That Day by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

That day, February 10^th, 2016, was very much a winter one. The temperature was a toe-chilling 23º Fahrenheit (-5º Celsius) at 6:36 on that Wednesday morning as I wheeled my single-speed bicycle out the back door of our east Charlotte (NC, USA) basement apartment. On the cracked-and-bulging-due-to-unruly-roots asphalt driveway, I reset the trip odometer, turned on the fast-flashing taillight, switched on the slow-pulsing headlamp, fastened my helmet’s chinstrap, and then began my commute to work. A frigid 11 MPH (17.7 km/h) WNW headwind greeted my ski-masked face in the all-quiet-save-for-a-rolling-beer-bottle darkness. Should I just take the car? No, ride for the calorie burn. This is balmy compared to that 7º Fahrenheit [-13.9º Celsius] morning.

My 6’-1” (1.85 meters tall), 192-pound (87 kg) frame glided down mostly-still-asleep Kavanaugh Drive. Then my 51-year-old legs pedaled up and over the first knoll in the built-in-the-1960s, mature-treed, lower-to-middle-middle-class Windsor Park neighborhood. The air entering my lungs was hardly pre-warmed; it stung. Several minutes later, after riding and turning on several British-named streets, I was approaching Kilborne Drive on Enfield Road. There wasn’t much traffic yet; I crossed without stopping. When I got to busier four-lane Eastway Drive, I had to wait two minutes to cross old Route 4. Probably shouldn’t go this way anymore. Kind of dangerous. And, Mr. Scraggly-Beard-With-Only-A-Few-Teeth-Left [a crazy, bile-spewing, inbred meth-head] lives around here. What a plod [lout] that fock [sic] is. He’d be better off as lawn fertilizer.

Finally a sufficient-for-nearly-frozen-legs gap appeared. I charged across and swooped down the first dip on Arnold Drive into the up-and-coming-or-already-arrived Merry Oaks neighborhood. Three minutes later I was winding down a curvy descent to Central Avenue. I merged onto the sidewalk at 22 MPH (35.4 km/h) and used the speed to help climb out of the Briar Creek Valley. Atop the rise at Morningside Drive, I waited for the traffic light to change. Don’t feel as cold now. I’ll take this over those sauna-like summer ‘lows’. [often over 68º Fahrenheit; 20º Celsius] Wonder if that convenience store [Sun Express Food Mart] is open. Doesn’t look like it. I’ll buy a Powerball ticket later. Yeah, just get it at lunchtime.

The signal clicked to green. I continued riding on the vacant sidewalk (allowed in Charlotte), as Central Avenue already had a fair amount of not-so-courteous-to-commuter-bicyclists traffic, and the bike lane had vanished. (It had ended .8 miles – 1.29 km – behind where I now was.)

I weaved down the slope, avoiding the offsets in the sidewalk and concreted-over adjacent spaces. Then a brisk climb ensued up Veterans Hill. Once up at The Plaza (actually a street), I looked over at the upscale Harris-Teeter grocery store on the left while the light was red. Should I get a Powerball ticket right now? Nah, I’ll get it somewhere else. Too cold to be fumbling around with that combination lock.

After cutting through the historic – and now quite expensive – Elizabeth neighborhood on Pecan Avenue, Bay Street and Hawthorne Lane, I turned right onto beware-of-the-inset-trolley-tracks, still mostly quiet, two-lane Elizabeth Avenue. It was now dawn; the 7:15 sunrise was only ten minutes away. I was locking my bike in Student Deck 1 two minutes later at 7:07 AM. I looked at my bike computer. Wow! It dropped another two degrees. [down to 21º Fahrenheit; -6.1º Celsius] A pretty direct route today – only 5.97 miles. [9.6 km] Rolling time: 28:28. Way off the record of 19:26. Slowed by that gelid breeze. Ah, but look at those repeating digits. Maybe Lady Luck smiles on my freckled mug today. Odometer now at 19,364. Wonder when this $69 [bought on sale on March 11, 2012] Walmart bicycle [a Kent Thruster 700C] hits the 20K-mile [32,187 km] mark. [It would occur on May 10, 2016 – the day that ‘RíRá Ruckus’ was published online.]

