First Chapter to my novel Every Song Tells a Story
Erin just makes that little pout and puffs as I slide behind her at the end of the counter. Bart looks up at me. I know he’ll say something when he finishes checking off on the bakery delivery. Erin doesn’t say anything on her way out. She knows she doesn’t have to—Bart will take care of it. I’m giving a customer change from his ten when Bart comes over.
As soon as the customer is through the door, he says, “You’re late again, Melody. It’s getting to be a problem. I can’t keep asking Erin to cover for you. Besides, I have to pay her a full half hour when she stays past the end of her shift. I’m going to dock you a half hour, but if it keeps up, I have to let you go.”
“I’m sorry, Bart. I’m trying my best. I really am. It’s so hard without a drivers’ license. I either have to walk or take the bus. You know how reliable the bus is. I walked today. I thought I left home with plenty of time, but…I gotta’ have this job. I can’t lose it.” I couldn’t tell him it was the UA’s. I never know when I have to go in for one or how long I have to wait.
“Melody, I took a chance hiring you in the first place. I want to help you out, but there’s only so much I can do before corporate climbs my ass. I know you need this job, but you have to figure out how to get here on time, if you want to keep it. Understand?”
“I understand, Bart, and I do, I really do, appreciate what you’re doing for me.”
A customer comes up with coffee and a muffin. “I got fuel on number five too.” I ring up the sale and tell the customer to have a good day. When I turn around, Bart is gone.
I can’t lose this job everything depends on it. Without it, I can’t get the two bedroom apartment I need to get my daughter out of foster care. Without a job, my probation gets revoked, and I go back to jail—no, I can’t lose this job. I don’t have any friends I can ask for rides. The bus is never on time, and since I’m at the start of the route, it takes at least forty minutes to get me to work, even when everything goes right. I need to do something though. A bicycle, maybe that’s the answer. The exercise would be good for me. It wouldn’t cost me anything after I got it, and it wouldn’t take that long to ride the three miles to work, once I got in shape. What if I forgot how to ride? I was just a little girl the last time I was on a bike. What happens if I get a flat tire? When I was a kid, I was always getting flat tires. What about those cold, snowy winter days?
I feel my mind start to accelerate with what ifs. It’s a familiar feeling, and I know where it leads. I hear my recovery counselor’s voice, “Only worry about the things that are right now and then only one thing at a time.” Instead of shallow, quick breaths, I force myself to breath deeper with a space between, just like she told me to do. With each breath, I feel my racing heartbeat slow. My mind slows too. I can think again. There’s a bike shop a block down the street. On my lunch break, I’ll check it out.
When my break comes, I hurry to the shop. I only have a half hour and absolutely can’t be late getting back to work. I start to get anxious again when I see there is already a customer in the shop. The clerk is talking with him, something about carbon or titanium frames. There are bicycles lined up on the floor and others hang upside down from the ceiling. I look at the tags on the bikes closest to me. This can’t be right—nine hundred dollars, eight-hundred-fifty. Here’s one for thirteen-seventy-five. There’s no way I can buy one of these. I made a mistake. I need to go. I turn to leave when a guy wearing a blue apron, shorts and sandals comes from the back of the shop. He’s wiping his hands with a yellow rag. He has a sleeve that looks like a light green and yellow lizard with a forked, blue tongue climbing a dark green vine tattooed on his left arm. His head is shaved, but he has a long, dark unshaved patch under his lower lip. He has deep set eyes.
“Can I help you?” His smile makes me smile too.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Are these tags right? Are bikes really almost a thousand dollars?”
“Oh that and three or more, if you want. What are you looking for?”
“Something to ride to work. Something I can rely on. Something…something …ah, something cheap.”
He waits until I sputter out, smiles again, and asks, “How much do you want to spend?”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to sound too crazy, and if new ones are eight hundred… My mind starts racing again. I stop, breath, wince, and whisper, “A hundred, maybe one twenty.” I wait for his dismissive laugh.
Instead he says, “I might have something out back for you. Follow me.” He waives for me to follow as he turns. He’s wearing shorts. I see he has sculpted calves and a small but muscled butt.
There is an aisle on either side of the island of bikes. I watch so that I don’t hit one and knock them all down. The walls are lined with displays—clothes, shoes, helmets, tires, tools, accessories. The whole place smells like new rubber, fresh paint and an odor I can’t identify but like.
On the way toward the back, he looks over his right shoulder and says, “By the way I’m Randy.”
“Melody,” I reply.
At the very back there is an area with tools hanging on the wall, a bench, and some kind of stand holding a bicycle. I like the way it looks and feels, orderly, but still a work place. The smell I couldn’t identify is stronger here. I realize it is the smell of lubricants, not the greasy smell of a car repair shop but lighter. Randy opens a solid metal door to the ally. On the right there is a chain link enclosure. All jumbled together inside it are old beat-up bikes, bikes with parts missing, wheels, and parts I can’t identify.
