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I.
Thursdays were always like this. He would putter around the office, waiting to leave at lunch and take a half-day. Being senior partner meant he could do this, and no one was allowed to question. He would go to the deli, pick up the same tuna sandwich on rye, diagonally cut, with yogurt and an apple. He was not a particularly healthy man, but he believed in a good routine, and this certainly fit the bill.
Next he would take a drive home, the long way, passing by the lake to briefly watch the ducks land, before heading home to his wife of twenty-four years. She would be waiting for him in the den, knitting or watching her stories, as she called them, on cable. He would make some excuse to go into the garage, and he would work on one of many projects he would never get done. A lawn mower, ages old and long ago replaced, sat at one end of the bench determined not to get fixed. The rest of the bench was currently being occupied with a wind chime that may or may not make and sound when the wind blew.
He couldnt fix any of it, but it kept his mind off the numbing feeling building inside him that everything in his life was fake. He hated his job, he hated the city, he was close to hating it all. Just like the lawn mower, he was powerless to fix anything.
He decided not to wait until lunch, and just left. A few quick notes to his secretary and the office would never miss him. He just needed the day off to straighten his thoughts, and he would be in tomorrow. Then he would make up his work on Friday, instead of just putting in hours sitting at his desk, staring out the window at nothingness, he would actually get some work done. No one would know the difference.
II.
Kissing his wife good-bye, he slowly closed the door of his beamer and pulled out of the manicured driveway. As his car dipped into the suburban streets he felt a weight lift from his mind. Perhaps all he needed was a vacation, after all. After visiting his parents in the country, maybe he would swing in and see his son.
Yes, a vacation would do him good. The life of a New York lawyer was a hectic one, filled with dead lines, dissertations, point-counter-point, redirection, and a host of other things he no longer wanted to think about. He phoned his secretary, and in his best sick voice, proclaimed he would not be in on Monday, and maybe not until the following week. He needed a rest from all that, from everything.
It is a very strange thing, when a man loses his mind. Its as if his life is sealed inside a jar. The jar, already stifling him, is then added to a fire. As his life heats up around him, the contents of the jar expand until they have no place left to go. And then: snap.
Worse still, is the aftermath of this snap. The contents of the mans life surround him, ruined by pressure and flame. He stares at the ruin, not comprehending what has happened, trying to move on. Maybe he doesnt even know it has happened, and he just goes on as if life were normal.
This drive into the country was an attempt to pull out of the flame. As he left the lines of buildings farther behind he started to spot trees. All varieties, slowly turning colors as autumn overtook summer. Their beauty mixed with the country air, providing him with a sense of calm he had not known in thirty years.
Had it been that long? Surely he had been home for Thanksgiving, Christmas, some holiday celebration. Had he really traded in the whole life that long ago? And for what? A headache he could not handle and a paycheck he could not spend?
This last thought stayed in his head until he turned into the country road which held his childhood home. He had rode these paths as a youth, king amongst the dirt by-ways and pastures. His bicycle was a shining steed, carrying through many imagined adventure.
The house seemed smaller since he last visited, but the paint was still the perfect mix of red and fade. The porch still had the same swing, squeaking in the breeze that played with the same leaves on the lawn. The screen door had the same rip; just below the handle, created when an overzealous boy had rushed out of the house to ride his bike down through his kingdom.
Now this king was reluctant to enter. He even knocked, and waited for a reply before entering. He had not told his parents he was coming, and was sure they would ask a million questions about why, after all these years, he had stopped in.
After a hug from his mother, and a handshake from his father, he was sitting in the same living room he had sat in for 18 years, watching TV or debating when his team would finally win the pennant. The fireplace burned age-old logs as he stared into a blaze that had been crackling since he was a baby.
Dinner was served at exactly 7 pm. He washed up at 6:50 and headed into the dining room. The places were already set; his father at the head, his mother at the foot, and he, right in the middle. The smell of his mothers friend chicken knocked into him as the dinner was laid out. With it was okra, corn off the cob, and freshly baked butter bread. Everything came from a garden out back, or from scratch ingredients.
After dinner his mother did the dishes and his father retired to the den. He was left in the living room, to watch fuzzy channels from a country TV. Nothing was on, and he wasnt watching anyway, so he shut the thing off and tried to relax. His boredom grew with the silence. He couldnt here the cars going past, or the people talking outside on the lawn. He couldnt here sirens or car horns. He couldnt here anything. True silence. And he couldnt handle it.
