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Footsteps coming up the pavement – hurried ones, in echoing clamor. Boots thudding, somewhere far, growing closer. The tiny bottle fitted in the pocket against his collar felt warm, faintly throbbing.
In the shadow of the alleyway, Barbie had his hand slammed over the kid’s mouth. Junior glared at him with furious, surprised blue eyes that might as well have been daggers.
They heard the heavy, pant-like breaths as the followers came by from down the corner. They heard the sirens start up again.
Barbie sighed.
A whisper: “If I let go of you, would you promise not to yell?”
Those now-black eyes promised, above his knuckles, that yelling would be the first thing Junior did, probably some shoving and kicking for good measure, but when Barbie’s hand fell away all the young man did was blink, for a second. His voice came out scratchy, uneven.
“Now what?”
Barbie drew in a breath.
“There’s a lined-up stand of motorcycles near the edge of the sidewalk,” he said, in a low voice. “And when I say go, you go.”
“We’re getting out of here?”
“Yes.”
Junior gawked at him. Somewhere in the back of his mind part of Barbie found this faintly, however grimly, hilarious. “Do you know how to ride one of those?”
“Maybe.”
“What?”
Barbie sighed.
“I said, I don’t, but this universe’s me does.” He took a step back. “So I’m hoping it should work.”
And Junior just stood there staring at him, like Barbie had just sprouted two heads.
“You’re shitting me,” he whispered. Then: “You’re shitting me, right?”
“Fastest way out of here. Now are you ready?”
“Are you fuckin’ crazy?”
Barbie shoved him. Gently as he could, on the arm, and said: “Go.”
Miracle of miracles, Junior didn’t need him telling twice. He whirled around out of the alleyway in a split-second and gunned it for the sidewalk, and Barbie followed at his heels.
At the end of the street, he knelt down beside the nearest cruiser, and pulled his Swiss army-knife out of his pocket.
The Harley-Davidson in question was a two-seater, the 2010 V-Twin model of the Softtail Convertible that came in a rich shade of crimson and orange adorned with flashes of metallic silver. The front tire was lodged into place with a steer-lock linked through its wheel. He slid the blade through the gap in the lock’s edge and gave it a good hard yank. On the second yank the steer-lock fell with a clatter and clink, sheared right through.
Barbie was still kneeling in front of the wheel. Checked for the hand-brake’s lock, and the rear-end for a disc-brake, and found neither. Whoever it was that said riders needed to be more careful with how they lock their motorcycles wasn’t talking nonsense, he thought, and felt a mingled rush of relief and half-shameful culpability.
Junior stood behind him, still heaving, looking down with big eyes, an arm – his hurt arm – wrapped around his stomach.
In the end, however, all the young man asked was: “Don’t you need a key to unlock the thing?”
“Not for a Harley, you don’t.” And how do you know that, Barbie? How do you know that?
He didn’t know and didn’t care. Right now all he did was shove the Harley onto the sidewalk’s edge, and swing a leg over it. The Harley was not a sport-bike - it was heavier, greater when he braced his weight against it, and good to settle his backside into the seat. The rest could come later.
Over his shoulder: “Let’s go.”
Junior didn’t move.
“Rennie, let’s go!”
The sun emerged briefly in the sky, pale like a droplet of milk in the clouds. Barbie grabbed the single sleek-dark helmet that dangled from the handlebar, and tugged it off. On the street behind them, the commotion rose and fell, with the faraway sound of twin cruisers blasting their sirens in unison. Tires. Shouts clattering across the pavement.
There were yells, sounding from behind them.
“You use it,” Junior asked. Beside Barbie’s ear, so close he’d startled him. Disbelief had softened the young man’s voice. “You’re ridin’, after all.”
Barbie spent a second – but only a second – looking down at the helmet in his hand.
Then he strapped it on across his own chin. He checked the gear – neutral – and shifted the clutch lever. Kickstarted the engine, as the beast beneath him growled and whirred.
“Rennie,” he said. “I’m gonna have to need you to hold on.”
A beat later, he felt two arms wrap around his middle – tight-tight-tight – so strongly it knocked all the breath out of him, in one quick puff. There was time, as Barbie nudged the clutch upwards and wrenched the throttle into life, to hear the final yell emerged dimly through in the sudden rattle of the Harley’s engine.
