The Colossus of Roads

by Christina Uss

  She was making an effort to be his regular old mom again, like she wasn’t being nibbled inside by constant worry, so Rick didn’t have the heart to correct the nickname. “Duct-tape boat-building it is,” he said, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. He supposed he had all weekend to figure out what was missing from his Sepulveda Pass Snarl Solution.

  After breakfast, duct-tape boat-building proved to be weirdly fun. Mom spread out a picnic blanket on Rick’s floor and agreed to listen to the all-weather-and-traffic radio station while they debated whether the boat should resemble a rowboat or a battleship. After a few failed starts, the two of them were able to mold a thick tape wad slightly resembling a rowboat hull. Mom struggled to peel apart some tape that had gotten stuck to itself. “Okay, tape, you win,” she finally said, and stood up to stretch her arms over her head. “I need to move these stiff muscles a bit. Mind if I find some music on the radio?” At that moment, the weather reporter was lamenting the summer heat.

  “Sure,” Rick said, engrossed in molding a figurehead.

  Mom twisted the dial. A commercial urged, “Visit the newest exhibit at the Aquarium of the Pacific, where we’ve welcomed a California Two-Spot Octopus to our watery family.…” Mom turned it again. “You have to understand how the Dow Jones Industrial Average impacts…” She adjusted it once more and got an obnoxious whine of static. “What is this, the AM radio band? Do they even play music on AM radio? I’m going to take a quick break. Maybe you can find something good to listen to.” She left the room.

  Rick put down his figurehead—he’d looked up the Colossus of Rhodes statue online and was trying to make an approximation of the Greek god Helios with his crown of sun rays, but he had to be honest with himself: it was not going well. He edged over to the radio and tuned in to a different station. A scratchy voice was in the middle of shouting something: “…who cares about our city! There’s an emergency SPLAT meeting on the San Fernando Road bike path next to the Metrolink train tracks. All current SPLAT members, please get down here, and bring your octopus stickers!”

  SPLAT? Stickers? Rick sat up straight. The scratchy voice continued, “Meet past the Bledsoe Street intersection. This is Cycle-Powered Radio, spinning all the news you can use. We’ll be broadcasting live at the event.”

  Rick knew that bike path. It was the one his parents took him to, and it ran between the busy Metrolink train tracks on one side and busy San Fernando Road on the other. If he rode his bike down there right now, he could see what kind of hee-haws would do what they’d done to his signs. Maybe they were vandalizing something else—maybe he could catch them in the act and report them to the police.

  He leapt to his feet and nearly ran into Mom, who was coming back in his room. “Mom! I think my muscles might need to stretch, too. I’m suddenly in the mood for a bike ride down to the bike path,” Rick said. “I know it’s hot out, so you don’t have to come. It could be another test of Pre-Teen Responsibility.”

  “Of course I want to come,” Mom said. “And if we ride together, we’ll be more visible to distracted drivers. You go unlock the bikes and I’ll find our helmets.”

  Rick hoped she’d hurry—who knew how long the SPLAT gang would be there?

  SPLAT

  RICK JOGGED OUT to their carport to get to work on the combination lock that held the family’s three bikes to a concrete post, trying to remember if the last number was a 6 or a 4.

  Mom soon followed, buckling on her helmet before handing Rick his. As soon as Rick had the bike lock loose, she pushed her iridescent blue Schwinn into the middle of the carport. “Whoops, both our tires are sort of squishy. How about you pump these babies up, Mr. Suddenly-in-the-Mood-for-a-Bike-Ride, while I go get us some water bottles.”

  Rick hooked up the pump and started inflating like mad. He’d gotten all four tires plump and firm by the time Mom returned with the bottles. “Thanks, great,” he said, throwing his leg over the seat and pedaling before Mom could think of something else they needed before leaving.

  Traffic was light since it was a Saturday. Rick thought he’d have to push Mom to ride fast enough, but instead, he found himself breathing hard behind her, standing up on his pedals to not get left behind. “C’mon, Rick. Use those lungs!” she called over her shoulder. His mom was fast for a mom. It wasn’t long before they were coasting up the bike path past Bledsoe Street, where a mob of more than thirty people with bicycles were blocking the path. They stood in clumps all the way from the chain-link fence adjacent to the train tracks down to the curb of San Fernando Road. Many of them wore shocking colors of form-fitting spandex. Rick squinted in the blazing sun and saw an older gentleman with an image of a big purple octopus and the word SPLAT on the back of his jersey. A few others also had SPLAT shirts.

