by Sean Rodman
“All right,” Viktor says finally. “Come upstairs. We’ll have tea. Maybe we’ll talk about racing.”
Chapter Four
Viktor leads me up, then through a cluttered room filled with desks, filing cabinets and a couple of computers. We pass a guy wearing a green baseball cap and headset, working his phone and computer. He nods as we walk by but doesn’t stop talking into the phone. The whole building looks like it was built a hundred years ago and nobody has cleaned up since. There are layers of posters on the walls, piles of papers everywhere. We go down a long hallway, where Viktor unlocks a wooden door with a sign that says Viktor Lubyenko, Owner.
Inside, his office isn’t any neater. A big desk—more papers, no computer—and a couple of armchairs. There’s clutter everywhere, but it’s the stuff on the wall that catches my attention. A bunch of framed pictures and newspaper clippings, including a sports page with a picture of a young guy on a podium. Must be Viktor. I check the caption. 1976 Montreal Olympics. Individual Road Race. Gold medal.
“You like milk in your tea?” asks Viktor. I turn around and see Viktor pouring boiling water into a teapot. Then he squeezes a slice of lemon into his teacup. “I drink mine like the Russians, with lemon. You want that instead?”
“You got any coffee?” I say. Viktor snorts and shakes his head.
“Today, you drink tea. But I’ll put milk and sugar in, make it easy on you.”
“Is that what you are?” I ask. “Russian?”
“No, no. I’m Serbian.” Viktor sees my blank look. “Schools here, they don’t teach anything,” he mutters. “Serbia. It’s a little country, used to be called Yugoslavia when the Russians took it over. So I’m Serb, but I grew up Russian. Lived with Russians, trained with Russians, came over here with their Olympic team.”
“That’s when you won your gold medal.”
“Yeah. Nearly lost to a guy from Sweden.” Viktor hands me a cup of tea, warm and mud-colored. We both sit in the beaten-up chairs in front of his desk.
“So what happened after that? What else did you win?”
“Winning at the Olympics isn’t enough for you?” Viktor pauses, slurping some tea. “I had to go back home. In those days, it wasn’t easy to leave Serbia. The government kept athletes like me under lock and key. They owned me. But it was a good life. I trained, I coached. Nice wife, handsome son. He was taller than you.”
“So why did you come here?”
Viktor slumps a little into his chair and looks at me over his teacup.
“War. We had a big war, everybody fighting everybody—you know any of this?”
I shake my head.
“No, you were born too late. That’s the problem with young people—you make me feel old, part of ancient history. Anyways, when the wars came, my son ran away to fight. He was your age, foolish, full of ideas about Serbs and Croats, right and wrong. Came back one month later. Only now a grenade had taken away his hand.” Viktor stares at his own left hand, slowly flexing it. “His hand wasn’t the only thing. He had changed so much. So full of hate. My wife and I decided to get us all out of Serbia, walk out with other refugees. But we got caught up with some soldiers and she…” Viktor stops and looks through the big window at the warehouses outside, lost in thought.
I don’t say anything, because I don’t know what to say. The silence drags out for a while. Then Viktor starts up again. Speaking louder, faster. Like he can just speed over that part of his story.
“Anyways, we didn’t see her again. I left Serbia with my son. I remembered how good it was here the first time, during the Olympics. So I came back. Not a star this time, just a refugee. Decided to be a businessman. Now, I’m like Donald Trump.” He laughs and stretches his arms out wide, as if he’s king of the world. He’s got a strange sense of humor. The business is a dump.
“You don’t look like a millionaire,” I say. He laughs again.
“No. Business can be hard sometimes. But one day, I will be rich. I will win, just like in the races.” He smiles broadly under his mustache and reaches for more tea. While he pours, I look around the office. Despite all the photographs and newspaper clippings on the wall, I realize that I haven’t seen a single picture of his wife or kids.
“What about your son?”
“Niko?” Viktor looks startled, rattling the teapot back onto the desk. “What about him?”