“This is what we call the Heap. Anything we think we might be able to use or that might have a little use left goes here. People are always wanting to trade in some old beater. Instead of saying no, we take the old one and give them a little off the new one. Once a year, we give what’s here to the fire department to fix up and give to kids at Christmas. Works for everybody. I could probably find something here to fix up and stay in your price range, if you’re interested.”
How fitting for someone like me to get a bike from the Heap, but if that’s what I have to do…
“You think so? Yes, I’m interested, but I can’t wait. I need to get back to work. Can I come back when I get off around three?”
“Sure, I’m here to six. I’ll dig through here and see what I can do.”
I start to walk back into the shop, then stop and turn my head to him. “Thank you, Randy.”
“Hey, no problem. See you around three, Melody.” He remembered my name. He follows me inside closing the door behind him.
It can’t be this easy. Nothing has ever been this easy. Even when I thought it would be, it never worked out. I’m back at work with three minutes to spare. I see Bart look at his watch and nod approvingly. All afternoon I think of what could go wrong. I’ve got a hundred and fifty dollars, but I need a hundred to make a payment on my court costs tomorrow. I can’t afford to lose my job though either. What if Randy can’t find anything? What if he can, but it’s a piece of junk? How would I know if it was? If I give him a hundred dollars and it is junk, I’ve lost my money and still have the problem of how to get to work. Why would Randy want to help me anyway? What’s he want from me? I try all the techniques I learned in recovery to try to stop this kind of thinking. The best I can do is stop it for a minute or two, then it starts again.
By the time three comes around, I’ve almost convinced myself that I should just go to my NA meeting and give the whole thing up, but my meeting isn’t until four. I’m standing outside smoking a cigarette and looking down the street toward the bike shop. You can do this, I tell myself. Even if he has something, you don’t have to buy it. You can always say you need time to think about it. You started this, the least you can do is follow through. Aren’t you always saying you can’t ever see anything through? Maybe this is one time you can. Okay, I can do this. I grind out my cigarette and start down the street.
I hadn’t noticed the tinkle from the little bell on the door, when I was there at lunch. The guy I’d seen before talking to the customer is stacking what look like shoeboxes in the corner opposite the door. He looks up. He’s about Randy’s age, short blond hair. He’s wearing a light blue three button, knit short-sleeve shirt with the name of the bike shop and the name Eric stitched over the pocket on the left side.
“Can I help you look for anything,” he asks.
“Is Randy here?”
“Oh, you must be the one he’s been putting that bike together for. He’s straight back in the repair shop. Hope you like it.”
I start down the narrow aisle. The smells I’d noticed earlier in the day for some reason seem to calm me. I see Randy. His back is to me and he has a bicycle in the stand. He has a tool and appears to be doing something to the back wheel. He must have heard me, because just then he turns and says, “Perfect timing, Melody. I just got done putting the back wheel on. What do you think? Do you like it?” From the way he’s smiling, it must be for me.
I don’t know what to think. It can’t be for me. I’m afraid to ask. It’s green with light tan trim. It even has a basket attached to the handlebars. “It’s...it’s...ah, it’s beautiful,” I answer.
“Glad you like it. I found the frame. It was a little scratched, but cleaned up pretty well. It didn’t have wheels, and the handlebars were bent. After a little scrounging, I found wheels and handlebars that would work. I even found the basket. It was a little bent up, but not that hard to straighten. I thought it added a nice touch. What do you think?” From the look on his face, he’s obviously very pleased with the job he did.
I can’t say anything. I can’t believe it’s for me. I just nod, yes.
He takes the bike off the stand and holds it upright with his left hand on the seat. “Come on over and we’ll get the seat adjusted.” He puts the front wheel between his legs and holds on to the handlebars. “Come on. Just sit on the seat. I got you.”
I walk to the bike. I have to put my hand on his shoulder to swing my leg over the seat. I sit and let go of his shoulder. Randy holds the bike solid. My feet are on the floor and I’m looking at the pedals. My hands are on the handlebars. I look up. My face is inches from his. I see his eyes are soft blue. I can feel the blood in my cheeks. I hope he doesn’t notice I am blushing.
“Okay, now just put your feet on the pedals.”
I put my left foot up first, As I raise my right foot, the bike wobbles slightly. I make a squeaky kind of sound, sort of an “eek,” and quickly put my foot back down.
“Don’t worry; I have you. Just look straight ahead.” Randy is smiling. I try again. The bike wobbles, but I get my foot on the pedal.
“We need to raise it up about an inch or so. You’re taller than I thought. You can hop off now.”
I get off, holding his shoulder for support. He uses a wrench to raise the seat. I can’t keep from looking at the bike. What are you thinking? This has to be more than a hundred dollars. He’s just trying to get you to fall in love with it, then he’ll tell you it’s way more than you can pay. Don’t fall for this.