Barbie turned his head. “What?”
Junior Rennie bellowed it again. “I said I fuckin’ HATE you!”
And Barbie laughed, unable to help it, but the sound of it was lost in the din as the motorbike propelled them forward, baying and guttural and vibrating from deep within, a comet into the sky.
The sky above was high, and beneath it the world was a blur.
The wind screamed, and every time his bike wobbled his heart lurched like a sick bird striking a panel of glass. Every single particle of air had sharpened into tiny bits of razor-edged crystals, warming, electric and alive.
The traffic lights flashed in and out of Barbie’s vision. Blue, white, then red, then white. Once he arrived at the stop-lights and nearly screamed, right before the sign-post before him flashed blue, and they shot forward again, zooming past, leaving the streets in a cloud of dust.
The Harley was heavier, bigger, rougher than the sports-bike. It took greater effort to brace it, to balance it, and the brute, violent rattle of the engine was chattering in his teeth, in his blood, in his legs and limbs, going up to his head like a hard bassline that pulsed with his terror.
His body was braced tight, every muscle and tendon in his legs and ankles tensed like hard trembling stone. Should’ve worn gloves, he knew – because one look at his callused naked knuckles around the handlebars sent a big woozy jolt right to his head, and for a second every single neuron in his body was screaming for him to brake–
(You’ll spill Barbie you’re going to SPILL)
–on the spot, to stop and get off, but he couldn’t. Brake right now, in his sheer blank-white terror, all the brakes at once, would send the Harley hurtling forward, and have them both flying across the visor and splattered across the pavement like jam.
The rest of the world came by in glimpses and flashes, in roiling movement, as if through a time-lapse camera.
Now that he thought about it, had he really ridden the sports-bike? He must be mad. Could he still remember doing it? Could he?
Yes, the voice whispered. He was doing it now.
He felt himself responding. He could feel it – the slow, slow steadier thump of his heartbeat, the hunch of his shoulders, leaning forward to grasp it, to brace the heavier weight – even as he blinked.
Dale Barbara looked up, at the road, and at the next following turning.
You’ll fall you’ll spill and fall and split both of your skulls wide open–
The guttural sound Harley’s engine drew a veil down on all other noise, blocking out all else, and the whole world was swept up in its throbbing, spurring growl.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe, either couldn’t do anything except let go and let his mind – let his limbs and eyes – do the work, leaning forward, bracing the motorcycle and letting it bring them to the light. Beneath him, the smooth grey tarmac surged past smooth like riding through a cloud, and before him the street stretched wide and long, the sun streaming through the clouds in one stark, rare moment and illuminating the boulevard down to the harbor, its sidewalks and offices and red-brick shopfronts. He could smell the sharp aroma of kerosene from the tank, and smell the coldness of the air crisp like an autumn morning. He heard nothing except for the rush of the wind muffled in his helmet, his eyes blurring and cheeks stinging badly from the wind, his jacket flapping and rippling like a hawk’s.
The world broke free, or so it seemed, when they soared out along the coast-line, onto the boulevard running along Joplin’s Bay. The sea burst into view like something out of a dream, foggy and faintly shimmering, beneath the half-cloudy sky with its watery sun.
And throughout it all, both of Junior Rennie’s arms squeezed tight around his middle, tight as a vice or an astronaut’s harness, so tight Barbie fancied it’d probably leave bruises around his waist. He could feel Junior’s heartbeat drumming into his back, a rapid stutter, quick-quick, running away with itself, beating in uncanny, stirring tandem with his own throbbing heart.
The grip of Barbie’s fingers loosened just a little, tremblingly–
(go for it you crazy sonofabitch you go for it)
–on the handlebars, as the Harley purred ahead… as his balance steadied into flight.
He raced the Harley along the bare road by the harbor. At the turning he leaned left and it made a screech-like sound of agony, like a knife’s blade scraping along the edge of a plate, and for a moment the ground tilted – you’ll spill holy mother of God – before he swayed the Harley back on track, onto the road where before them the pale sunny sky lay open, cracked open like an egg against the depthless blue ocean.