  Someone driving by on San Fernando Road mashed their horn and yelled “Get a car!” at the crowd. A lady yelled back, “Get a life!” She had tattoos up and down her arms, one of which, Rick noticed, was an octopus.

  “Excuse me, hello, is there an event here today?” Mom said to her.

  The lady said, “It’s a meeting of a bicycle group that’s constantly arguing about its name. Please don’t suggest a new acronym if you can help it.”

  The older gentleman with the big purple octopus jersey said, “S-P-L-A-T for Start Pedaling, Lessen Automobile Traffic is an excellent name. I don’t know why our members have begun to fight me on this.”

  “Because SPLAT sounds like a bicyclist getting creamed by a truck! Me ’n’ my crew prefer Slow Lawless Urban Growth!” shouted a short, muscular man.

  A woman next to him who looked like his short, muscular sister said, “How is SLUG better than SPLAT? Why don’t you ever support me and my friends with Slow Harmful Rotten Urban Growth?”

  He turned to her. “Tell me how that’s any better, SHRUG instead of SLUG?”

  A wild-eyed guy with wispy gray hair waved a microphone and said, “Come on over here and I’ll interview you both for Cycle-Powered Radio. Let your voices be heard!” He had the same scratchy voice Rick had heard on the radio. The guy stood next to a bike with a covered trailer sprouting a ten-foot-high antenna, and he leaned to look at something under the trailer’s canvas cover. “Hold on, the transmitter’s running low on juice.” He got on the bike and started pedaling furiously without moving forward—the bike’s rear wheel wasn’t sitting on the ground, but was attached to a miniature treadmill with wires snaking back into the trailer.

  A voice spoke in rapid Spanish. Rick turned to see Mrs. Herrera flanked by Mila on a small bike and Dr. Herrera with Baby Daniela balanced in a baby seat that went across his handlebars. Mila wore her green Scout vest. Baby Daniela was gnawing on a chunk of watermelon rind and looked thrilled to be there.

  Mom lit up at seeing the Herrera family and walked her bike over to them for the requisite hugs and kisses. “Hi, Maridol and Francisco! Are you part of this group?”

  “Sí.” Mrs. Herrera beamed. “How do you like my idea for our name?” She said something in Spanish that Rick didn’t follow.

  Dr. Herrera shook his head. “That acronym would be C-R-U-D, mi vida. I don’t think anyone wants to be thought of as a cruddy bicyclist.”

  “What does this group do?” Rick asked, confused. There was no way any of the Herreras were members of a gang of vandals.

  Mila said, “Today, I’m working on my Fair Play and Celebrating Community badges.”

  Mrs. Herrera said, “We are here to do some work with SPLAT—” She was immediately interrupted by five people who shouted out:

  “Not SPLAT, SLUG!”

  “SHRUG!”

  “GRUNT! Go Ride Unicycles, Not Trucks!”

  “FLARGLE!”

  “Dude, what does FLARGLE stand for?”

  “I don’t know, but I like it!”

  “How about Flawless Acronyms Are Really Tricky? The acronym for that would be F-A-A-R—”

  Someone cut that idea off short with a “NO!”

  Mrs. Herrera sighed. “
Okay, we can’t agree on our name, but we agree on what we want to happen: we want people in LA to get rid of their cars and ride bikes everywhere instead. We also all like our symbol, the pulpo.” She pulled a couple of purple octopus stickers from her handlebar bag and gave one to Rick and one to his mom. “His eight tentacles show our eight plans to encourage bicycling all over our city. He’s a good symbol for us: smart and fast, with tentacles working everywhere.”

  Rick took the octopus sticker while his stomach blorped with agitation. The tentacles on this sticker were emblazoned with tiny writing. Rick read: Build More Bike Paths. Gas $10 Per Gallon. Free Electric Bike Shares. Public School Cycling Education. Keep Bad Car Traffic Bad. He stopped reading.

  “So you think bad traffic is…a good thing?” he asked.

