Rough Rider

by Harley Fox

  “Um, Merryn,” he says. “Just one moment.”

  I turn around and see Will flipping through the paper package in front of him. The text looks strange from where I am, but I can’t say why.

  “Would you care to explain this?” he asks, looking up at me.

  I walk back toward the table, and as I do I can make the pages out more clearly, and I can see why they looked so strange: they’re backwards. The pages have been stapled in backwards, so the back is showing instead of the front. I look around as others open their packages. Some of them have been stapled correctly, but others have the pages turned around.

  My eyes fly over to Craig, who looks like he’s struggling to hold in laughter. That son of a bitch! He must’ve done this while I was getting the last of that ink off my hands! My cheeks start to color. I don’t know how I can explain this and make it look like it was on purpose. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. And then, from beside me:

  “Huh. I’d never thought of this.”

  Will, Craig, and I all look at one of the women flipping through her package.

  “I’m left-handed,” she says, nodding, “and this will actually make it easier for me to take notes.”

  Several mutters of agreement come up, and some begin swapping correct packages with some of the backwards one, papers being passed across the table. A few of the clients actually thank me and relief floods through my body. When I look back at Craig the laughter is gone, replaced with an ugly look.

  “Very well,” Will says, and his eyes narrow at me. My heart drops again, and my small, undeserved victory shrivels and dies as I’m reminded that my future career doesn’t depend on impressing these people; it depends on impressing him. “Merryn, get Craig his water and then get back to work.”

  “Yes sir,” I say, and I turn around to leave the room.

  Maybe I’ll bring three pillows that day.

  Jake

  My legs are cramped from lying down on my side; my t-shirt is hot and sticking to my body; all I can smell is metal and oil and my own sweat. But Christ, do I love doing what I do.

  I give the monkey wrench another quarter-turn, tightening the nut and feeling the resistance of metal-on-metal. My muscles bulge as I make sure it’s secure, but I’m careful not to go too far. I’ve literally stripped a bolt of its threading simply by turning the wrench too much. It’s an annoying thing to fix.

  Leaning back I take a look at the bike, wiping an arm across my forehead to get rid of the sweat. It’s not a bad ride. A little weak for my tastes, but for the guy who brought it here, it looked like it was all he could afford. Although that didn’t stop him from trying to be the cock of the walk. Fucking tweakers, you can smell ’em a mile away. Still, a job’s a job.

  The phone on the wall rings and I turn my head. It’s by the open garage door, and beyond it I can see out onto the street. It’s hot out, and quiet. This street is usually pretty dead, but I like it that way. Less chance of getting shot in a drive-by.

  I pick myself up and walk over to the cordless on the wall. As I do I tilt my head sharply to the side, both hearing and feeling the satisfying crunch of my bones. I pick up the receiver and hit Talk.

  “Jake’s Bikes,” I answer.

  “I got a good shot of you in front of the bike just now.”

  A smile forms on my lips. I take a few steps toward the garage door where I look across the street and up. On the second floor is my kid sister Emily’s bedroom window. Well, “kid” sister isn’t fair to say anymore. She’s seventeen and is already more mature than me. She’s sitting with her camera in one hand, the phone held against her ear with the other.

  “Nice,” I tell her. “I’ll have to check it out later.”

  Her mouth moves in the window as she talks. “It’s a good one, very candid.”

  “Candid, that’s …” I say, trying to remember.

  “When the person doesn’t know they’re being photographed,” she informs me. I snort out a laugh.

  “Man, just a month and already you’re a pro.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “I’m really glad you got it for me. Hey, are you going out to the bar tonight?”

  “Yeah, there’s a meeting happening,” I tell her. “Why?”

  “Just curious,” she says, although it sounds like there’s more than curiosity behind her voice. “Okay, I’m gonna go. Mind if I take more pictures of you?”

  “If I knew, then they wouldn’t be candid anymore, now would they?”

  I see her smile from across the street.

  “I guess not. Bye, Jake.”

  “Bye, kiddo.”

