SOBS: Fiction: Thunder Road by John Moss

So what did you boys do today?" Emerson had asked Markus and Bob Allen a few weeks back during dinner.

"Me and Markus got candy at the drugstore, Mr. Crabtree."

"How'd you get there, that's far?"

"We walked, Dad."

"We rode our bicycles, Mr. Crabtree," Bob said.

"You own a bike, Bobby?"

"Yes, Mr. Crabtree, I have a real nice one."

"If you close your eyes and try real hard can you describe that bike for Mr. Crabtree?"

"Dad ..."

"I believe I was speaking to Bobby, Markus. You may speak when it is your turn. As you were saying Bobby ..." Markus looked at his mom and her face told him let it go. Looking uncomfortable but not wanting manners, Bob engaged Emerson, who was a distant listener behind the high-rimmed, non-prescription glasses he had adopted of late.

"Well, it's shiny, and pink or red and has two skinny wheels and it's actually my sister's ..."

"A ten speed."

"Yes, Mr. Crabtree, I think that is what it's called."

"A boy your age, what are you 14 (Bob nodded) should be riding a mountain bike. Do you know why?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Crabtree, I don't." Emerson went into a fifteen-minute dissertation on the importance of mountain bikes (his specialty) to young, strong men, and why they are much safer and more practical for suburban travel than ten speeds (not his specialty). Bob nodded and continued to nod as detailed instructions followed about maintenance and monthly tune-ups. It was all overwhelming, to Emerson, because now the bikes were coming in with tires simply deflated, as if he, Ratso, had become so popular a kid would invent anything to have a bike fixed by him.

"Plus Dad, every time you bring up bikes my friends think of Ratso and they all want to see him. Me and mom .."

"Mom and I."

"Sorry, Mom and I," he began, handing his father a rag for his scratched hand; those fangs were real, "have been talking and we think it may be time for Ratso to make an appearance." Emerson stood over the bike; the blasted bike with handlebars twisted backwards, and knew, his newfound fecundity guiding and deserting him, this was the next logical step.

___________________

Mr. Fixit, or at least Mr. Fixit a few moments earlier up in the bedroom, sat over the evening's bike, a Schwinn, Moab DS3 Mountain Bike with full-suspension aluminum frame; front RST Mag fork with hydraulic dampening; 24-speed, front and rear-specific tires for maximum traction and control, and knew it required only an air pump. He considered the connotations between his shrinking head and the air pump and switched gears quickly. He took the salty bag of chips he had been eating and stuffed them in his workshop desk's drawer, wiped the hairy grease of his fingers on the side of the suit, and pulled out a bag of barbeque chips. The suit these days was getting snug around his waistline, leading him to believe more and more this stunt was upsetting his equilibrium and his health. The desire and creative burning were gone from his soul; the bike fixing just a routine as he noticed his ego and artistic talent working inversely proportional to days spent in the rat suit, and the only delight now was dancing around in his white-high tops alone in the garage. He had secured irreversible popularity it seemed for Markus, and had the respect and admiration of his wife that had been waning for years of till late. Yet, he was not ready to give up on the bikes out of fear of what may happen to Markus without him.