  “That’s right, Rick!” Mrs. Herrera hugged him with one arm and kissed the top of his head. “Some people will only try other ways to get around when traffic becomes unbearable. Keeping car traffic bad is the only way to make it better, comprende?” She gave him another squeeze.

  Rick shook his head and mumbled, “I don’t understand.” The day before, Mrs. Herrera had given him this delicious smoothie mixed with lime, papaya, and other fruits he didn’t usually eat. How could someone who made such good smoothies be involved in something so wrong? Could Mrs. Herrera have been with the group that tore down the signs on Balboa?

  It’s not possible, said his stomach. People who make good food are good people. Period.

  A young man wearing a bodysuit adorned with pictures of hundred-dollar bills told Rick, “With more car problems, there’ll be more bike solutions.”

  “Simple as balancing on two wheels,” said a similarly suited rider, doing just that.

  Mila walked a little closer to Rick. “In Girl Scout Law, we pledge to use resources wisely and make the world a better place. With more bicycles and public transportation instead of cars, we’d have less pollution, and people’s bodies would be healthier.”

  A bike messenger with her hair in long braids said, “Right on, sister Scout.” She and Mila shared a high five.

  “Who’s the man with the microphone?” Mom asked, pointing to the Cycle-Powered Radio guy, who was refereeing a loud debate about acronyms among four passionate people.

  Dr. Herrera was trying to wrestle the watermelon rind away from Baby Daniela so he could wipe off her chin. “That’s Arlo from Cycle-Powered Radio. He’s been broadcasting about bicycling on his own AM station since before the internet was invented. He does this live weekly show where he visits a different donut shop and eats and reviews each donut they make. Every cyclist I know listens to it.”

  “How about the man with the bullhorn?” Mom asked. The man in the octopus jersey had pulled out a bullhorn and was giving the crowd a smug smile.

  “That’s Mr. Platt. He asked us to meet today to discuss a new challenge we face, to show us what we can do to help. It was short notice, so not many of us could make it—this is only a small representation of our membership.”

  “Welcome, fellow cyclists!” Mr. Platt said. “I’m happy to say our campaign to double the gas sales tax has been successful, but as you know, we must remain ever vigilant to any threats to our goal of bicycle domination, however small. I’ve recently had brought to my attention some rogue road signs appearing on Balboa Boulevard, making traffic smooth where it previously was not. The signs were created by an entity known as the Colossus of Roads.”

  “The Colossus…,” Rick said. They’d noticed his signature on the back of the signs they’d ruined.

  The cyclists murmured. One of the bike messengers said, “Why can’t we have a cool nickname like that? I mean, FLARGLE?”

  “DOWN WITH THE COLOSSUS OF ROADS!” yelled another cyclist, waving a can of spray paint in the air. “Let’s stop this irresponsible punk!”

  “What? Hey! I’m not…,” Rick started to say, then thought better of it.

  Mr. Platt went on. “Another watchful member mentioned seeing this name on the back of signs elsewhere in the Valley. Whether this is one person or many, we don’t want them making driving pleasant in areas that are already awful. I’m certain they won’t be any match for all of us cyclists if we stay alert. On Balboa, I had the brilliant idea of rearranging the new signs to strangle traffic into a magnificent mess, but let’s keep things simple moving forward. If we identify any more of the Colossus of Roads’s traffic fixes, here’s how we’ll correct them.” Mr. Platt motioned to a couple of bicyclists standing at the street curb next to a pole with a SPEED LIMIT 40 sign. They attacked the innocent sign with spray paint, octopus stickers, and even some purple duct tape to obscure the words completely. When they were done, you’d never have known it was originally a speed limit sign. A few people applauded.

  Mila gasped. Rick felt like his eyeballs might pop out of his skull and start flying around.

  Mrs. Herrera said in a shocked voice, “That’s not right. We’ve never vandalized anything before.”

  Mila pulled on her parents’ hands. “Can we vote or something to stop them from doing this? It’s gross.” Then she turned to Rick and said, “Now we know what happened to that sign on Balboa.”

  One of the men in the hundred-dollar-bill bodysuits shouted at Mr. Platt, “No way, Sydney, count me out! This is one of your worst ideas!”