  I hang up the phone and walk back to the wall to hang it up.

  Emily’s a good kid. She moved in with me two years ago, after our parents died in a head-on collision. I was devastated to hear about Mom and Dad, but I was glad I was able to take Emily in. She wouldn’t be able to take care of herself. Not with her body the way it is. But I needed help to make sure we’d be all right — I’d been scraping by on my own ever since I moved out, and having another mouth to feed was going to cost me. So that’s when I bit the bullet and did what I knew Mom and Dad would hate me for. That’s when I joined a gang.

  But it’s been two years and the Chains is like a second family to me now. They help take care of me and I help take care of them. Hell, I’ve even risen up to be Sal’s right-hand man. I knew they could use a strong guy like me when I joined. Because if there’s one thing I am, it’s strong. And besides, being in a gang’s not as bad as everybody thinks it is. At least there haven’t been any wars.

  I walk over to my work bench and put the wrench down, picking up a rag to wipe my hands. As I do I give the bike another look-over. It’s looking pretty good. The guy who brought it in definitely didn’t take care of his machine. It was in a sorry state, and all he told me was, “It doesn’t run anymore.” Well no fucking shit it doesn’t run anymore, the thing had practically no oil in it and its gears were shot to shit. He’s just lucky I know a guy who could get me the parts for cheap, which kept my costs low. If he took this anywhere else it’d have run him over two grand. Me, I managed to do it for under six hundred.

  I look up at the clock. It’s just past four. The guy’s late picking the bike up, but I kind of expected that. I figure I can give it one last wipe-down before he gets here, so I grab a clean rag and a bottle of solvent and get to work.

  At half-past four, just as I’m about finished, the guy shows up and slinks his way in. I look up from my spot on the floor and he’s just how I remember him: small; thin; a piece-of-shit-looking tweaker. He’s got dark sunglasses on, probably to hide the red of his eyes. The leather jacket he’s wearing looks like he picked it up at a Salvation Army.

  “Jesus Christ, it stinks like shit in here,” he says as a way of greeting. Walking over to his bike, “Fuck, you’re not even finished this thing yet? What are you, trying to fix it with your pussy?”

  “The bike’s done,” I tell him. “I’m just wiping it down. You wouldn’t want any grease staining those spotless pants of yours.”

  He looks down at his jeans: filthy, stained things. He turns away.

  “Whatever,” he says, shrugging.

  I get back to work, focusing on the task at hand as the guy behind me walks around my shop, making off-hand remarks:

  “Fuck, this place looks filthy.”

  “I should have just taken this thing to a fucking Midas. What’s taking you so long?”

  “Jesus Christ, did you shit yourself or something? Honestly, it smells like shit in here.”

  I know what the guy is doing. My shop doesn’t smell like shit, and it’s not messy either. He’s just working up to the same scam that people have tried pulling on me since I opened this place up. But none of them got away with it, and neither will he.

  I finally stand back up, the bike looking how I want it to look.

  “Finally!” he says, even though it’s only been five minutes since he got here. “Took you long
enough.”

  “Your gears were shot all to hell,” I tell him. “And when you ride, you might want to make sure to have a little oil in the thing.”

  “Whatever. How much?”

  “Five-ninety,” I tell him, and the guy raises his eyebrows. Just like I knew he would.

  “Five-ninety? For that shit job?”

  He points at the bike behind me; it looks like it could belong in a shop window, and I know it runs better than anything he’s ever ridden before in his life. I nod.

  “Five-ninety, that’s the price.”

  “No way I’m paying fucking five hundred and ninety dollars for this shit-quality work.”

  He walks by me and actually bumps into me as he passes, and goes to look over the bike. I turn around, trying to keep my temper in place. But it’s hard with this little fucking tweaker. I could have him begging for his mommy inside of five seconds.

  “Ugh, shit,” he says, walking around his machine. “Jesus, look at this! My baby sister could take a shit and it would look better than this.” He looks at me and shakes his head. “No way. I’ll give you … four hundred, and that’s because I’m generous.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Five-ninety is what it costs, bub,” I say. “You don’t want to pay me, the bike is mine.”