Nothing is louder on the mind then nothing at all. Soon his brain was racing with all the thoughts he was supposed to have left at the office. His firm needed a few minor work ups on a fat cat that was trying, for the fifth year, to evade taxes. Someone else was on the case, but he didnt know it as well, and would probably louse it up somehow. What was he doing here? It was only fifteen days until trial on the biggest case of the year and one more witness needed to be dragged into confession. He couldnt think about this, he was trying to relax.
Getting up and going outside seemed the only answer. The cool night air mingled well with the countryside to create a soothing perfume. His mind needed something to latch on to. With nothing in sight, he had to go searching.
The pond seemed a bit lower, he noticed as he stopped to skip a stone. Perhaps the late season was to blame. Walking farther he noticed the barn had new tin on top. Even in the night it sparkled. It couldnt have been more than two years old. Perhaps the inside held something new as well.
He thought, as he drove to the farm earlier, he should have chosen this life. His son could have grown up playing baseball and catching fish in the creek. His wife would have tended a little garden. When it was harvest time his son would get out of school and help them bring in the crops. When he got old, his son would take over.
This was a simpler life, and he envied it.
III.
The barn held treasures wonderful to see. It was like walking into a time capsule, or the set of green acres. Farm implements hung along the walls. Stalls still smelled of the animals that had just been shipped to the butcher. While walking through the barn, he wondered what else he might find.
The first thing that caught his eye was a scythe. It was worn and old, and had not seen use in some time. Farms no longer needed hand held scythes, and the rust on the blade was testament. As he held the tool aloft he could not banish the image that he was Death, standing over this farm. Everything around him seemed so timeless. Maybe it was not timeless, but timed, dated. Maybe it had not changed because it would not change.
Discarding the thought with the scythe, he made his way further into the barn. He idly held some grain that had somehow spilled onto the floor. The rough texture tickled as he let it slip through his fingers. As he bent to pick up more, his back reminded him of another memory. As a youth, the days he looked forward to were those days in the fall, when the harvest would start and he would miss school. He loved the time out of the classroom, as all the children must of. But that love soon went sour as he was forced to stoop low between rows, picking and pulling his way along, his back building up hurt to use against him when he took a rest for the day. Those days in the rows, he missed school, and the ease of his back as he slipped into his chair.
Towards the end of the barn was an interesting sight. A large, rusty piece of sheet metal leaned against the wall. Its once yellow color peeked through in spots, hinting at its original purpose. That purpose fulfilled, it soon took another. He could hear the dings as if he was still there, throwing a ball against it, practicing curves and sliders. Every waking second he had to himself, he would sneak out to the barn and throw balls at this big sheet of metal, which would pop them back at him, forcing him to practice fielding at the same time. He picked up a rock to throw against the imaginary catcher, but stopped himself. Imaginary. He never did have a catcher out here. No one lived even close to him, and friends were few and far between in the country.
Was nothing what it seemed anymore? He knew he did not want to go back to the city life. Now he was starting to think he did not want the country life he had built up in his mind. This trip had been a failure, and so had he. Dejected, he slumped his shoulders and faced the barn door to leave.
A shine came through the bailing window, catching a piece of red metal. He smiled. How had he missed this on his way in? This was the very thing he had come for. This was the life he left behind, the pleasure he had lost. This was the thing that would set it all right. This old joy would polish the life he now lived.
He ran back inside, hardly able to contain himself. Words sputtered out of his mouth, he wasnt even sure what he was saying. He asked if he could take it with him, back to the city. He was sorry to have to end his visit short, but he had something he had to get done. Of course, he would make sure they all got back together eventually.
Fifteen minutes later he was speeding down the country roads, back to his suburban life. He would not stop at home, no one there would understand. He had to get somewhere no one would see him. He had to be alone for this.
IV.
His tie flopped up into his face as he adjusted himself, one last time, on the now-too-small bicycle. Not just any bike, but the one he found in his parents barn. His bike. From forty-some years ago. His first real bike.
It amazed him how much he has outgrown this bike. The once comfortable seat now sits a foot too low for his expanded backside. Pedals, which, over time, wore into the shape of his never-shoed feet, now seemed slippery and warped. The handlebar knocked into his knees every time he took a turn.
But it is still his bike, and he is going to ride it. Not on the streets he rode as a child. No, they have all been paved over and commercialized. The rocks and sand that used to spit up beneath his tires are now buried under four decades of urban sprawl.
