The International Writers Magazine: Dreamscapes

Spokes • Chris Castle He sat outside the house in a broken old garden chair, once white now something else. He poured orange juice, watched the sun lowering but holding warm. He looked out to the street, dozens of parked cars, and no people. He put his feet up against the bricks, leaving his sunglasses hanging in his shirt and letting the sun hit his eyes.

            “Hello.”  A young voice, pulling him back to where he sat. He looked around, a girl on a bike, stopped on the kerb.
            “Hey” he said. He‘d seen the girl roll back and forth. “Cool bike.” He said, looking at the different colours.
            “It’s okay. My names Shanra.” The girl said. She tilted a little as if saying her name gave her weight.
            “Shanra. Cool name.” He said it in two stages, Shan-ra, like she was a superhero. The sun had turned, making him raise his hand to shield his eyes. He thought she’d have taken off, but her foot was still holding on the concrete.
            “What’s your name?” She said frowning, maybe wondering why he hadn’t got round to this already.
            “Ryan.”  He said.  A helicopter passed over the top of them, delaying what she was about to say.
            “I like planes when they’re higher up.  All you can see is the trail of smoke.  The vapour trail.  Me and my brother used to watch them all summer when it was clear and blue.”
            “Sounds good.”  Ryan said and it sounded like it was something he wanted to do.
            “He’s gone away now, my brother.  I haven’t seen him in over a year.” She was still looking upwards, like he was suspended in the sky, somehow.
            “That’s too bad.” He said.
            “Yeah. He’d fix my bike for me.  Now it’s getting uneven.” She said, tipping the spoke under her foot.
            “You want me to take a look?”  He said, already pulling himself out of the chair.
            “Okay,” she said, kicking the brake down, climbing off the seat. She stood next to it, putting her hands in her pockets.
            He crouched over the bike, looking at the wheels, the body. She sat on the kerb, looking out to the street, back to him from time to time. The sun pooled and covered the street now.
            “Do you drive?” She said, looking at him, as he tapped the seat, picked the rust.
            “Nah. Never learnt.  Can’t ride a bike, neither.” He said, feeling a flush in his cheek. It was the first time he’d told anyone that small secret, outside his mum, his dad, his teasing sister.
            “No way!” She said, her face exploding into a giggling smile. “How old are you?”
            “Twenty eight.” He said, laughing back at the girl.
            “You’re kidding me! You’ve got to be.” She said, still smiling but her eyes narrowing, weary of teasing.
            “Why would I lie about something like that?” He said, wiping down his hands.
            “Man, the only kids I know who can’t ride are the retards.” She said, looking genuinely surprised.
            “Thanks, man. I was already feeling good but you just shot the moon.” He said, sitting down on the kerb, lifting his glass by the neck.
            “I didn’t mean it…” she turned red, looked down to the floor. He smiled, remembering how easy it was to get embarrassed when you were a teenager.
            “Relax. I was just fooling. My sister had a bike; I used to help fix it from time to time. Same problems as you have now.” He pointed to the bike, holding the glass.             “Uneven spokes, a little rust. Nothing life threatening.” She nodded listening, trying to concentrate on where he pointed. “I’m going to grab some pliers. You okay here?”
            “No place I got to go. I’m 13, man. I think my curfew’s not until, wow, seven?” She said, happy to not be embarrassed anymore.
            “Seven’s pretty good.  Us retards have to be in by sundown. You want a drink? And please don’t ask me for a beer. Orange juice, hot drink…”

He brought out the drinks. She sat where he’d left her, still looking out to the street, the maze of cars.
            “So you go to school round here?” He asked, tweaking the spokes, testing the flex.
            “Yeah. St. Joes. It’s okay.” She sipped her coffee, coughed.
            “Big coffee drinker, huh? I didn’t drink it until I was twenty-one.” He said, pouring a glass of juice, handing it over.
            “People buy it in the canteen and every one of them lets it sit and get cold.”
            “You got a lot friends in school?” He asked, tightening the screws.
            “Some. We all know each other okay. They pick on one girl, because she’s got a fat ass. They call her a big ole bitch until she cries. I never say anything. It’s mean. She’s got real pretty eyes, too.”
            “Then she’ll be okay.” He lifted the seat, twisted it some. “Most of the time you spend, you spend it looking at someone’s face. Where all the time goes.”
            “I guess. Do people your age pick on you for not having a car?” She said, pouring two more glasses.
            “No. I got plenty of other things to get teased about these days. Besides, I like walking. There’s no place I can’t get to walking or on the trains.” He tapped the tyres with his foot.
            “You live in the house alone?” She said, following him to the tyres.
            “Nah. I live with two other people. They’re okay. I used to live there with my girlfriend, but we broke up.” He put the bike down.
            “What was her name?” She said, passing him a glass.
            “Thank you. Linda. But that doesn’t matter so much now.” He sipped his drink.
            “You want to take her for a spin, see how she pans out?” He stood back, let her climb on. She kicked the brake off and pulled into the road.
            She took it down the road, almost out of sight. Turned a curve and started back toward him. She said something he couldn’t catch; put his hand to his ear. Said ‘pardon me?’ She shouted and he nodded. She climbed off the bike and the two sat back down.
            “Move okay?” He said, feeling good with the work, remembered what had gone before.
            “Yeah...it’s just...” she stopped, then started up again smiling. “I haven’t heard anyone say ‘pardon’ since I went to see my granddaddy.” She broke down in a fit of giggles, a hand to her mouth.
            “Jesus! An ancient retard. That's what it’s coming down to. We should hang out more often.” He shook his head, trying not to smile.
            “Sorry!” She blurted out, laughing carrying.
            “Yeah, I  can see that. So what should I have said? What’s hip?” He looked over; saw her wiping her eyes now. “Give me a break.”
            “We say…holler? Holler me back.” She said, unevenly.
            “Okay.” He said. He said the words, leading to her total collapse. She doubled over and he threw his hands up. “I think I’ll stick to pardon.” He sat back, looked to the bike. He looked to the watch as she finally levelled out. “Well it’s close to seven now, girl. Curfew time.”
            “I guess.” She said, her face levelling, trying to regain her cool.” I’m meeting friends in an hour.”
            “So shoot,” he said, lifting himself up from the kerb.
            “Thanks for the help,” she said, her voice quieter.
            “No problem. Not at all. Have a good time tonight. You left or right?”
            “Left. Number 12.”
            “Okay then. See you around.”
            “See you,” she said, pushing away from the kerb. He saw she started to say his name, then stopped. “Bye.” She cycled down the road, steadily, turned back and said something. He didn’t catch any of it.
            “Holler me back?” He shouted. She turned back, half smiling and then turned back to the street, into the lilt of the sun, 6:58pm.
© Chris Castle Feb 2011
 chriscastle76@hotmail.com

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