  Mr. Platt continued talking through his bullhorn. “Remember, as you ride around our fair city and notice places where traffic is no longer as choked up as it should be, text me. We will keep fighting this fight and doing what’s right!” Some people applauded, even more booed, and a couple of them chanted, “FLARGLE!” A knot of people, mostly women with cargo bikes and bike trailers, surrounded the Herreras to discuss ignoring this new plan and focusing instead on their other activities.

  The other man dressed in a hundred-dollar-bill bodysuit said to the Herreras, “We’re out of here. Keep the shiny side up and the rubber side down.” Each of them gave Mila a fist bump.

  Rick grabbed his handlebars and pushed his bike forward, straight toward Mr. Platt, who was buckling on his expensive-looking aerodynamic helmet. Rick didn’t know exactly what he was going to do, but he had to do something.

  “Excuse me,” he said, standing on the grassy verge next to Mr. Platt.

  Mr. Platt ignored him.

  “Excuse me!” Rick practically yelled.

  Mr. Platt looked down his nose at him and quirked an eyebrow.

  “Because the Colossus has made traffic better, you plan to go and undo his work? Because you think worse car traffic will help LA? And you think that is doing what’s right?”

  The sun beat down on Rick’s sweaty face.

  “Yes, my boy. I could explain further, but I wouldn’t expect a mere youngster to understand the ins and outs of transportation solutions in this car-choked city.” Mr. Platt quirked his other eyebrow. “How old are you, anyway?” He was plainly one of those people who dismiss what kids have to say because they’re kids.

  Rick said, “Why does it matter?”

  “Right on!” and “You said it!” agreed two old ladies sharing a tandem bike.

  Mr. Platt patted Rick’s helmet and said, “Thank you for coming out to support the cause of bicycles in LA. Trust that we will triumph in the end!” And he mounted his racing bike and pedaled down the path, shaking a can of spray paint.

  Rick watched him go. He couldn’t remember ever wanting to knock someone off a bike before now. His stomach burbled, Let’s set him adrift in a leaky duct-tape boat. No—let’s get his address and then set up ONE WAY road signs all facing the same direction so he’ll be stuck going in circles forever and ever.

  After they’d pedaled home, Rick told Mom he wasn’t feeling well and went to lie down. Meeting SPLAT—or whatever they wanted to call themselves—had deflated the tires of his heart. There was no way to protect his Snarl Solutions and his family’s future from other people working hard with some mistaken, dreadful dream of their own.

  Don’t give up, Ri
ck’s stomach said to him.

  “Who said anything about giving up?” Rick said, his words muffled by his pillow.

  When you came into your room, you threw the Snarl Solution you made for Sepulveda Pass in the trash, his stomach pointed out.

  “Yup,” Rick said. “I did do that.” He kept lying there. “I’ll come up with something better, something invulnerable.” But he didn’t move.

  Dad came home, and Rick heard him report bank loan information to Mom. There was a stretched-out silence. Mom eventually said, “Call the Herreras. Tell them we’ve decided Rick is responsible enough to be home alone after school. His last day will have to be Friday.” Rick heard a rasp as she pushed her chair back. “We can tell him at dinner.”

  Mrs. Herrera must have picked up the phone at the Herreras’ house, because Rick could hear Dad start to explain the situation to her in a falsely cheerful voice. “No, no, Maridol,” he responded to some comment, “we’ve been very happy with you taking care of him, we just think he’s old enough now to try taking care of himself.”

  Rick put his pillow over his head.

  We did just agree you’re not giving up, right? his stomach said.

  “Right,” he said, still not moving. But not giving up wasn’t the same as knowing how to move forward.

  HOW MANY ABUELITAS ARE THERE?

  AT LUNCHTIME ON Monday, Rick plunked himself in the first available seat in the cafeteria. Without cable TV, he’d resigned himself to silent lunches for the foreseeable future.

  “I know you from somewhere!” the girl sitting across from him said.

  Startled, he tried to paste on a smile. He didn’t recognize the girl’s face and tried to place where they might have met. Doesn’t matter! Say something friendly! his stomach encouraged him. “Hi, er, I’m Rick, I’m pretty new here,” he managed.

  “Hey, I know!” the girl said in a loud voice. “You’re part of the Girl Scout painting project! I meant to ask you, are you a Girl Scout?” The other kids sitting at the table were now looking at him with great interest.