“Randy, it is a really nice bike and all, but how much is it? I don’t have much money. I only have the hundred at most.”
“I remembered you told me that. I’ve seen you up at the Gas Stop and know you aren’t getting rich working there. Why don’t you take it for a ride, make sure it works for you, and then we’ll talk about money.”
He’s already wheeled the bike through the back door. I follow him to the alley. He leans the bike toward me.
“Here you go.”
Okay, what’s the harm in it? I can always say no. I get my leg over the seat, my hands on the handlebars. I put my left foot on the pedal and push down. I hop pushing off with my right foot. It takes a couple of hops before I get enough momentum to get my right foot off the ground. I look straight ahead and pedal. I wiggle the handlebars from side to side trying to keep my balance. It’s a long alley and by the end, I’ve got it, but now I have to go back. It’s too narrow to turn around, so I have to stop, but where are the brakes? Randy must have seen my problem because just then I hear him yell, “Just pedal backwards.” I do and feel the brake grab. I drag my right foot just to be sure. Once I get turned around, I have no problem getting started and going straight. When I get to Randy, I pedal backwards and gradually slow to a stop without dragging my foot.
“Alright, nice job, Melody, it all comes back doesn’t it? Just like riding a bike.” We’re both grinning, he from his joke and me from something I hadn’t felt since I was a girl.
“So, what do you think? Will it work for you?”
“Sure, but…”
“Don’t worry. Here’s the deal. I dug the frame, wheels and handlebars out of the Heap. I cleaned them up, cleaned and greased the bearings. Put on a new chain, seat, and grips for the handlebars. The tires are new. There are a lot of those goat-head thorns around here, so I put self-sealing tubes in the tires. That doesn’t mean you’ll never get a flat, but it sure will help. All together I have about fifty-five dollars in it. I could let you have it for that.”
Fifty-five dollars, I can’t believe it. “Really, only fifty-five dollars?” I ask.
“That’s it fifty-five dollars.”
“Okay, I’ll do it, but I only have fifteen dollars and a little change on me right now.”
“Go ahead take it. You can bring the money in tomorrow.”
Why is he being so nice to me? Guys have never been nice to me unless they’ve wanted something, usually to get in my pants. If that’s what he’s after, he’s got it all wrong. My life is a mess enough without adding that kind of trouble to it. I don’t want to feel an obligation just because he’s nice to me, but that feeling, that feeling I had riding down the alley, I don’t want to wait. I want that feeling again.
“Look, it’s okay, take it. Bring the money tomorrow, or if you change your mind, just bring the bike back. Besides, where are you going to go? I know where you work. Take it, and have fun. I don’t suppose you have a lock or a helmet do you.”
I shake my head, no.
“Didn’t think so. You need a helmet. Hang on.”
He goes up a set of wooden stairs opposite the work bench. I hear him rummaging through things. A couple of minutes later he’s back with a helmet. It’s the strangest color I’ve ever seen, a kind of metallic orange. It’s smooth and looks like a big gumball. On the way by a wall display he grabs a black coil and stands next to me in front of the counter.
“We’ve had this helmet for three years now. No one would buy it, so we moved it upstairs to get it out of the way.”
I put it on. I fumble with the clip on the chin strap and fasten it. Randy reaches toward me. This is it, I think. This is when he touches me, just a brush—make it seem like an accident—oh sorry I was just trying to help you. Instead, he puts one hand on the top of the helmet and pushes it side to side front to back.
“Perfect,” he says and steps back. “It’s yours, if you can stand the color.”
“I can’t take it.”
“It’s been awhile since you’ve been on a bike. You need a helmet. It’s too dangerous without one. You’d be doing us a favor getting it out of here. It’s also bad for business, if one of our customers gets hurt.”
I manage a weak smile.
“You have to have a lock. If I let you go without one, the bike would be gone before you got back to pay me for it. Consider it insurance. Even with the lock, someone with a bolt cutter or enough time can cut it and be gone, so park it and lock it where people can see it, and take it inside whenever you can.” The two ends of the black coil are joined with a round combination lock. Randy shows me how to set my own combination.
I take the lock and follow his instructions. For the new combination, I chose 1-2-2-8, my daughter’s birthday—no way I can forget that. I try it and it works. I’m getting that feeling like I’m about to cry, but choke it down. I turn away and start pushing my bike down the aisle toward the front door. I stop and look back. “Thanks Randy. You have no idea. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. Now go ride. See you tomorrow.”
I don’t know who is smiling more, him or me. I pass the shiny, new bikes. I don’t care how much they cost or how fancy they are, I have the best bike ever.
