Blood of the Albatross

by Ridley Pearson

  “Is that so?”

  “Musicians, painters, poets, people of the arts love to talk about themselves.”

  “Musicians have two personalities. There’s the stageman and the normal Joe. Most people never see the normal Joe.”

  “Is that what I am seeing: the normal Joe?”

  “No,” he admitted. “This is the Jay Becker that wants to impress a pretty woman.” He blushed; he couldn’t believe he had said that. Was he nuts? She seemed stunned. “Where did that come from?” he asked, trying to recover.

  She said quietly, “And this is the Marlene afraid of the handsome man.”

  Boom, boom, boom. Had she really said that? He felt as if he were melting from the feet up. She was reaching into her purse to leave money for the iced tea. He didn’t know if he should offer to cover it or not. In fact, he couldn’t think of anything to say, and he wasn’t sure anything would come out if he tried. She placed two dollars on the table and stood. Her face was red. Think of something to say, dummy! He couldn’t think.

  “It is time I go,” she said, in almost a whisper. Embarrassed.

  Think of something! But he couldn’t. He watched as she walked toward the door. “Wait!” he finally managed. The couple at the next table looked over at him. He hurried to Marlene, who had reached the door. He held it for her. “Someday you’ll tell me,” he said flatly.

  With far-away eyes, Marlene nodded sadly. Her words were barely audible. “I know.”

  It was all she said. She seemed on the edge of tears. Then she turned and walked away.

  He watched her When she was some distance from him she glanced over her shoulder quickly, obviously not expecting him to still be staring. When she saw him looking, she snapped her head back around and raised a hand in the air to wave.

  He waved back. But she didn’t see.

  9

  There had been power failures for the last two evenings. The late news blamed them on air conditioners—a lame excuse in a place like Seattle, where no one owned air conditioners. Both nights Kepella had been at Fu’s in the middle of losing more money. Both nights the game had continued right on through the blackouts. So on this, the third night, when the lights browned and dimmed, Kepella slammed his cards down on the worn-felt table and said, “I fold. My eyes can’t take another night of emergency lights and candles.” He went into the bar and ordered “the usual.”

  She wasn’t much over five feet tall. She wore a fire-engine-red rayon blouse with Chinese buttons and black pants that fit her so tightly the seam disappeared into her crotch. She was bent over the darkened jukebox. She hit it once angrily. Kepella wanted to go up and… She turned around and looked him right in the eye, as if she had read his mind. Cutest little Chinese face he’d ever seen. Not a day over twenty-five, with black pupils the size of snow peas. She smiled and then giggled like a school girl.” Took my quarter,” she complained. She walked straight toward him, moving like an ambling mountain lioness, the slick shirt shifting across small, pert breasts and hard nipples. As she passed him she said, “You fly’s open,” and giggled. She walked on down to a bar stool, leaving four empties between them.

  Kepella checked his fly. It was a gag. He watched her toss her leg up over the stool and ease up onto it. She wiggled, adjusting herself on the stool and it damn near made him stiff. It was then he realized she wasn’t trying to be sexy. She just couldn’t help it.

  “That was a cheap shot,” he said.

  She didn’t seem to hear him.

  He raised his voice. “I said, that was a cheap shot.”

  “You stare at me,” she told him. “Jukebox has a mirror on it.”

  Kepella looked at the jukebox. Then he looked at Georgie, who shrugged and smiled and said, “Looks like she caught you, Mr. Roy.”

  10

  The Streak was aptly named. It was an Olmo racing bike with a chrome finish: in the sun, it shined with the same intensity as the bumper of a ’59 Caddy. It sported Campagnolo hardware and Cenneli handlebars. Jay stood alongside of it nervously. “So what do you think?” Jocko’s lisp made him sound like Sylvester the Cat.

  “I think the race starts in a couple of minutes.”

  “I mean about your chances, birdlegs.”

  Jay looked down at his legs. They were tanned, muscular, and hairy—anything but birdlegs. “My chances would have been better without Rossi showing up.”

  “Who cares about Rossi? You should be thinking about the course.”

  “He’s the best in the state. Olympic starter in Los Angeles in ’84.”