As the pitch of the wind’s shriek in his helmeted ears rose up, with the roaring breeze of the harbor, Barbie wondered if there would be memories.
He reached for them: searching at the back of his mind, seizing the moment where the levee had broken – like that Led Zeppelin song, he thought, and laughed, and brought the gear up a notch with a single defiant tug of his left foot – and the boundaries were thin, but there was nothing there. There was nothing in his head, but the moment. Nothing but the sheer, brutish aliveness of the moment.
Above them, the sky was wide enough to fall upwards into, the sun swimming amidst the clouds.
He was not riding along the cliffs of California, taking the sandy highways in and out of San Diego, or climbing it up to the top or soaring down towards the sand so that he could look out across the sea. He was here, on the coast of New England, and the streets of Boston were shimmering, vibrant in color and glittering like something new and freshly set down.
He could smell the same crispness of salt in the cold air, engrained into the harbor’s atmosphere and intensified in their razor-sharp speed.
He slowed down, gave his weight – lean into it, Colonel, go for the turn – into the turning at the following corner, and Junior swayed with him as they accelerated out of the turning, so that their weight in tandem helped.
Every particle of the air tingled and stung his skin, blowing from all side in its cold, violent, majestic squall.
He was shaky – he still was – but he made do. He made do because his confidence was here again, like a thread he could tug on – and tug on it he did, with shaky fingers. He kept his balance. He kept his weight centered, and his left foot alert. He was learning.
Learning, he thought. And something inside him – some deep, subconscious, rusty wrench – clicked, and let go.
They hurtled forward.
The streets of Boston came by, a constant silent rush: brick-walls, colorful little shop-fronts, flashes of banks and groceries and bistros and cafés and roadhouses and giftshops. Every glimpse of color pulsating, almost jarring, as stark details stood out to him in peculiar contrast: the startling, rose-red crimson of the woman’s skirt, swishing past the side-walk, and the eggshell-blue color of a café’s walls; the barren trees shedding its last golden leaves, beneath a vibrant, broadcasting billboard; the construction worker who lifted a hand in good-natured greeting as they passed by, the boy with the skateboard pausing to whistle, point with one long finger, and holler some distant yell of grinning appraisal. Knock ’em dead, dude.
Junior’s arms tightened just a little more, around his waist – Junior who clung to him, stubbornly, like clinging to the ship-mast during a storm, so close they shook together, and Barbie could almost taste the salt on the young man’s skin. In the ruthless, breathless roar of air, neither of them made a sound.
The motorbike was soaring forward, color rocketing past on all sides, and for one moment the world had fallen silent like a great big muffled drum, and that was all there was: this riding, this marvel, this laughing into the teeth of the wind.
Maybe he could grow to love the sun-burnt cliffs of California and the warm waters of the West Coast – love that plain, beautiful one-story house by the rocks and love that ugly grinning Harley-Davidson in his garage. They were the same person after all, weren’t they? He and this universe’s Barbie. As far as the theory goes. Or was it? At this point, did he even care?
No, Barbie thought. He didn’t think he did. Not right now, anyway. Right now the only thing he cared about was Junior Rennie’s heartbeat, a faint throb against his back, through his shirt, the kid’s cheek smashed against his shoulder – and in the moment all he could think of, feeling the warmth of Junior’s grip around his middle with the ghost of a smile on his own lips, was I’m not going to let him fall.
Barbie brought the speed down, stuck to middle of second gear, to stay safe, roughly just passing forty miles an hour, the motorbike jerking in momentum, the engine cursing its guttural, animal convulsion – and they were back in the streets, turning, zigzagging down one street after the other.
He turned for the streets and lanes with more space, for smaller but emptier alleyways, and he could almost feel that every time he slowed down and tilted into the turn – easier, now, more skillfully – Junior helped him, with the slightest, controlled slanting of his own weight. They rocked, wobbled and steadied it together. Found balance. Again. Then again.
