A woman (summer visitor?) in Windsor Terrace, a stone’s throw from the borough-famous Farrell’s Bar (and critical supporter of the original urban field of dreams, Holy Name ballfield) says to me as I run past, forty-five minutes into my Green-Wood Cemetery-plus training run:
“You look like you are ready for a marathon.”
Speechless, I smile in response.
I told M that during her time away in Italy that I would check in with Eddy to see about my bike, the Red Citizen. The first week came and went, and neither of us called. He had my cell phone number, and he had expressly said that he would call when the bike shipment arrived. Finally, with M's return imminent, so I stopped in to Dixon’s to see about my new bike.
I inform the clerk at the counter that I bought a bike and was wondering if it was in.
Blank stare.
“I talked to Eddy,” I volunteered.
“Eddy!” the clerk yelled.
Eddy came out from the back. We exchanged a word or two until he looked at me in a way that made me think that he might just recognize me. I said my name, then he went to the order book, one of those wide-ruled notebooks with the maze-like black and white covers.
“Yeah, it’s like I thought,” he said. “We got a shipment and they only had Black Citizens, no Red. Is Black okay?”
I had my heart set on Red, and it didn’t seem now that M and I, two weeks after our staycation, would get a bike excursion on tap, so I thought I could take the time to get what I wanted.
“No, Eddy. I want Red. A Red Citizen. Can you reorder me a red one.”
Eddy nodded, then began writing something in the notebook.
“Would you like a desposit? Anything?”
He shrugged and shook his head no, then for emphasis: “No, don’t worry about it.”
I can be a little relaxed. At least when it comes to being compared to a typical Type A New Yorker. M likes to tell the story of how one day early in the winter holidays during a visit to the American Museum of National History she went in search of the ladies room while I said to her, fine, just meet me here at the Origami Christmas Tree. I’ll have to take her word for it because to my mind I had traveled deeply but calmly across miles of beautiful and unique terrain, but when M returned some time later I was literally in the same spot. Yet looking refreshed as if I’d just been walking in mountain mist.
Soon after she arrived back from Italy, M, a tad more Type A than I, asked me if I’d called the bike shop while she was away.
“They were to call me,” I say.
M looks at me and shakes her head.
“Did you give them a deposit.”
“No, he didn’t want one. He knows where to find me.”
“He’s more resourceful than I am.”
“Huh?”
Two weeks pass. Eddy doesn’t call. So, one day after a run, I drop in to Dixon’s to pay a visit. It’s not so busy, only a couple of gearheads.
“Is Eddy here?”
“In the back,” the man at the counter says. “Eddy!”
No response. I wonder if anyone has dusted the bike relic since it was put up there at least twenty years ago. It’s like a shrine (see My People, Part One). Bits and pieces get added to it. Like my bulletin board above my worktable in my basement office. Talismans and keepsakes and totems of all types, from dessicated leaves to carved handpainted hummingbirds dangling from string.
I pause in my daydream. Eddy’s there. For I don’t know how long.
I tell him my name again because he looks as though he doesn’t recognize me. But when I say it, he dives into the notebook, right to the place where my name and facts of purchase are scribbled.
“The bikes arrived all right. But they are all black.”
“Are they not making red anymore”
Eddy shrugs.
“Okay.” I think for a minute. “I’ll take the Black. The Black Citizen.” I did into my pocket for a check I’d brought along. “I’ll give you a deposit.”
“No,” Eddy says. “Don’t bother. We need to assemble it. We’ll get back to you.”
“Okay.”
In the meantime, M and I travel to Milwaukee to see M’s mom and Baby Leon (Running for Your Life: Holidays and Hamstrings). From Milwaukee, I make a date by phone with Eddy for the following Monday at 10:30, when I would be fitted for the bicycle seat, but something comes up and I’m forced to cancel for Wednesday. I call to let Eddy know that I won’t be coming. While the phone sits on the counter I hear a loud discussion about mustard. And roast turkey. Finally, Eddy comes to the phone. I tell him I won’t be able to make the appointment on Monday, that I would be by the same time on Wednesday instead. I know just from the sound of his voice that he can’t believe he was called out to the front for this phone call. He doesn’t make any notation in his book, hangs up the phone, and I’m certain, goes back to talking about mustard.
“You need a kickstand. It will only take five minutes.”
I’m back on the Wednesday, as planned. It’s David, this time. A manager at Dixon’s. The Black Citizen is so beautiful that I almost forget that it’s Red I want. The seat is wide and soft and the handle bars upright. I imagine riding it I will look like a Dali, minus the baguette.
It takes ten minutes, or more, so much so that I will be late for work. And I don’t see Eddy. I pay David for my bike, accept my receipt and prepare to leave.
“Come back in a two weeks for a tune-up. Okay?” David says.
“Okay,” I say, with a smile, as I wheel my Black Citizen to the street. “I’ll be back.”
Next: Running for Your Life: A Summer Run With Thurb
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