“What happened to him?” I say. From the expression on Viktor’s face, I realize I shouldn’t have asked.
“He lives in the city. He is a kind of businessman too,” says Viktor. But that’s it. The silence drags out between us.
“So you still coach?” I say nervously.
“Not for long time. Kai, a few others. Some of these bike couriers think they want to race, but most of them are too crazy. Not enough strength up here.” He taps his forehead. “All strength down below. You understand?”
“Kind of.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat, fiddling with the teacup. Viktor laughs, which turns into a gravelly cough.
“I think you might be like that.” He shakes his head, still coughing. “You know what? I’m tired. Too tired to coach a little lion.” Viktor pulls himself slowly to his feet, spilling some tea on his old sweater.
I can feel myself losing ground. As if I’m watching the pack pull away from me again.
“You don’t understand,” I say. “I’m so close. To being good. Really good. Other people say so. I know it. I just need some help.” Viktor is shaking his head, holding up his hands like he’s pushing me away. But before he can speak, the dude in the green baseball cap and headset opens the door and sticks his head in.
“Sorry—Viktor, we’re getting slammed. Without Neil, I’m still a man down. Can you get him back here?”
Viktor shakes his head and starts to answer. But I see my opening and go for it.
“I’ll do it,” I interrupt. “I’m your man. Tell me what to do.” Both Viktor and baseball-cap guy look at me, surprised. After a moment, Viktor shrugs.
“Okay, okay,” says Viktor. “You work here for a while, let’s see how you ride. Then we talk about coaching.”
Chapter Five
As we leave his office, Viktor says to me, “You ride with Robin today. You listen, do what you’re told.”
“Sure, whatever,” I say, walking away. I just want to get started. But Viktor slaps a hand on my shoulder and pulls me around. He looks at me hard.
“No. No sure. No whatever.” He leans in, bringing the smell of cigarettes with him. “You want to work for me? You want to learn? You follow two simple rules.”
Surprised, I just nod.
“First, you don’t talk back. You do what you’re told every time. Every time.” He punches me in the chest with a finger to make his point. I nod again.
“Second, you focus, right? Like a laser.” He points at his eyes. “Thinking. Planning. You always get the delivery to the right place. On time. The first time.”
“All right,” I say. “I get it.”
He stares me in the eyes until I break away and start down the metal stairs. I’m moving fast and nearly run into the cute punk girl and the baseball-cap guy, waiting at the bottom.
“You’re Sam? The fresh meat? I’m Robin.” She’s even better-looking up close. I’m still feeling rattled from Viktor, but I try to stay cool as she starts giving me instructions.
“Okay, Hub, give him his gear.”
Baseball-cap guy hands me a messenger bag with the Champion Courier logo on it. There’s something inside, so I lift the flap and feel around. It’s a beaten-up cell phone with the number 13 written in marker on the back. There’s also a pad of forms, packed with dense text. Robin sees me staring at the pieces of paper, trying to figure them out.
“This is all your stuff now. You’ll get your orders from Hub.” She tilts her head toward the guy with the green ballcap. “He’ll text you with an address and the code P-U for pickup, or D-O for drop off. When you do a pickup, you get whoever’s there to sign the
blue sheet. When you drop, you get them to sign the red. You never, ever leave without a signature.”
“So what happens if I don’t get a signature?”
“That’s what I’m saying. You never let it happen. Unless there’s nobody home for the D-O—then it’s a dead run.” She shrugs. “Not your fault, but you’ll still probably catch shit from the client for it. You got all that?”
“Easy,” I say. Hub raises his eyebrows—pretty obvious he doesn’t believe me. Robin reaches over and ruffles my hair, like I’m a little kid.
“Aww, check out the new guy, Hub. All balls, no brains. Adorable. C’mon. Let’s go.”
Riding with Robin is like nothing I’ve done before. I’m used to acting like cars and trucks are things to be avoided. Hazards. But Robin gets up close, sliding through spaces between cars with barely an inch to spare. It’s like the street is a river and she’s swimming with the current, smooth and powerful. She doesn’t have any fear. She doesn’t ever stop.