I’m still a little shaky stopping and starting, but the five stop signs on the way to my NA meeting make me practice. By the time I stop at the Methodist church, I’m feeling much more confident. I don’t see anyone outside smoking, so the meeting must have already started. I bump my bike down the stairs, through the basement doors and lean it against the wall and lock it. I open the door just as Lyle, the group leader, is asking if there is any one new in attendance. I quietly take a seat in the circle. Tonight is a sharing night, and we start at the other side of the circle. I try to listen and respond appropriately as people tell their story, but bits and pieces from the day swirl in my head. No matter how hard I try to pay attention, I can’t. What happened, the day had started so bad, but turned out so good? That isn’t the way things normally go.
I hear Lyle say, “Thank you Phil. Melody what do you have to share with us.” Oh shit it’s my turn. I start to panic. I am so wrapped up trying to understand the day, I haven’t thought what I’m going to say.
I take a deep breath. “Hello, my name is Melody and I’m an addict.”
“Hello Melody,” comes the chorus. It buys me another second, still nothing. So I just start with the first thing that comes into my head.
“I had something happen today that I don’t understand. I almost lost my job for coming to work late. I’ve been late before, a lot. I usually blame it on not having a car, not being able to drive, but today I did something different.”
I go on about how I decided to get a bicycle so that I didn’t have to depend on anybody else for a ride. I tell about going to the bike shop, panicking when I saw how much a new bike cost, and thinking there was no way I could buy one. How I told myself it was just another one of my big ideas that never work out, but this time it did. I tell how Randy helped me out, how he was really nice to me, and never seemed like he was after anything from me. I tell about that feeling I got when I first got on the bike, how it felt like being a kid again, before everything in my life went wrong. It just pours out of me until I don’t know what else to say. I look up, and I see everybody’ eyes on me. Some are smiling, others nodding in approval.
Lyle clears his throat. “Thank you Melody. See what happens when we quit blaming and looking for excuses and trust ourselves. Okay, we’ll take a break now and start back up in ten minutes.”
I can’t get up. It’s like I’ve got nothing left inside me. I feel a hand on my left shoulder and look up to see Mardie. “Nice job,” she says. It is like her hand is giving me a transfusion. I get up and walk outside with her. It’s then I realize that I haven’t had a cigarette since I got off work. We light up, and I inhale deeply.
I was sure people had ideas about Mardie and me. After all, we’d been in jail together, and everybody knows, or thinks they know, what goes on in jail. I was doing the six months that was part of my probation. She was up from DOC waiting for a bed in a halfway house so she could start her parole. She was five foot seven and a solid one hundred eighty pounds. She worked out with weights every day in the yard. Her arms were muscled and tattooed with zig zag bands around her biceps. She kept to herself, but if there was trouble, she was the first to break it up. No one challenged her authority.
That’s how I met her. The word in the pod was that I was a snitch. How else was it that I got six months and probation, when my charges were possession to distribute? Everyone knows possession with intent means prison in this county. I was getting the snitch treatment from the girls. When they were near me, they’d say things in a whisper but loud enough for me to hear, things like—“You can’t stay awake forever. The guards can’t watch you all the time. Snitches get stitches.” They slammed me into the wall when they passed, tripped me on the stairs, spit in my food, any kind of harassment they could think of. I knew if I complained to the guards, it would only make it worse. One afternoon the guards were busy opening the doors for an attorney visit and at the same time, getting three girls ready for transport to court. While they were distracted, two girls came up behind me and grabbed my arms. A third started punching me in the stomach. Mardie appeared from nowhere. She grabbed the girl’s wrist, twisted it, and dropped her to the floor.
“If you don’t want me to break it, keep your fucking mouth shut.” She looked straight at the two holding on to me. Softly and deliberately she said, “I suggest you pussies let her go now, if you don’t want some of this too.” They immediately let go. “I thought so. You seem like smart girls to me, so if you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll keep quiet about this and leave her alone.” That was it. She let go of the one on the floor and just walked away.
That night at dinner I took my tray over to where Mardie usually ate by herself.
“Can I sit here?” I asked.
“Suit yourself. I don’t own the place.”
I sat down. “I want to thank you for what you did.”
“None needed. I was just giving them a lesson. They think they’re big shit here in County. Well, any of them wind up in DOC, they’ll see it ain’t TV. It’s for real—you want to act bad, you better be bad.”
We started doing NA together there, in jail. I found out that Mardie had done eight years for assaulting a cop. She had trained as a boxer and had been ranked fourteenth in the welterweight division by the WBA before she got suspended for doping. She never got things back together. One night the cops showed up at a gay club she was at. They started hassling a couple dancing, something about public indecency. When some of the others in the club, including Mardie, challenged the cops, the nightsticks came out. Mardie knocked one out cold and broke another’s jaw, before two others beat her unconscious.
I liked Mardie, not just because she helped me, but because there was never any uncertainty in her mind. She always seemed to know what to do and had no problem doing it, not at all like me, whose mind was a jumble. When I started getting all revved up and unable to do anything, Mardie would direct me by asking question, getting me to focus until I could slow things down and see what I needed to do.
