Ladybug [h.s.]

2

Harry

~~~~~~~~

The wind rushing through my hair pulls all of my thoughts with it, drifting off somewhere in the clouds. Lassos tied tightly to the quiet voice in my brain, an old Western yanking the cattle backwards. I press into the handlebars, reveling in the dull growl of the engine setting off a fury of pin pricks against the soles of my feet. Addictive, brutal slice of the earth. Slice of man.

The first spring day of the year and I wasn't letting it go to waste. I especially wasn't going to spend it trying to run from the pigs like the guys wanted. Not when I could speed through the center of the sun, tunnel vision to some kind of peace. Torpedo bullet through the big, raging star. Ricocheting through cosmic dust, leaving a vibrant trail of orange-yellow at the final revolution of the bike's tires. Forgetting about fixing up my place, or wasting away at the shop, or making sure the guys have food for themselves. Just a man on his bike.

Downtown has never been in great shape and, ever since moving, it's like I see every crack in brick foundation trailing into something bigger. Like a running water stream flowing into the wide ocean. Moss lining the divots in the road like a family tree, connecting us all to one another. A roadmap to a black hole. Gaping screens and punched-in car windows and tornado destruction spit out like decor.

At least on a motorcycle it all becomes a blur. Faded wrinkles smoothing into soft expanses of skin. Pixy Stix sugar high glossing the world in a sheen of syrup. The tiny cuts filled in with putty and pat dry. Childish repairs. Delicately placing a single bandaid over top of a gunshot wound. Tying a splint toothpick against a broken finger. Every good intention shout out into an unforgiving atmosphere. Phony solutions; believable fibs.

As I lean into a turn, my gaze catches on the reflection of sunlight against two bikes parked up near the gas station. Catches on the smooth painted wasp stretched across the backs. Before I have the chance to accelerate past, I hear a nearly drowned-out call of my name. A groan challenges the bike for attention as I peel into the lot, cutting the height of my ride short.

"Hey, ya royal fuckin' square!" Cliffton smirks, sharp teeth poking out from behind his lip.

My foot catches the kickstand to prop the bike while I stride towards him to shove at his shoulder. "Watch it."

He holds his hands up in mock defense, sinking down onto the seat of his bike and fiddling with the denim jacket thrown across it, arms crossed firmly against his chest to puff up his biceps. "What's going on?"

"Just tryin' to ride without you dickheads bothering me." I clear my throat, tucking the toe of my shoe into the loose dirt. Happy to see him, unhappy to stop my roll. "Where's Jack and Dean?"

"Jack stayed at his and Dean's swiping a pack of ciggies. 'Gonna see what other fun we can find." The doorbell to the station chimes, Dean strolling as casual as ever toward us, a glint of success in his eyes.

He swings a leg over his motorcycle, nodding his head in my direction. "Hey, Stinger."

Stinger. He thinks he's clever; the kid's always thought he was clever.

They're my buddies; Jack, Dean, and Cliff. Took me in when things fell apart and decided I was their god. That I was something worthy of heralding; of revering. Down to their knees to praise the air I breathed. If we were back in grade school, they'd recite their pledges directly to me.

It makes me freak, sometimes. They think my word is gospel or some shit. Jack, a little less than the others, and maybe that's why we're so much closer. I became their leader instantly, puzzle piece falling directly into place and hugging around the edges. Slick metal clicking into the base of the bicycle lock. Their backs falling against mine in reliance like the safety of the chain roping metal to metal. Sturdy stability; off-kilter solidity. Leaning Tower of Pisa.