRGH! URRRGH! URRRGH! GRRUN-RUNNN! GRRUN-RUNNN!
He can hear
it! He sees it, too, superimposed ahead on the river scene, suspended in the
air dust of the gray light of the dirty window. His dad's garage, revving his
dad's Harley, letting the low rumble of the engine fill his ears. It's a real one-kicker.
First a clack and a clammer, then that pit bull growl. Cut it loose! Cut
everything loose! Rip it up! Go ballistic! And look out, sissies!
He sees
himself doing it before he does it. Sees dust of insects above the water. Sees
the contrasting shadows on his dad's workbench, the unpainted rough wooden
walls, the tall trees lining the river closing in. Smells the old saw dust and
the frustrated odor of sweat, smells the faint sourness of the vacated beer
bottles on top of the car, the musty closeness of the garage. Feels the river
air and the claustrophobic heat surrounding the bike!
Break through
it!
Crash against
the work bench, sending wrenches and hammers with wooden handles flying! Yeah,
man! Yeooow! Chasing those Jesuses! Running them down! God-damn! We're bound to
jam!
Crash against
walls, dislodging disgruntled dignified tools from their lofty positions,
causing them to clatter and bounce and reluctantly participate in unscheduled
mayhem! Fuck all the motherfuckers!
Steer-caning the
bike around the corners of the garage now! Canyon-carving around and around in
the middle of the garage! Making the whole garage the middle! Counter-steering
to maintain speed and control, turning the handlebars away from the direction
he wants to turn. Pushing the right handgrip forward to lean and turn right,
pushing the left handgrip forward for a direction change, counter-clockwise to the
left. GRRRERRRGH! HGRRUGGGHH! RUN-RUNNN! URRRGH!
It's a blur
now! All the walls are one confused plane. On the edge of his eyesight
interrupting the circulating madness, after one of his swings around the
ever-confining space, blurred by the speed and the water in his eyes, following
the watery tread tracks on the river, face contorted now by the g-force - on
the edge of his quivering view - did he see it in the whirling gray light of
the greasy window? Here it comes around again: Pop! Look! An opening! A clear
stretch down-river following the Would-Be-Jesuses! An opening! Out of the
garage! Into the yard! Between boulders! Within the watery tread. He flogs it
for all he's worth (worthiness not a consideration, let alone a word!). Out the
back door, down the river further, hot-dogging it toward the fence, catching up
with God!
He grabbed a
handful of break just before hitting the back fence. Tore turf, yanked it from
the packed black dirt, spinning and huffing. Smoked the exhaust. Strong-armed
the steering away from the fucking fence!
Slid the bike
low and sideways, wheels first, laying it down, rolling out of its way.
God could be around the next bend. But the treadpaths on the river looked like they'd go on
forever in the sun.