When she got her bed in the halfway house, I still had four more months to do. By then, I knew the act and had seniority in the block. I stayed to myself and got left alone. I didn’t think I’d see her again. It was coincidence, or luck, that I chose this NA group where she was already a member.
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As soon as the customer is through the door, he says, “You’re late again, Melody. It’s getting to be a problem. I can’t keep asking Erin to cover for you. Besides, I have to pay her a full half hour when she stays past the end of her shift. I’m going to dock you a half hour, but if it keeps up, I have to let you go.”
“I’m sorry, Bart. I’m trying my best. I really am. It’s so hard without a drivers’ license. I either have to walk or take the bus. You know how reliable the bus is. I walked today. I thought I left home with plenty of time, but…I gotta’ have this job. I can’t lose it.” I couldn’t tell him it was the UA’s. I never know when I have to go in for one or how long I have to wait.
“Melody, I took a chance hiring you in the first place. I want to help you out, but there’s only so much I can do before corporate climbs my ass. I know you need this job, but you have to figure out how to get here on time, if you want to keep it. Understand?”
“I understand, Bart, and I do, I really do, appreciate what you’re doing for me.”
A customer comes up with coffee and a muffin. “I got fuel on number five too.” I ring up the sale and tell the customer to have a good day. When I turn around, Bart is gone.
I can’t lose this job everything depends on it. Without it, I can’t get the two bedroom apartment I need to get my daughter out of foster care. Without a job, my probation gets revoked, and I go back to jail—no, I can’t lose this job. I don’t have any friends I can ask for rides. The bus is never on time, and since I’m at the start of the route, it takes at least forty minutes to get me to work, even when everything goes right. I need to do something though. A bicycle, maybe that’s the answer. The exercise would be good for me. It wouldn’t cost me anything after I got it, and it wouldn’t take that long to ride the three miles to work, once I got in shape. What if I forgot how to ride? I was just a little girl the last time I was on a bike. What happens if I get a flat tire? When I was a kid, I was always getting flat tires. What about those cold, snowy winter days?
I feel my mind start to accelerate with what ifs. It’s a familiar feeling, and I know where it leads. I hear my recovery counselor’s voice, “Only worry about the things that are right now and then only one thing at a time.” Instead of shallow, quick breaths, I force myself to breath deeper with a space between, just like she told me to do. With each breath, I feel my racing heartbeat slow. My mind slows too. I can think again. There’s a bike shop a block down the street. On my lunch break, I’ll check it out.
When my break comes, I hurry to the shop. I only have a half hour and absolutely can’t be late getting back to work. I start to get anxious again when I see there is already a customer in the shop. The clerk is talking with him, something about carbon or titanium frames. There are bicycles lined up on the floor and others hang upside down from the ceiling. I look at the tags on the bikes closest to me. This can’t be right—nine hundred dollars, eight-hundred-fifty. Here’s one for thirteen-seventy-five. There’s no way I can buy one of these. I made a mistake. I need to go. I turn to leave when a guy wearing a blue apron, shorts and sandals comes from the back of the shop. He’s wiping his hands with a yellow rag. He has a sleeve that looks like a light green and yellow lizard with a forked, blue tongue climbing a dark green vine tattooed on his left arm. His head is shaved, but he has a long, dark unshaved patch under his lower lip. He has deep set eyes.
“Can I help you?” His smile makes me smile too.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Are these tags right? Are bikes really almost a thousand dollars?”
“Oh that and three or more, if you want. What are you looking for?”
“Something to ride to work. Something I can rely on. Something…something …ah, something cheap.”
He waits until I sputter out, smiles again, and asks, “How much do you want to spend?”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to sound too crazy, and if new ones are eight hundred… My mind starts racing again. I stop, breath, wince, and whisper, “A hundred, maybe one twenty.” I wait for his dismissive laugh.
Instead he says, “I might have something out back for you. Follow me.” He waives for me to follow as he turns. He’s wearing shorts. I see he has sculpted calves and a small but muscled butt.
There is an aisle on either side of the island of bikes. I watch so that I don’t hit one and knock them all down. The walls are lined with displays—clothes, shoes, helmets, tires, tools, accessories. The whole place smells like new rubber, fresh paint and an odor I can’t identify but like.
On the way toward the back, he looks over his right shoulder and says, “By the way I’m Randy.”
“Melody,” I reply.
At the very back there is an area with tools hanging on the wall, a bench, and some kind of stand holding a bicycle. I like the way it looks and feels, orderly, but still a work place. The smell I couldn’t identify is stronger here. I realize it is the smell of lubricants, not the greasy smell of a car repair shop but lighter. Randy opens a solid metal door to the ally. On the right there is a chain link enclosure. All jumbled together inside it are old beat-up bikes, bikes with parts missing, wheels, and parts I can’t identify.