  “What did you just say to me?” he says, moving quickly around the bike to get into my face. The problem is, once he stops in front of me, it’s obvious I have at least half a foot on him, and a hundred pounds besides. “What the fuck did you just call me?”

  “I called you ‘bub’, bub,” I repeat. I’m trying not to smile. He looks like one of those little Chihuahua dogs that suddenly decides it’s the leader of the pack.

  “I hate being called ‘bub’,” he says. “I know guys who could fucking turn you into ground beef if they wanted to. Okay?”

  Now I do smile.

  “Oh you do, do you?”

  “Yeah,” he snarls.

  I nod. “Okay. Maybe I was wrong. Come over here for a minute.”

  I walk around him, being careful not to bump into him in case I knock him to the ground. I see his puzzled look as I pass by, but he follows me to my work bench where I have a vise clamp set up.

  “Do you know what this is?” I ask him, stopping. He stops beside me and looks down at it.

  “No,” he says. “What is this, some kind of fucking sex toy? You can’t even get any pussy you gotta—”

  His words are cut off as I grab his arm and bend it around, securing it between the two clamps and spinning the thing shut. He cries out in agony as he leans over to stop his arm from breaking. But I put a hand on his shoulder to keep him upright and he cries out again.

  “Now these guys you spoke of,” I say loudly over him. “Who are they? Are they a gang?”

  The guy stops crying and only whimpers a bit, so I push up on his shoulder a little bit more. He screams out, and some spittle drips out of his mouth.

  “You’re not answering me,” I tell him in a loud voice. “What’s the name of your gang?”

  “The … The Slingers!” he shouts. He’s in pain enough as it is, so I try not to laugh out loud.

  “The Slingers?” I repeat. “You mean the guys who sell crystal meth to kids?”

  “Yeah!” He’s managed to find some fight still in him, and inwardly I’m impressed. “And we’ll fucking come here and fucking take your head off you slimy piece of—”

  His scream cuts the sentence short as I push up on his shoulder again. This time I swear I hear the creak of his bones.

  “Well, that’s too bad,” I say to him when he’s quieted down. “Because you know, I’m actually part of a gang too. The Chains. Ever heard of ’em?”

  He actually cuts quiet for a second as he stares at me.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I say. “Well, if you’ve heard about the Chains then you’ve probably heard about me: Jake Hawksley. Have you heard about me?”

  “Y-y-y-yes!” he blubbers. I smile.

  “Good. Does that mean you’re going to threaten me anymore with your piss-poor little gang?”

  “N-n-no!”

  “Good.”

  I look down at his arm. The guy’s hand is limp and turning a purplish-white. I feel like I may have caught an artery in my haste. I hope this isn’t his jerking-off hand.

  “Now,” I continue, taking my time, “as to the payment for your bike.”

  “I’ll pay!” he shouts.

  “Now now, not so fast,” he says. “You know, I was thinking: you may very well be right. I mean, perhaps I have been in this shop for too long, I can’t even tell that it smells like shit. And maybe my work is terrible — I mean, I’ve only been doing this for ten years, but you obviously know your bike better than anyone else. So maybe it is only worth four hundred.

  “But here’s the problem: the guys I got the parts from, they like to be paid too for what they got me. And if I don’t pay them in money, then I guess the next best thing would be … you.”

  His eyes widen in a mix of confusion and fear. It’s a struggle to hold back my smile now.

  “So tell you what: I’ll take the rest of what you owe me in your body parts. This arm, for instance … well, it’s kinda stringy, a little scrawny. I’d say it’s only worth about fifty bucks. Same with the other arm, that makes a hundred. And I’d argue that you need your legs more than your arms to get around, so let’s settle on just one leg for the remaining ninety. So how does that sound? Both arms and one leg, and you can pay the remaining four hundred in cash. What do you think?”

  The guy looks like he’s stopped breathing. His face has drained of all color, and if it weren’t for the fact that he’s still standing I’d have sworn he’d died of fright.

