Joseph McElroy - Women and Men

Santee was next on the schedule but not quite. Bike banged elevator walls with writing on them, but did not nick paint. Wheeled bike many blocks to park. Losing job being absent while Turnstein phones mother probably, mother phones social worker, Senora Wing phones unknown people she always talking about. Dogs watching in park. Bike seat feels too small, bike so light; world a bad place, can’t think about falling off, it’s counter-indicated. Pigeons got out of the way, no retards there. Missed bottle in brown paper bag rolling around on pavement like a rat was inside. Jolted by brakes, front brake, rear brake, tire dark from puddle; stud selling grass get out of the way, grinning, frowning; muttering to rider, Good stuff. Didn’t know rider had a limp, a mother, a social worker, didn’t know rider also has a way to shift from one mode right over to another but no word for it except the flow coming from handlebar grips.

But traffic is a hassle and the bike has had enough work with new owner so can be walked to Twenty-fourth Street base, sidewalk clearly laned, so, like right door and left door alternating along sidewalk, but lane faithful lane faithful, checking other bikes for sign of police registration, but no registration probable.

Santee gave key to small office near theater on Twenty-fourth Street: access; bike safety; offered to buy lock but refused; also phone! (Asked Santee if Turnstein’s very busy and what was the crazy people doing in window and who was the old couple that came by that storefront, did they know Senora Wing?) Therefore, did not tell Santee to go in for a reading. But stammers came into the mind, into the dreams and thoughts. Phone went, Santee answered, and in wastebasket was calling card with something penciled on it and, printed, the name Ray Spence just as he said, "Spence" into phone. He said, "Well I hear they know something we don’t," hung up and asked how long Turnstein job had gone on: said got idea soon after father died. Well, how long was that? Died almost two years ago.

Asked Santee not to tell re: bike park. He agreed. Thought he had one earring, but now two but in one ear. He asked if father ever seen after death? Said I had seen someone looked like him on a bike but white.

Told Gustave this on phone. Had weird way of laughing, not good for business. Union meeting with ten to fifteen possibles for next week in Maureen’s apartment. Possibles. Not definites.

Senora Wing did not phone mother. Did not speak of anything re: coming changes.

i. Dream come true but don’t blow it; build by consolidating operations within same lane. New canvas bag can be carried no-hands on back. Pay call to bicycle headquarters revealed first independent job waiting. Therefore, on trip for Turnstein-Wing to Compu-Grafics to pick up posters for manager of all-girls rock band office, taxied fast to C-G, then on foot above ground by good luck only one-and-one-half blocks to HQ of new independent messenger service coming into being with still something wrong in head but not clear, received from Santee envelope to go by hand to woman with same name as mother, Luisa, leave with doorman: cruised parallel to cab, cab tried to edge messenger away at corner and driver looked like Georgie — but, obeying bike law at light, halted while cab ran light and was arrested by brown-uniformed woman officer: biked in noise, in struggle with angel of death, down Park Avenue and around station to manager of all-girls rock band who was the smiling graybeard in sweatshirt with three bikes in big studio, stopped smiling before signing for posters; did not know messenger, asked where messenger’s bike had come from, had seen it before, and never forgot a bike, smiled again, dreamt of bikes; was beginning to lift posters out of envelope as departed.

What was wrong? No lock for bike, no time to return to HQ, flowed downtown to Turnstein-Wing’s block: old couple outside watching Goodie and Baddie fighting. Asked Chinese vegetable woman to watch bike, she said No.

Let Wing-Turnstein see bike? Not this messenger.

Light took over with its speed. Turnstein said, "You oiled your gears, what’s the rush?" Light flashed clear through brick walls of close buildings from beautiful spokes of new bike up against wall alone!

Senora Wing and her ongoing psychic consultation with tiny woman in trenchcoat with long yellow sack-type robe under it, nothing under robe, who looked at incoming messenger so eyes seemed to have looked at some same things as messenger. ("You have traveled to the Orient. You have worked there. You are tired of words. You will take off your clothes. You will change your career to some manual pursuits. Your first name is the last name of someone or something famous — which means you are building and going ahead, not waiting on the past.")

Twins by now on bunk bed half asleep panting watching each other. Light is spoking through building walls off bicycle outside, but probably bike still safe, though must see, though must see Turnstein and must go to bathroom. Something wrong staying in head but not clear; how can own business premises be own unless rented, while Santee is owner, isn’t he? Need for bathroom, need for pay phone; bicycle not for Gustave, if bicycle still outside where it could be taken, though if seen by those inside, can also be taken. Turnstein’s eyes watering, absorbing rays from Wing quarter; outgoing address-pickup held and held in Turnstein’s hand while he weeps only from eyes, no motion in face, except light from bike outside unbeknownst to Turnstein, twins, and Wing, light flooding Turnstein’s face from spokes, spokes moving by light.

"You’re impatient; maybe it’s too late for you to go on this job," said Turnstein. "Goodie or Baddie could take it possibly."

Felt bike move, like jaw shifting, and Wing’s client said, "Are those twins real? I mean are they male or female?" This small psychic client said, "You can improve your posture if you imagine a yellow light right here in your chest and you make sure it’s out front and you follow it." She was speaking to me.

Took order form from Turnstein and let it go. Felt bike being stolen and jaw getting bigger and bigger like stone that stayed. Go, said Turnstein, good riddance. (Went to bathroom in mind only.) You crazy, get out of here, said Turnstein quite silently. Yet heard Senora Wing’s words of threat, though with threat following upstream on rays of light from outside: "Bring in the business, or you’re through." As if she can’t see future unless through clientele. And heard other words recalled later, for now fell — fell out through door down hard onto pavement, holding order form. Old skinny weirdo helped this messenger up who shook off his hand and saw the old lady with the white hair and the mole on her cheek and talk talk talk crazies over by the wall with her hands on handlebar and saddle of bike, keeping bike safe, looking like she remembered nothing, but keeping bike safe.

Thanked her and put finger to mouth. And she replied, "Our secret," and she understood. "Are you my son, black boy?" she said—"because I felt my son’s hands in the handlebars or someone I could swear."

Flowed across manhole lids, around potholes, uptown, uptown. Spring-levered into higher gear, remembering answer to old lady. Just missed death when triple-parked car opened outside door — by truck double-parked by two motorcycles angled at meter. Was respected by nobody, shifted gears, remembering last words of Wing to traveler-woman, shifted gears remembering to pedal while doing so, as instructed by naked man drinking carrot juice. Remembered answer to old lady, passing through green light while sensors projected ahead to when red warned of oncoming vehicle and when light behind red was only the flow that cures limp, streamlines jaw, speeds recovery, but from what?