“This is what we call the Heap. Anything we think we might be able to use or that might have a little use left goes here. People are always wanting to trade in some old beater. Instead of saying no, we take the old one and give them a little off the new one. Once a year, we give what’s here to the fire department to fix up and give to kids at Christmas. Works for everybody. I could probably find something here to fix up and stay in your price range, if you’re interested.”
How fitting for someone like me to get a bike from the Heap, but if that’s what I have to do…
“You think so? Yes, I’m interested, but I can’t wait. I need to get back to work. Can I come back when I get off around three?”
“Sure, I’m here to six. I’ll dig through here and see what I can do.”
I start to walk back into the shop, then stop and turn my head to him. “Thank you, Randy.”
“Hey, no problem. See you around three, Melody.” He remembered my name. He follows me inside closing the door behind him.
It can’t be this easy. Nothing has ever been this easy. Even when I thought it would be, it never worked out. I’m back at work with three minutes to spare. I see Bart look at his watch and nod approvingly. All afternoon I think of what could go wrong. I’ve got a hundred and fifty dollars, but I need a hundred to make a payment on my court costs tomorrow. I can’t afford to lose my job though either. What if Randy can’t find anything? What if he can, but it’s a piece of junk? How would I know if it was? If I give him a hundred dollars and it is junk, I’ve lost my money and still have the problem of how to get to work. Why would Randy want to help me anyway? What’s he want from me? I try all the techniques I learned in recovery to try to stop this kind of thinking. The best I can do is stop it for a minute or two, then it starts again.
By the time three comes around, I’ve almost convinced myself that I should just go to my NA meeting and give the whole thing up, but my meeting isn’t until four. I’m standing outside smoking a cigarette and looking down the street toward the bike shop. You can do this, I tell myself. Even if he has something, you don’t have to buy it. You can always say you need time to think about it. You started this, the least you can do is follow through. Aren’t you always saying you can’t ever see anything through? Maybe this is one time you can. Okay, I can do this. I grind out my cigarette and start down the street.
I hadn’t noticed the tinkle from the little bell on the door, when I was there at lunch. The guy I’d seen before talking to the customer is stacking what look like shoeboxes in the corner opposite the door. He looks up. He’s about Randy’s age, short blond hair. He’s wearing a light blue three button, knit short-sleeve shirt with the name of the bike shop and the name Eric stitched over the pocket on the left side.
“Can I help you look for anything,” he asks.
“Is Randy here?”
“Oh, you must be the one he’s been putting that bike together for. He’s straight back in the repair shop. Hope you like it.”
I start down the narrow aisle. The smells I’d noticed earlier in the day for some reason seem to calm me. I see Randy. His back is to me and he has a bicycle in the stand. He has a tool and appears to be doing something to the back wheel. He must have heard me, because just then he turns and says, “Perfect timing, Melody. I just got done putting the back wheel on. What do you think? Do you like it?” From the way he’s smiling, it must be for me.
I don’t know what to think. It can’t be for me. I’m afraid to ask. It’s green with light tan trim. It even has a basket attached to the handlebars. “It’s...it’s...ah, it’s beautiful,” I answer.
“Glad you like it. I found the frame. It was a little scratched, but cleaned up pretty well. It didn’t have wheels, and the handlebars were bent. After a little scrounging, I found wheels and handlebars that would work. I even found the basket. It was a little bent up, but not that hard to straighten. I thought it added a nice touch. What do you think?” From the look on his face, he’s obviously very pleased with the job he did.
I can’t say anything. I can’t believe it’s for me. I just nod, yes.
He takes the bike off the stand and holds it upright with his left hand on the seat. “Come on over and we’ll get the seat adjusted.” He puts the front wheel between his legs and holds on to the handlebars. “Come on. Just sit on the seat. I got you.”
I walk to the bike. I have to put my hand on his shoulder to swing my leg over the seat. I sit and let go of his shoulder. Randy holds the bike solid. My feet are on the floor and I’m looking at the pedals. My hands are on the handlebars. I look up. My face is inches from his. I see his eyes are soft blue. I can feel the blood in my cheeks. I hope he doesn’t notice I am blushing.
“Okay, now just put your feet on the pedals.”
I put my left foot up first, As I raise my right foot, the bike wobbles slightly. I make a squeaky kind of sound, sort of an “eek,” and quickly put my foot back down.
“Don’t worry; I have you. Just look straight ahead.” Randy is smiling. I try again. The bike wobbles, but I get my foot on the pedal.
“We need to raise it up about an inch or so. You’re taller than I thought. You can hop off now.”
I get off, holding his shoulder for support. He uses a wrench to raise the seat. I can’t keep from looking at the bike. What are you thinking? This has to be more than a hundred dollars. He’s just trying to get you to fall in love with it, then he’ll tell you it’s way more than you can pay. Don’t fall for this.
“Randy, it is a really nice bike and all, but how much is it? I don’t have much money. I only have the hundred at most.”