I walked across East 4^th Street to my office. Once logged-in to my work e-mail account, I saw that the boss would be in late. Hmmm … A good day to do some writing; a good day to start that sex-robot story. [‘A Novella Idea’] It’s only going up to 38º Fahrenheit [3.3º Celsius] today. It’s a great day to drink four cups of java and tap out some thoughts on the keyboard. How should I start the story? What is the premise? How are the attitudes and relationships? How does it end? Guess something will come to me. Hopefully soon. I better still have some creamer in the drawer. Yes!

I got the coffee maker going, and lo, high, and behold, I cranked out the first 1,229 words of the 1,500-word short story by noon, even after attending to several safety-related e-mail inquiries, code issues and miscellaneous phone calls. I then took a break and walked across East 3^rd Street to the (then) Marathon gasoline station. In their cramped and crowded convenience store, I redeemed my big $1 scratch-off winner. However, for some unfathomable neural-short-circuit reason, I failed to buy a Powerball ticket.

Back in my office, while eating my customary veggie-burger-on-seeded-rye-with-steak-sauce (Yes, I know that it makes no sense) sandwich, I mulled over a title change for my newest tale. Maybe I should call it ‘Robosexual Revolution’. Or, how about just ‘Robosexual’? Or, perhaps ‘Now Beseeching Electromechanical Bliss’? No, that’s too broad – too easily found by the wrong – and soon resentful – reader.

The desk phone then rang again. The call was from a local law firm. So-and-so probably couldn’t successfully claim disability the lady politely informed. She won’t be happy. That’s tough. ‘Time to get back to work, Lorettaquisha.’

The boss came in at 12:35. I then went out to do some field inspections. After finding several minor safety issues, I retreated to the office to submit the respective work orders. Once ensconced in the old, wobbly, one-arm-lower swivel chair, I looked at the desk calendar. Oh, so it’s Ash Wednesday today. I bet that Monique [my Filipina wife, aka Agent 32] already knows that. Wonder if she’ll want to go by the [Roman] Catholic church on Shamrock. [Drive] Hope not. Just want to relax when I get home. Hope that the charcoal ash in the barbecue grill will suffice. What a sacrilegious thought that was. Another unholy demerit for me. If there really is a purgatory, I’ll be parked there for quite a while.

The afternoon would pass without any incidents of note. Before leaving the office at 5:15, I checked the local weather online. Sunset is at 6:00. Tomorrow morning will be even colder: a low of 17º Fahrenheit. [-8.3º Celsius] Though, the high will rise to 48º Fahrenheit. [8.9º Celsius] Not sure if I’ll bike it tomorrow. [I would.] Getting too old for that sub-20º Fahrenheit [< -6.7º Celsius] icebox. The skin’s feeling thin.

My early evening bike ride home took a somewhat different route than that of the morning, due to rush-hour traffic considerations and certain problematic intersections. The Central Avenue Bridge over the Independence Expressway (US 74) only offered an unnervingly narrow, forty-four-inch-wide (112 cm) sidewalk. I kept to the left, so that if I slid to the right on some ice, I wouldn’t topple over the low aluminum railing and land on the busy thoroughfare below. Fortunately, there were no pedestrians to navigate. I noticed the darkening, even-looks-cold city skyline over my left shoulder midway across the old concrete overpass. Some kind soul gave ‘Bottled’ [a 2015 short story] a five-star review today. That sure was nice of her/him. Wonder who it was. Where might they live on this slightly lopsided globe? None of my business. Wonder if she or he has ever launched a message-in-a-bottle ruse? Did anyone find it and partake in the puzzle? Or, did the bottle break against some rocks with the sunken note ingested by a fat, wily, lure-wise catfish? Jeez, why do I ponder such ludicrous nonsense? Oh well, maybe it’s my lucky day. Need to replay Monique’s lottery numbers; need to buy a new Powerball ticket. Mustn’t forget.