The traffic in the lanes thickened and Barbie brought the gear down to about a hundred per hour, easing his grip on the throttle a little bit so that he could release the clutch. The rear wheel skidded, but only slightly, and set his heart was racing. His heart was racing three hundred miles an hour instead of just below forty-eight, his blood roaring and singing. The engine growled and rattled enough to tremble the world – his fingers ached with it, as did his shoulders, every muscle in his body tensed with the undertone jolt of terror and bewildered thrill. He wanted to laugh again, but he couldn’t, he was too stunned, stunned with sheer, otherworldly amazement. He coursed down the street in the labyrinthine city that surrounded him, whooshed and blazed past on all sides, singing, screaming, turning and turning and turning.
Beneath the vast, endless cloudy blue sky, he flew towards the end of the street, and hit the brakes.
His hand loosened, gently, on the throttle, easing off. Two fingers tugged on the clutch. Shift the gear, down, down. Set his brake-lights blinking, too, last minute.
It was on the equal appliance on the front and rear brake that his control slipped – just slightly – and his foot came down too fast, too clumsily and forcefully, rendered the grip of his fingers unsteady, and the bike skidded. It skidded twice, wobbling violently, despite already slowing down, and at the third skid, both of them went tumbling.
The Harley-Davison gave a grazing screech and toppled over to one side. Barbie landed hard, onto the gray concrete pavement, flying and rolling a good few steps forward, just in time with that one split-second of thoughtless instinct – goddamn kid doesn’t have a helmet – to twist himself around and have Junior Rennie fall against his chest.
The hard echoing smack of the ground knocked all the thought out of his head and all the air from his lungs, in one big whoosh – just as Junior landed on top of him, with a half-gasping puff, his nose inches away from Barbie’s mouth.
For a moment they stayed like that, all a hundred and forty pounds of Junior Rennie on top of him, the kid’s breathing coming in big, ragged gulps and his own heart still beating like a jack-in-the-box out of control and blooming feverish, breathless warmth all over his body, warm, tingling, so very warm.
“What… the… fuck,” Junior said, in a growl, and drummed a fist into Barbie’s side, weakly. Pushed himself from the ground, with an elbow.
Barbie laughed.
He laughed. His head hurt. His head felt like someone just took a swing at it with a baseball bat and hit a home run, gasping for breath, half-laughing, lightheaded, delirious, and there was nothing except blue eyes, clouds merging and swirling in a faraway blue sky.
Junior Rennie rolled away from him. He sat up, slowly, like reaching towards the surface of the water. Raked a hand through his hair. Barbie fancied the kid was close to laughing, too – hysterical, delirious laughter.
“What – the – fuck – is wrong with you?”
With difficulty Barbie lifted himself on one elbow, leaned forward, took Junior’s sleeve, and rolled it up in one swift move. He saw that there was blood beginning to seep through the edges of the bandage, and in other central places, in poppy-red patches.
Junior tugged his wrist back. His skin was cold as ice. “I’m fine. Doesn’t hurt.” His eyes were still wide, glassy, goggling dark-blue stones of amazement. “Take care of it when we get back home.”
He stripped out of his jacket, and slung it over the kid’s shoulder.
A beat.
Then Junior swallowed. “What?”
“Put it on.”
Junior snatched the jacket off – black leather, the sleeves probably too long for him – and held it up in one tight fist. “No.”
“Junior. Stop bitching and put it on.”
A long second passed, before the young man did, uncertainly, wavering between caution and resentment, reaching his arms through its sleeves. He hugged his stomach, slightly, and the way the too-big leather jacket wrapped around his bony shoulders made him look all the more like a boy. Gruffly, with a tired glare: “Happy?”
Barbie pulled the little bottle out of his breast-pocket, where he’d wrapped it with a napkin. “Hold on to this for me.”
Junior took it. Wrapped fingers around it, tentatively, and held it in his palm. “You’re gonna freeze.”
That elicited a smile from Barbie. “Nothing you gotta worry about, kid.”
And then, as he made his way towards the Harley: “Hop on.”
This time Junior’s arms came around his waist without him having to ask for it, and for one moment the smile that skidded across Barbie’s lips matched the skid of his heartbeat against his ribs.
Then they were off, when his left foot nudged upwards and fingers brushed the clutch and his right hand grasped the throttle, blazing a trail across the road, into the sky.