“I remembered you told me that. I’ve seen you up at the Gas Stop and know you aren’t getting rich working there. Why don’t you take it for a ride, make sure it works for you, and then we’ll talk about money.”
He’s already wheeled the bike through the back door. I follow him to the alley. He leans the bike toward me.
“Here you go.”
Okay, what’s the harm in it? I can always say no. I get my leg over the seat, my hands on the handlebars. I put my left foot on the pedal and push down. I hop pushing off with my right foot. It takes a couple of hops before I get enough momentum to get my right foot off the ground. I look straight ahead and pedal. I wiggle the handlebars from side to side trying to keep my balance. It’s a long alley and by the end, I’ve got it, but now I have to go back. It’s too narrow to turn around, so I have to stop, but where are the brakes? Randy must have seen my problem because just then I hear him yell, “Just pedal backwards.” I do and feel the brake grab. I drag my right foot just to be sure. Once I get turned around, I have no problem getting started and going straight. When I get to Randy, I pedal backwards and gradually slow to a stop without dragging my foot.
“Alright, nice job, Melody, it all comes back doesn’t it? Just like riding a bike.” We’re both grinning, he from his joke and me from something I hadn’t felt since I was a girl.
“So, what do you think? Will it work for you?”
“Sure, but…”
“Don’t worry. Here’s the deal. I dug the frame, wheels and handlebars out of the Heap. I cleaned them up, cleaned and greased the bearings. Put on a new chain, seat, and grips for the handlebars. The tires are new. There are a lot of those goat-head thorns around here, so I put self-sealing tubes in the tires. That doesn’t mean you’ll never get a flat, but it sure will help. All together I have about fifty-five dollars in it. I could let you have it for that.”
Fifty-five dollars, I can’t believe it. “Really, only fifty-five dollars?” I ask.
“That’s it fifty-five dollars.”
“Okay, I’ll do it, but I only have fifteen dollars and a little change on me right now.”
“Go ahead take it. You can bring the money in tomorrow.”
Why is he being so nice to me? Guys have never been nice to me unless they’ve wanted something, usually to get in my pants. If that’s what he’s after, he’s got it all wrong. My life is a mess enough without adding that kind of trouble to it. I don’t want to feel an obligation just because he’s nice to me, but that feeling, that feeling I had riding down the alley, I don’t want to wait. I want that feeling again.
“Look, it’s okay, take it. Bring the money tomorrow, or if you change your mind, just bring the bike back. Besides, where are you going to go? I know where you work. Take it, and have fun. I don’t suppose you have a lock or a helmet do you.”
I shake my head, no.
“Didn’t think so. You need a helmet. Hang on.”
He goes up a set of wooden stairs opposite the work bench. I hear him rummaging through things. A couple of minutes later he’s back with a helmet. It’s the strangest color I’ve ever seen, a kind of metallic orange. It’s smooth and looks like a big gumball. On the way by a wall display he grabs a black coil and stands next to me in front of the counter.
“We’ve had this helmet for three years now. No one would buy it, so we moved it upstairs to get it out of the way.”
I put it on. I fumble with the clip on the chin strap and fasten it. Randy reaches toward me. This is it, I think. This is when he touches me, just a brush—make it seem like an accident—oh sorry I was just trying to help you. Instead, he puts one hand on the top of the helmet and pushes it side to side front to back.
“Perfect,” he says and steps back. “It’s yours, if you can stand the color.”
“I can’t take it.”
“It’s been awhile since you’ve been on a bike. You need a helmet. It’s too dangerous without one. You’d be doing us a favor getting it out of here. It’s also bad for business, if one of our customers gets hurt.”
I manage a weak smile.
“You have to have a lock. If I let you go without one, the bike would be gone before you got back to pay me for it. Consider it insurance. Even with the lock, someone with a bolt cutter or enough time can cut it and be gone, so park it and lock it where people can see it, and take it inside whenever you can.” The two ends of the black coil are joined with a round combination lock. Randy shows me how to set my own combination.
I take the lock and follow his instructions. For the new combination, I chose 1-2-2-8, my daughter’s birthday—no way I can forget that. I try it and it works. I’m getting that feeling like I’m about to cry, but choke it down. I turn away and start pushing my bike down the aisle toward the front door. I stop and look back. “Thanks Randy. You have no idea. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. Now go ride. See you tomorrow.”
I don’t know who is smiling more, him or me. I pass the shiny, new bikes. I don’t care how much they cost or how fancy they are, I have the best bike ever.
I’m still a little shaky stopping and starting, but the five stop signs on the way to my NA meeting make me practice. By the time I stop at the Methodist church, I’m feeling much more confident. I don’t see anyone outside smoking, so the meeting must have already started. I bump my bike down the stairs, through the basement doors and lean it against the wall and lock it. I open the door just as Lyle, the group leader, is asking if there is any one new in attendance. I quietly take a seat in the circle. Tonight is a sharing night, and we start at the other side of the circle. I try to listen and respond appropriately as people tell their story, but bits and pieces from the day swirl in my head. No matter how hard I try to pay attention, I can’t. What happened, the day had started so bad, but turned out so good? That isn’t the way things normally go.