  “Technicalities. You’re on home turf. You’re on the goddamned slickest-looking bicycle this side of Rome. If anyone gets behind you they’ll be blinded.”

  “He grew up here. He’s on a Masi.”

  “If the rain would stop I’d feel better about this. A bike race isn’t worth a broken wrist or something.”

  “It adds to the challenge.”

  “You’re a sick puppy.”

  They were interrupted by the voice shouting into the bullhorn. “Two minutes to the start of the race. Bikers only please. Two minutes.”

  Jocko slapped Jay on his numbers. “Remember those two gear changes you told me about.”

  Jay snapped on his chin strap and worked his jaw, nodding at the same time. He started hyperventilating, gradually increasing the pace. “Shitty position,” he gasped.

  Jocko nodded. “Luck o’ the Irish. You’ll have to make your move early.”

  “On the first hill,” Jay replied, huffing like a steam engine.

  Jocko said, “Break a leg,” and moved through the crowded bicycles toward the sidewalk.

  “One minute,” the starter announced from a perch high atop a ladder, starting pistol in his hand.

  Jay glanced over at the sidewalk, hoping to catch a reassuring nod from Jocko, but he didn’t see him. He didn’t see anyone but her. He felt like he was in one of those corny shampoo commercials in which the macho man sees only one face in a sea of hundreds. And what a face. She was smiling because she knew he saw her. She didn’t wave, didn’t nod, didn’t blow him a kiss. She just smiled.

  “Thirty seconds,” the starter barked. An odd clatter, like the sound of crickets in summer, as a hundred and sixteen people mounted their racing machines. Jay hooked his foot into the metal loop on the pedal. Sometimes he tied himself into the pedals, but not today. With the rain and a street full of amateurs he had decided against it. Rossi would be strapped in. A few of the others. “Fifteen seconds…” He couldn’t remember telling her about the race. When had he told her? It was strange to see her standing there. Strangely wonderful. It bridged a gap: this made them friends, not just professional acquaintances. She had obviously made an effort to be here.

  “Ten, nine, eight…” called the voice. Tension rose. Muscles flexed. Jay could see the back of Rossi’s helmet: the Italian was up on his pedals, perfectly balanced, his handbrakes keeping him behind the start line. He was ready to release the brake and tromp down on the pedals. Rossi wanted this race.

  “Seven, six…”

  Jay had only raced against Rossi once before, and had blown a tire with a quarter mile to go. Rossi had won that one. But at the time of the tire failure Jay had already passed twelve bikes and was within three of Rossi. He might have beaten him.

  “Five, four…”

  Something distracted Jay. He snatched a quick glance to his left, over toward Jocko. Linda was standing with Jocko. Linda! And she had fixed her concentration on the face Jay had been staring at. Marlene’s face. “Shit,” Jay said.

  “Three, two…” Bam!

  Rossi shot out into the lead. Where Jay had been positioned he had to wait a beat for the bikes in front of him to start moving. Someone went down off to his right and two or three bikes crashed into the downed rider. He paid no attention to it—his first coach had taught him that—except that he prepared himself for the quick surge of riders avoiding the pile-up.

  Rossi took the first corner comfortabl
y. He had a length’s lead already. Jay swerved left and passed two bikes, pulling in front of a thin guy with curly hair. He heard the familiar Jocko war cry echo off the buildings—his coach approved.

  Two more bikes lost it on the corner, their skinny wheels slipping on the slickened pavement. The resulting crash was noisy. Jay figured at least another six bikes had gone down. He shifted gears and passed another guy. Rossi was eight bikes up. The riders began to string out. Jay took a gamble and left himself in low gear. He leaned on it and passed two more riders. This was not a good place in the course, or in the strategy of the race, to put a move on. Jay caught the two unsuspecting. He snapped The Streak into fifth gear. Rossi still held the lead, six bikes up.