Me, it’s more like I’m drowning. I’m jerking the handlebars around, slamming on my brakes, stuttering through the street. And barely keeping Robin in sight.
Then Robin breaks hard right, swerving across two lanes to dive into an underground parking lot entrance. I try to follow and hear a horn blast and squeal of brakes behind me.
Oh crap.
I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know that I’m about to become part of a dump truck’s grille. I swerve hard, desperate. I can feel the air as the truck slices by me, barely missing my rear tire. I finally skid to a stop next to Robin in the parking lot. Sweat prickles all over my body. That was close.
“Wow,” she says. Underneath her black helmet, her eyes are wide.
“What?” I grunt, panting.
“Never saw fresh meat nearly become hamburger on day one. Usually takes a little longer.”
Not cool. I am not impressing her. I can’t think of anything smart to say. Can’t even catch my breath.
“Listen, I’ve got these extra wheels in my bag if you want them,” she says.
“Wheels?” I say, still wheezing.
“Training wheels, little cute ones.” She’s smiling now, enjoying the teasing. Seeing if I’ll lose it.
“Screw you, Robin.” Tough words, but I’m trying to keep my smile down. Maybe it is a little funny, in a sick near-death kind of way. And I figure that if I want to make it with her, I’d better act like I can handle this. Handle her. Still, my arms are shaking as we get going again. We spin right through the orange-lit underground parking lot, emerging out the other side on a different street. A couple of minutes later, we lock up our bikes at the base of a massive metal-and-glass tower. Sliding doors hiss open, and we walk into a herd of business suits. When we reach the receptionist, Robin becomes all professional and polite. She takes two big plastic tubes from the receptionist and stuffs one into her bag. She hands the other one to me. “Here we go. Your first D-O.”
Chapter Six
Robin and I stay together for about three blocks. Then she pulls over onto the sidewalk.
“Cut down this alley. There’s a loading dock with a freight elevator. The crew there don’t mind if you use it—just take your bike up on the elevator with you. I’ll make my drop, then meet you back here.”
I do what she says. Sure enough, I just wave to the two men in blue overalls who are working the loading dock. They barely look at me. Then I walk my bike into the big cage of the freight elevator and punch the button marked 14. The gates grind shut, and the elevator jerks upward. When it stops, I roll my bike out into a storage area. This feels a little weird, like I’m trespassing. I lean the bike against the wall and head out an open door into a corridor. All of a sudden, I’ve gone from dirty backrooms and cleaning supplies to carpeted hallways and power suits. I’m totally out of place. And totally lost. A woman with expensive-looking clothes and perfect blond hair nearly walks into me. She looks up from her phone, startled.
“You don’t belong here,” she says, pointing a shiny red fingernail down the hall toward a high desk.
Finally—the receptionist. When I reach her and hand over the tube, she holds up a hand to keep me quiet. She’s talking into her headset phone with a chirpy voice, something about calendars and schedules. Without stopping her chatter, she opens the top of the tube and unrolls a set of blueprints. Satisfied, she signs my pad. I start to thank her, but she holds up her finger again to shut me up. Whatever. The looks I’m getting, these people clearly think I’m one step up from dirt.
Then I happen to glance up, over her shoulder. Holy crap—the view of the city from up here is amazing! The office has enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. As I walk toward the glass, I can see the streets laid out in a huge grid. Canyons of buildings that seem to go on forever. Streams of multicolored cars, inching along. Wow. I’ve never been this high up before. Then my phone vibrates. It’s a text from Robin.
Where r u? 2 slo!
I hustle back, collect my bike and ride the elevator down again. I see her at the end of the loading dock, drumming one finger against the handlebars.
“Finally!” She pulls on her helmet and tightens a strap. “What took you so long? Decided to make a few investments? Chat up a sexy secretary?”
“The secretary was hot,” I say. “Naw, I just got lost. Distracted. Sorry.”
She rolls her eyes. “Distracted? What are you, a puppy? All right, we’ve got to make up some time.”