I would safely traverse the four-lane, median-less bridge and continue on the eastbound Central Avenue sidewalk until I crossed the CSX railroad tracks just past Lamar Avenue. That’s where I turned right onto the service alley behind a small strip mall. I made my way through the parking lot up to the beginning of Commonwealth Avenue. As I descended the long, straight-shot slant, a troubling train of thought emerged as I hit 28 MPH (45 km/h). Darn it! Forgot to stop at Harris-Teeter. Going this way, where am I going to buy the Powerball ticket? I don’t want to tack on any more miles. It’s getting cold and dark. And, the headlamp is dying.

Then I saw what I thought was my solution as I rolled across Morningside Drive: SA Mart, an old convenience store that had operated under a dozen different names over the decades. This place will do the trick. Mission accomplished.

I gently leaned my bicycle against one of the large window panes, because I didn’t see anything to lock it to. I can keep an eye on it. I’ll just be in there a minute or two. There are no loiterers, thanks to the chilly weather. Yeah, it looks safe.

I walked up to the counter. The thin, 60-ish, South Asian male clerk told me that they couldn’t generate any Powerball tickets due to some data-transfer glitch. I was none too pleased, but remained emotionally restrained. Damn! Wouldn’t you know it?! Just my usual non-luck.

“Ok, well, have a nice night,” I said as I began my exit.

“You, too,” he kindly replied. “Please call again. It should be working fine tomorrow.” A day late with $2 in hand. Oh, what does it matter? The odds are like 1 in 292 million.

My black bicycle was still right where I left it. I got back on the modified steel-frame clanker-clunker [sic] and continued going southeast on Commonwealth Avenue. I soon made a left onto Green Oaks Lane and climbed past the retro-cool Aurora Apartments (the left-side units) to arrive at Briar Creek Road. I zigzagged to end up on single-family Carolyn Drive. A few minutes later, after scaling a curving incline, I was back on Central Avenue. Eastway Drive was just ahead. After crossing the busy road, I pulled into the Mobil/7-Eleven parking lot and peered in the window. The line at the counter was at least ten deep. No freaking way! It’s way too crowded in there. Just hit the Circle K on Rosehaven. [Drive] Yeah, that’s it. Well, it had better be – it’s the last chance.

I got back in the bike lane and pedaled eastward. At Sheridan Drive (the first intersection; it’s a U-shaped street), I noticed a big gap in the westbound traffic and shot across the five lanes. Excellent. I’m done with Central Avenue. No more busy streets to contend with.

At Maureen Drive I would make a swift right, as I had a lot of speed from a long decline. As I attacked the sudden incline, the street name triggered a memory. Wonder whatever happened to Maureen. [an Italian American lady from northern New Jersey] Did she marry a Wall Streeter? [sic] Or, was he just a two-bit gangster? Has she peacefully settled into an idyllic life? A four-bedroom house in the suburbs? Two late-model cars and two college-graduated-with-honors kids? Or, divorced? Unemployed? Foreclosure? Bankruptcy? Ah, the vagaries of this human existence.

I would cross Kilborne Drive without much delay. After a right on Sudbury Road, I ceased pedaling and let gravity sweep me down the long, almost-straight descent. Then it was a steep ascent on the sidewalk. Four minutes later I was dismounting the bike at our back door.

“Hon, did you buy a Powerball ticket?” my wife asked as I flopped on the bed, completely exhausted.

“No luck,” I groaned as I fell asleep.

Guess which sextet of whirling ping-pong balls was plucked from the hopper at 10:59 PM? Yep, Monique’s six numbers. (The agonizing realization is detailed in Powerballed.)