  It had been Jocko’s idea to fix a fiberglass fender to both wheels. They were tiny fenders, made in Spain, and they added perhaps a pound to the overall weight of the bike. None of the riders in front of Jay had elected to use the fenders, but Jay had liked Jocko’s reasoning: water sprayed onto your front and back and absorbed into clothing weighed more than one pound worth of fenders, which prevented ninety percent of the water from hitting you. It was the kind of good, clean, streetwise sense typical of Jocko. He knew absolutely nothing about bike racing, but his logic was impeccable. Jay was moving a lighter load. He looked ahead. All the riders had brown lines down their backs, across their numbers, their T-shirts getting soaked by the spray from their tires. Jay peered into the rearview mirror mounted to his helmet: everyone was behaving. Not one of the top twenty bikes was making a move. Riders were settling in.

  It was fun to have the city close streets for you, to have cops guarding all the intersections. A mobile TV van parked at the next corner had a crew of vid-heads trying to get footage for the six o’clock news. Jay smiled as he flew by them.

  Rossi shifted gears and pulled out ahead of the pack—wicked move considering the upcoming hill. The strategy frustrated Jay—this was where he had intended to make his first push, but Rossi’s move kicked everyone, and Jay had to lean on it just to hold seventh. He felt the tingling in his hair: he was beginning to sweat.

  Jay’s training as a sailor warned him of the gust: he saw the ripples on a puddle on the road up ahead. The wind swept across the intersection, carrying rain with it. Jay watched as it hit Rossi and caused him to swerve left. It had to be powerful to rattle a rider of Rossi’s abilities.

  Mr. Second Place evidently didn’t sail, because he didn’t see it coming. When the wind hit, it blew the bike out from under him. He yelled and went down, one foot holding in the pedal. He was dragged along behind his bike and slid into a cop car with enough force to cause a hell of a racket. Jay didn’t see the rest of it. He tucked low over the handle bars and edged his front wheel to the right, preparing for the gust. As it hit he pedaled harder and held the handlebars tightly. He swayed but didn’t lose an inch to the wind. He quickly closed the gap left by the downed rider. Rossi was five bikes up.

  Now was his shot. He had planned this, and once Jay Becker planned something, he followed through. No going back. And nothing like competition to spur him on. It wasn’t just a race; it was Rossi—and Rossi had beaten him before. Jay had an appreciation for the unexpected. This came in part from calling set lists at the band’s gigs. If the crowd looked like they wanted a slow song, you gave them one more fast song first—then the slow dance. If it was a quiet crowd you wanted to excite, you didn’t jump right into a rocker; no, you handed them a real mellow number—match their mood—and then, song by song, brought them up to a frenzy. He reasoned that this same theory might work against a person like Rossi: if no one ever passed on a hill, then pass on the hill. Why not?

  The most common racing strategy is to shift to your lower gear at the bottom of a hill and work like hell just to hold your position. Jay downshifted twenty yards before the rider in front of him did. His theory was simple: get the momentum required to hit the base of the hill at top speed. In order to keep pace he had to pedal harder than the man in front of him, and in doing so, The Streak’s gears complained. The rider in front of him heard the change of gears. Jay could feel the man check his rearview mirror, but by the time number four had figured it out, Jay was taking him to the left, rising off the seat and pumping like hell. Number three dropped behind next. Jay pumped hard. It wasn’t so much that the other riders couldn’t have defended their positions—it was Jay’s timing. Their positions had been challenged and won before they knew it.

  Jay had no strength left to take on number two. He calmed down and regained his strength, ready for the men behind him to fight for the positions they had lost. To expend energy on number two would be an exercise in futility. He might win the position, but for how long? With weakened legs he would be an easy target for the angry two behind him. He watched as Rossi crested the hill. Jay hunkered down low as a strong gust caught him from the right. Rossi shifted and shot out ahead. Number two followed suit. Jay saw the former Mr. Three making a challenge off to his left. The two were even within seconds, wheel to wheel. It was all a matter of who went for the gear change first. Jay didn’t hesitate. In the split second before the gears caught his opponent surged a half-wheel in front, then reached down to shift. Jay bolted past and leaned hard into the sharp left turn. The man had miscalculated Jay’s “kick,” and when Jay made the turn, was forced to rescind. Jay regained third, shifted, and settled into a series of quick turns too tight for any of those behind him to make a legitimate bid for the position. He still had two men in front of him. And one of them was Rossi.