“No prob. I’ll just push it. Sprint through the next drop. I’m fast.”
“I’m sure you are. But let me tell you a secret.” She leans across her bike, serious. “It’s not enough to be fast in the city. You have to be smart.” She taps my helmet. “Use your head, not your legs. Plan your route, know the traffic, take shortcuts.” She sees the puzzled look in my eyes and then sighs. “Just keep up and learn.”
We go. At the next intersection, Robin pulls up on the left side of a delivery truck that’s waiting at the light.
“Grab on,” she calls out. “We’re skitching. Stay low.” What the hell? I watch as the truck starts to pull away. Robin is crouched over, trying to stay out of sight of the driver as she hangs on to the truck with one hand and steers her bike with the other. I reach out too slowly, scraping my fingers over the paint as the truck pulls away.
“Robin!” I yell. But she’s gone.
Chapter Seven
I watch her and the truck speed away. Keep up and learn. Not as easy as I thought. I finally find Robin at the next drop. From there on in, the rest of the day is a blur of offices, cars, pavement, crowds. And Robin, her black T-shirt and helmet always half a block ahead.
Hours later, the streets start to fill up with a warm orange glow as the setting sun reflects off all the glass buildings. The suits are pouring out of their offices into the street, headed home. I’m waiting outside a bank for Robin to finish her last drop of the day. The hot-dog cart next to me smells way too good, and my stomach grumbles. I realize I never stopped for lunch. Just pounded a couple of energy drinks along the way.
When Robin emerges, I’m holding two hot dogs and two cans of cola.
“Listen, I know we’ve just met,” I say seriously, “but can I invite you to dinner?”
I see her trying to contain a smile. She takes off her helmet, running a hand through her spiky red hair.
“You’ve got zero class, Sam. But you work fast, I’ll give you that.”
We sit on the steps of the city library, right beside one of the big stone lions. After the rush of the day, it’s awesome to just stop and sit. Especially with Robin. Despite a hard day of riding, she’s still got this energy, this edge. I also get the feeling she isn’t impressed easily. I kind of like that challenge. The fact that she has a killer bod doesn’t hurt either. I’m trying not to stare at her tight T-shirt and cycling shorts.
“Congratulations on surviving your first day,” she says. We toast with our cans.
“Almost didn’t make it,” I say. “Than
ks for dragging me along.”
“Not a problem. Actually, you weren’t as bad as most of the new guys. They last a day, then decide that looking cool as a courier is more fun than doing the work.”
“I understand that,” I say. “It is way harder than I thought it would be.”
“So why are you doing this?” she asks, dabbing at some ketchup on her chin. “It’s kind of a shitty job.” I notice that her fingernails have black polish on them, chipped on the edges.
“It’s complicated,” I say. “I need some money.”
She snorts. “Except the pay is crap.”
“Yeah, there are some other reasons as well.”
“Ooh, sounds mysterious. Are you on the run? In trouble with the law?” she says, raising one eyebrow. “Are you a spy?”
I laugh. “No, nothing like that. It’s just…kind of stupid.”
“I’m good with stupid.” She points a finger at herself. “Check it out—I dropped out of high school to be a courier, which means I get first dibs on stupid. So what is it?”
“I want Viktor to be my coach. For cycling. I race.”
“I saw that conversation in the garage today,” she says, nodding. Robin leans in toward me. “You came off as a bit desperate.”
“I wasn’t exactly desperate—” I start to say, but Robin cuts me off.
“Naw, you totally were. So you think Viktor’s that great? Isn’t he kind of… old?”
“He is now. But he used to be great. Have you looked at some of the stuff in his office? He was the best. And I want to be as good as he was.”
Robin stretches. Thinking. Then stops and looks at me, head tilted to one side like a bird. “I bet you don’t need him to be great.”
Before I can answer, her phone rings. She digs it out of her messenger bag and looks at the screen. “Speak of the devil. It’s the man himself. Viktor.” She answers it, listens, then hangs up without saying anything. Her face is serious.