I hear Lyle say, “Thank you Phil. Melody what do you have to share with us.” Oh shit it’s my turn. I start to panic. I am so wrapped up trying to understand the day, I haven’t thought what I’m going to say.
I take a deep breath. “Hello, my name is Melody and I’m an addict.”
“Hello Melody,” comes the chorus. It buys me another second, still nothing. So I just start with the first thing that comes into my head.
“I had something happen today that I don’t understand. I almost lost my job for coming to work late. I’ve been late before, a lot. I usually blame it on not having a car, not being able to drive, but today I did something different.”
I go on about how I decided to get a bicycle so that I didn’t have to depend on anybody else for a ride. I tell about going to the bike shop, panicking when I saw how much a new bike cost, and thinking there was no way I could buy one. How I told myself it was just another one of my big ideas that never work out, but this time it did. I tell how Randy helped me out, how he was really nice to me, and never seemed like he was after anything from me. I tell about that feeling I got when I first got on the bike, how it felt like being a kid again, before everything in my life went wrong. It just pours out of me until I don’t know what else to say. I look up, and I see everybody’ eyes on me. Some are smiling, others nodding in approval.
Lyle clears his throat. “Thank you Melody. See what happens when we quit blaming and looking for excuses and trust ourselves. Okay, we’ll take a break now and start back up in ten minutes.”
I can’t get up. It’s like I’ve got nothing left inside me. I feel a hand on my left shoulder and look up to see Mardie. “Nice job,” she says. It is like her hand is giving me a transfusion. I get up and walk outside with her. It’s then I realize that I haven’t had a cigarette since I got off work. We light up, and I inhale deeply.
I was sure people had ideas about Mardie and me. After all, we’d been in jail together, and everybody knows, or thinks they know, what goes on in jail. I was doing the six months that was part of my probation. She was up from DOC waiting for a bed in a halfway house so she could start her parole. She was five foot seven and a solid one hundred eighty pounds. She worked out with weights every day in the yard. Her arms were muscled and tattooed with zig zag bands around her biceps. She kept to herself, but if there was trouble, she was the first to break it up. No one challenged her authority.
That’s how I met her. The word in the pod was that I was a snitch. How else was it that I got six months and probation, when my charges were possession to distribute? Everyone knows possession with intent means prison in this county. I was getting the snitch treatment from the girls. When they were near me, they’d say things in a whisper but loud enough for me to hear, things like—“You can’t stay awake forever. The guards can’t watch you all the time. Snitches get stitches.” They slammed me into the wall when they passed, tripped me on the stairs, spit in my food, any kind of harassment they could think of. I knew if I complained to the guards, it would only make it worse. One afternoon the guards were busy opening the doors for an attorney visit and at the same time, getting three girls ready for transport to court. While they were distracted, two girls came up behind me and grabbed my arms. A third started punching me in the stomach. Mardie appeared from nowhere. She grabbed the girl’s wrist, twisted it, and dropped her to the floor.
“If you don’t want me to break it, keep your fucking mouth shut.” She looked straight at the two holding on to me. Softly and deliberately she said, “I suggest you pussies let her go now, if you don’t want some of this too.” They immediately let go. “I thought so. You seem like smart girls to me, so if you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll keep quiet about this and leave her alone.” That was it. She let go of the one on the floor and just walked away.
That night at dinner I took my tray over to where Mardie usually ate by herself.
“Can I sit here?” I asked.
“Suit yourself. I don’t own the place.”
I sat down. “I want to thank you for what you did.”
“None needed. I was just giving them a lesson. They think they’re big shit here in County. Well, any of them wind up in DOC, they’ll see it ain’t TV. It’s for real—you want to act bad, you better be bad.”
We started doing NA together there, in jail. I found out that Mardie had done eight years for assaulting a cop. She had trained as a boxer and had been ranked fourteenth in the welterweight division by the WBA before she got suspended for doping. She never got things back together. One night the cops showed up at a gay club she was at. They started hassling a couple dancing, something about public indecency. When some of the others in the club, including Mardie, challenged the cops, the nightsticks came out. Mardie knocked one out cold and broke another’s jaw, before two others beat her unconscious.
I liked Mardie, not just because she helped me, but because there was never any uncertainty in her mind. She always seemed to know what to do and had no problem doing it, not at all like me, whose mind was a jumble. When I started getting all revved up and unable to do anything, Mardie would direct me by asking question, getting me to focus until I could slow things down and see what I needed to do.
When she got her bed in the halfway house, I still had four more months to do. By then, I knew the act and had seniority in the block. I stayed to myself and got left alone. I didn’t think I’d see her again. It was coincidence, or luck, that I chose this NA group where she was already a member.
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