  He battled with the rider behind Rossi. The man was good. Each attempt to pass was met with equal determination. Turn to turn, they rode along the wet streets, sweating, huffing, changing gears. The gears and chains whined; the narrow tires cried in the water. Handlebar to handlebar, wheel to wheel, they struggled with each other. And then the man looked over.

  Jay estimated they had been fighting for the position for close to fifteen minutes. Both were tiring. Rossi pedaled effortlessly ahead of them. Jay had resisted the temptation to look over at his opponent, thinking it odd that the more he tried not to look, the more he wanted to. But he didn’t. In these close battles for position, even the slightest turn of the helmet could cost you the race.

  Out of the corner of his eye Jay saw the flash of white as the man’s helmet moved. In that fraction of time, Jay cut in on him. It was a ruse more than anything else. He knew what it felt like to see that jerk of the arms. This rider overreacted as all riders do. He, too, jerked his wheel, but harder than Jay. Jay’s wheel nudged in front of his opponent’s. To avoid the crash the man had to stop pedaling. Jay rose onto the pedals and his bike jumped ahead. The spray from Rossi’s wheel hit him. Rossi, who had probably been watching their contest in his mirror. Rossi, who seemed to be out for a Sunday ride, not leading a pack of bike enthusiasts in the summer’s biggest race. God, he wanted Rossi.

  They came around the final turn and were headed toward the finish line, the crowd much larger than Jay had expected. A roar went up. Some kids barked encouragement. Others applauded.

  Applause. People rarely realized what applause meant to a musician. The truth of the matter was that at fifty to sixty dollars a night, by the time a musician had arrived at a gig, set up all the equipment, tuned the instruments, changed into show clothes and ate dinner, he had earned all but fifteen dollars of his pay, and that fifteen might cover the hour and a half to break down and reload the equipment back into the van at the end of the night. This meant that the musician played for free. People didn’t understand that. The real “pay” was the crowd’s enthusiasm, applause. It was the only fuel to a performer’s fire.

  The cheers increased, and so did Jay’s energy. His legs hummed in perfect unison with Rossi’s. Gears whined. The crowd roared louder.

  Suddenly, Rossi shifted:

  Jay reached for his gear lever too late. Rossi broke the tape.

  ***

  Jay coasted past the finish, the flagman’s fingers held in the V tha
t indicated second place. He glanced to his left looking for Marlene and saw her wave. He coasted ahead and pulled alongside Rossi. “Nice race,” he shouted above the roar of an overhead jet. Rossi nodded. Still moving, the two reached out and touched hands. A light cheer went up from the crowd.

  Two blocks later Jay followed the route back around a block to the starting point. Jocko greeted him with the same casual smile that had become his trademark. They said nothing to one another. They locked The Streak into Jocko’s van and then Jay asked, “Where is she?”

  “Linda?”

  “No, Marlene.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman from Shilshole.”

  “She was here?”

  “Oh, shit.” Jay hurried back to where he had spotted her. Some kids approached him and stopped his advance, asking for autographs. He rose to his toes. He and Marlene saw each other, her eyes as green and sparkling as ever. Then she disappeared. He briefly saw the back of her blond head round a corner. Gone.

  Jocko had caught up to him. “Nice race,” he lisped. “I knew you’d place in this sucker.”

  Jay turned and said, “I should have had him.”

  “He’s one of the best in the country. Take what you’re given, you fool.”

  Jay’s face tightened, sweat rolling off his chin, shoulders still heaving from the race. “You accept what you’re given, Rocks. You take what is rightfully yours.” Jocko handed him a towel and Jay patted himself dry. Then he said, “That’s the difference.”

  ***

  “You look beautiful.” He wondered what made him say such things. Perhaps a hidden desire to fail. Is she too much for you, boy, is that the problem? Do you plan on scaring her off with clichés and little-boy smiles?

  “Thank you,” she replied sincerely. She wore a fashionable but scant two-piece: a few strings securing three well-placed patches of sky-blue Lycra. Her breasts were small enough to require little support. This suit had been made with her in mind. A bustier woman would have looked cheap. Marlene looked tantalizing.