His office was on the top floor. Each day of the week, and once or twice on the weekends, he would enter the great revolving doors that never seemed to have smudges, walk through the lobby staffed with pretty smiling robots and broken door men, and catch the elevator to the top. Wading in amongst the sea of people crashing against the door as they waited for their ports of call on various floors, he would stand, eyes forward, until he reached the top. Some would set anchor in a cubicle, crunching numbers which meant little to anyone else. Others, like him, would sail into a corner office with a clipper-ship oaken desk to bask in the glory of the sun reflecting off the buildings all around.
Today was a Saturday, and very few people would be around anyway. On the side of caution, he took the stairs. So it was up to the top of his building, carrying the bike twenty-four floors up the stairs so no one using the elevator would see him. Half an hour later, bedraggled and wheezing, he found his way to the roof. Like all the buildings around him, his was a flat-topped, tar and gravel roof atop a glass sided building, window offices staring at one another. The top of this building had plant boxes scattered around so people could come up and pretend they werent in the middle of a stifling metropolis.
The building he was on, Lambert & Lambert, of which he was senior partner, was a full four stories higher than his across-the-street neighbor, Windford and Simon. The street between the two could not be more than twenty feet wide. Twenty-five, to be safe. He had never walked those twenty-five feet to the four-stories smaller building. In his twenty-two years with the firm, he had never visited his neighbors. Since when was competition an excuse for poor manners? he mused.
In his climb to the top all he had thought about was the goal. He never thought of what he was stepping on to get there. Somewhere, amongst the climb, he had lost himself. He was going to get it all back.
At first, he thought this would be a ride in the park. He had logged countless hours on this bike, and they had a long-standing relationship. Things like this are not easily lost, he thought. As the sun went down past the rooftop, he found himself on his back, as he had the many other attempts. This was not going to be as simple as he thought, but he was going to ride this bike, or die trying.
He picked himself, and the bike, up off the roof and tried again. He was going to ride this bike. They say you never forget, but it sure was hard for him to remember the once easy, and fulfilling, activity that had taken up so much of his childhood. His body just wouldnt comply with his hearts wishes. No matter how he prostrated himself, the handlebars, or the bike, he could not get the thing to go. He had failed.
The bike fell from his hands as he sulked over to one of the plant boxes. Dejectedly, he took a seat on the corner. Wood, neglected and worn, broke under his weight and he fell to the stony rooftop. Something snapped. Grabbing for the wood left standing; he brought himself to his feet. Today was a new day. He would rite all his wrongs. He would do all the things he had forgotten. And he would start by riding this bike.
Knees shaking, knocking his hands as he gripped the sticky handles, he slowly found a perch. The chain groaned, the wheels started to turn. Wobbling at first, then ever sturdier, he found his way around the rooftop. Rocks flew as he found his rhythm. His legs, too long for this machine, were working harder and harder to push both rider and ride to the extreme. Years were being peeled off his face with every pass through the urban garden. And it all made sense again.
The night air of the city clung to his sweat-drenched brow as he let the bike slip from his hands. Walking back to the broken box he picked up the scattered planks. Two arm loads later he was peering over the three-foot ledge to the now empty street below. During the day this street was alive with suits and cabs, how-do-you-dos and good-to-see-yas. No one was down there now. No one would see this great moment.
As he mentally prepared himself for his final ride, a breeze caressed his face and with it came a thought; had his son ever experienced the joy of riding a bike as he had; pedaling down a dirt rode, cool autumn breeze playing with his hair, cars rolling by whipping up dust clouds and enveloping you in a private storm.
In his own private storm he had forgotten to teach his son how to live. He had forgotten his son altogether, he now thought. In providing him with the best private education, the best clothes, the best opportunities, he had deprived him of the best of life. It was probably the same with his wife, he thought. He had created a fraudulent life for both of them. They had been caught in his storm, too.
The planks leaned over the wall and rested gently on the gravel roof. He tucked his tie into his shirt and mounted his bicycle for the final ride. Churning his legs he slowly built momentum. The wall came ever closer. Faster and faster he pumped, and the wall was upon him. Wood shattered and flew as the bike took to the air. And he laughed.
He laughed away the firm, his family, his shiny new BMW. He laughed away house payments, cleaning ladies, and law school. In the half-second it took him to realize the bike would not clear the chasm over the street to land safely on the other roof he had laughed away all forty-something years of care. For a moment he was just a kid on a bike.
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