Bicycling Through Space and Tim Mike Sirota

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.Scanned by Highroller.Proofed by an unsung proofer.Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet.Bicycling Through Space and Time by Mike SirotaFor Jackie Sweet—the singular most wonderful thing ever grown in the state of Iowa.And to the forces of the Universe, for guiding her to my field of dreams.CHAPTER ONEThe Old GuyThere was this room, this really strange white room.It was where I first saw the Old Guy.I mean, who ever heard of everything being white? The floor and walls, a sectional sofa, an end table, a floor lamp, the whole thing! There was even a solid white framed picture hanging on one wall.(I only knew that because I bumped into it.Untitled; might have been Casper eating a powdered donut or the KKK doing the downhill at Aspen.)What was even stranger was how I got into this white room.Because I don't have a clue.The last thing I remember was walking along Broadway in downtown San Diego, near Horton Plaza.Interesting area.Here's this beautiful multilevel shopping mall with brightly colored architecture and lots of neat trendy shops—fronted by a little park filled with dozens of down-and-outers.Anyway, it was midmorning and I'd just biked here from my place in Del Mar, about twenty-five miles up the coast.Don't know why, on a Wednesday, I had this urge to see preoccupied men and women in proper business attire scurry in and out of office buildings, or to cross streets crammed with cars, trucks, taxis, and buses.It usually happens about as often as Qaddafi goes to a bar mitzvah.So, after locking my bike in front of the plaza, there I was, waiting to cross Fourth Avenue, surrounded by lots of the aforementioned wage slaves, three down-and-outers, and a young male Chicano with the world's biggest and loudest dual-speaker Sony radio superglued to the side of his head.That's it.Now I was here, in this white room, with the Old Guy—who was coming toward me."You want to know what's happening?" he said.Surprise, the Old Guy was dressed in white, something like pajamas with enormous sleeves and no visible fasteners.His complexion was mostly white, but flecked with tiny dark spots, like his face had been carved from a block of Oreo Cookies & Cream.He didn't seem to be crotchety-old, like Scrooge before the ghosts, or lovable-old, like Marcus Welby or Gramps on Lassie, but crotchety-lovable-old, like Uncle Charlie on My Three Sons or any character played by Wilford Brimley.Though stooped, he moved around quickly with short steps."Well, do you?" He was in my face now."Do I what?" Unlike his voice, mine sounded hollow in the room."Want to know what's happening?""For openers, that would be good."He fluttered his fingers, like dismissing an irritating kid."Don't worry, everything's cool.""Everything's… cool?"The Old Guy stuck a finger in his ear and twirled it around."Didn't I say it right?"This was starting to annoy me."Look, if you don't tell—!""Yes, okay." He pulled the finger out."I didn't think you'd be so excitable." He looked me over carefully, like he wasn't sure about something."No, there can't be a mistake.You are Jack Miller."I started to slip off my backpack, shouting, "You lifted my wallet, didn't you?""Oh, I did not!" he said peevishly."I know everything about you.We've made a complete study of Jack Miller, ever since…""Ever since what?" I asked, checking for the wallet anyway."Since you acquired the bicycle.""Bicycle," I said numbly.The Old Guy put a finger back in his ear, this time twirling it longer than before, like he was rotating an internal Rolodex." 'Nishiki Pinnacle mountain bike.Light but powerful, twenty-one speeds, chromoly frame and fork, linear response mountain brakes, front and rear derailleur indexing, great in the boonies and on the street—'""That's mine," I interrupted, "bought it last week.What are you, CIA or something? I know, there's a blueprint hidden in the frame.Some nuclear doomsday thing that can fry eighty percent of the world in under an hour! Or a microdot with a list of all satanic cult headquarters in southern California!""Nothing like that," he said.I took a few steps, nearly tripping over a white throw rug that I hadn't noticed, and sat down on the white sofa."Then let's cut the mystery and tell me what this is about—from the beginning!""You wouldn't understand half of it," the Old Guy said."Then tell me the half that I would!"The Old Guy smiled, or twisted his mouth, or something."Okay.First, you want to know where you are.Actually, you're right where you were.You never left."I don't know if he did anything, but the white room was suddenly gone.The corner of Broadway and Fourth was there: people, traffic, a Carl's Jr., the whole thing.Only problem was, nothing moved.Just me and… the Old Guy.He was there— sort of—but all wrong, like a negative.And he was floating—I think—right next to the kid with the blaster.We were back in the white room again [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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