  “… No,” he squeaks out.

  “What’s that?” I repeat. “You’ll have to speak louder.”

  “P-please. No,” he says, the tiniest bit louder. “Please, I’ll p-pay.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask him, donning my winning smile.

  He nods his head vigorously, and I pretend to consider it, and then I say, “Fine,” and loosen the vise for him.

  The guy lets out a gasp of relief as he pulls his arm out and staggers back. His hand looks like a dead fish and his arm is at a weird angle, but I’m sure he’ll recover. I see tear stains coming out from underneath his sunglasses.

  “Okay,” I say as though nothing just happened. “So that’s five-ninety, like I said.”

  Visibly shaking, the guy reaches into his back pocket with his good hand while he cradles the other one next to his stomach. He pulls his wallet out and I watch as he tries opening it one-handed, then takes out six one-hundred dollar bills. He hands them to me and I take them, counting them out.

  “One second,” I say, and I stuff the money in my pocket as I walk over to my work bench. I open up a tool box where I keep some spare change and take out a ten-dollar bill. I bring it back and hand it over. The guy takes it without a word and tries stuffing it into his wallet, but the bill folds and creases. He doesn’t seem to care as he folds the wallet back up and stows it away.

  “Great,” I say, spreading my hands. “Well, she’s yours to drive home. Although I’d go a little slowly on the roads if I were you. Driving one-handed is always dangerous.”

  The guy gives me only the shadow of a nod before walking over to his bike. He climbs onto it, still cradling his hurt arm against his body, and kicks it alive. Then he rides at a slow pace out of my garage and out of sight.

  I shake my head once he’s gone.

  “Fucking tweakers,” I say.

  I look up at the clock. It’s about five, time to call it a day. I walk over and grab my broom, giving the place a quick sweep. My tools are mostly in the right places but I set them up correctly on the work bench. Once everything’s ready for the next day I turn off the lights and use the security panel to close and lock the garage door. I give my space one glance through one of the glass windows before turning arou
nd to head across the street toward home.

  I pass by my bike — my pride and joy — and unlock the door to go inside. I close and lock the front door and walk up the stairs to my place. It’s empty and silent, and for a sudden, irrational moment fear sweeps across my chest.

  “Emily?” I call out, but a muffled voice replies.

  “Yeah?”

  Relief floods down through me. This must be how my parents felt. But I shake my head. I’m no parent; just a big brother. I walk through the house — past the living room with the dining table up against the wall; past the small kitchen; past the bathroom and my bedroom, all the way to the door at the end of the hall: Emily’s room. Her door is closed so I knock.

  “You in there?” I ask.

  “Yeah, don’t come in!” she shouts. “I’m reading about pinhole photography.”

  “Pinhole what?” I ask, then shake my head. “Never mind, tell me later. You want some dinner?”

  “Sure!”

  “Mac and cheese?”

  “Mmm!”

  I chuckle — mac and cheese is her favorite, I don’t even know why I ask.

  I head back to the kitchen and start getting things out for dinner, pulling down a box of KD from the cupboard, and grabbing the ketchup from the fridge. Not many people like ketchup on their mac and cheese, but Emily and I do. We grew up with it.

  I put the water on and rip open the box, taking out the cheese. When the water’s boiling I dump the noodles in, giving them a stir. Just as it’s done and I strain them into the sink, I hear Emily’s door open. The hollow, metallic sound of her crutches gets louder as she comes down the hall. She appears in the kitchen doorway, her twisted arms gripping the handles of the crutches tight, her cock-eyed feet supporting herself on the ground. Her long, black hair is tied back in a ponytail.

  “Hey, you’re just on time,” I tell her. “You wanna set the table?”

  “Sure.” She hobbles forward and grabs two forks out of the drawer, then, reaching up high, pulls down two bowls from the cupboard. I mix the cheese into the noodles with butter and milk, watching her out of the corner of my eye. I don’t offer to help, of course — even if I did, I know she would refuse.