by Mark Gimenez
He held up his beer bottle for Ronda again. He wasn't worried about driving home drunk because (a) he didn't own a car, and (b) he lived only a few blocks from Guero's. He had often biked home drunk, which wasn't a crime, at least not in Austin.
"You were bombing the Hill of Life again," Dave said.
Andy shrugged.
"Hill of Death is more like it. Andy, are you afraid of anything?"
"Women."
"Amen, brother," Curtis said.
They fist-punched in the air above the table.
"You're gonna die on that bike one day," Dave said.
"Not that bike. And there are worse ways to go."
The guys fell silent and dropped their eyes. Tres put an arm around Andy's shoulder.
"How's he doing?"
"Still waiting for the call."
After an awkward moment of silence, Tres said, "Curtis, read us another one."
"Okay." He turned a page. "This girl wants a guy who's kind and considerate and loving with a sense of humor and a pleasing personality… and, oh yeah, he's got to have the mind of Einstein and the body of Matthew McConaughey."
"That's what they all want," Dave said, "the perfect male."
Dave pulled out his comb and swept his hair back again. He smiled at a passing girl; she smiled at Tres. Dave shrugged it off then slapped Curtis on the shoulder.
"Well, we've got half of perfect right here-the Einstein brain."
"And the other half with Andy," Tres said.
"Please. McConaughey's pumped. I'm… wiry."
"Natalie says you've got a great body. Hell, I'd be worried she was cheating with you if you had any money."
"Thanks."
Curtis shook his head with apparent disgust. "I'll bet McConaughey couldn't solve a quadratic equation to save his life."
"What's that?" Tres asked.
Curtis twisted around to reveal the back side of his T-shirt, on which a long mathematical equation was printed.
"This. Simple algebra."
Tres laughed. "Curtis, movie stars like McConaughey, they've got people to do their algebra for them."
"I saw him in here a while back," Dave said. "The girls were falling all over themselves to get near him. Even Ronda."
"She's a lesbian," Andy said.
Dave turned his palms up. "The allure of celebrity."
"We'll never get a date if they want McConaughey," Curtis said.
"I know how we can get dates," Dave said. "Answer the ads from women over forty. There's a lot of older women out there rebounding from divorces-they're lonely and desperate."
"But are they desperate enough to date us?" Curtis said.
"You're desperate-how high are your standards?"
"Excellent point."
"Still, a forty-year-old woman," Andy said, "that'd be kind of creepy, like dating your mother."
"My mother's dating a thirty-five-year-old guy she found in the personals," Dave said. "Says he can be the older brother I never had."
"No kidding?"
Dave nodded. "And my dad's dating a twenty-six-year-old girl. He says she can be the sister I never had. But what does it mean if I want to have sex with my new sister? And if he marries her, then I'll want to have sex with my stepmother."
"See, that is creepy."
"You haven't seen her."
Ronda dropped off four Coronas and took their orders. Beef tacos, chips and queso, and more beer. All the essential food groups.
"I revised my ad," Dave said.
"No hits?"
" Nada. So now I'm six-two, a Democrat, and a vegan."
"You're five-nine, a Republican, and you eat meat like a freakin' T-Rex."
Curtis: "This girl's ad says 'absolutely no Christians or Republicans.' "
"See?" Dave said. "Easier to find a virgin than a Republican in Austin. You tell a girl you voted for Bush, you're history."
"But you're lying."
"Everyone lies in those ads, Andy. It's like a resume, a way to get your foot in the door. Doesn't have to be true."
Dave was in real estate.
Curtis said, "This one says, 'I'm cute, smart, funny and all that other shit I tell myself as part of my daily self-affirmation routine.' "
"She's in therapy," Dave said. "Next."
" 'I'm romantic and at times emotional. I get teary-eyed from sad commercials-those animal shelter commercials are soooo sad.' She has a frown-face emoticon."
"Needy. Next."
"This girl says the four people in history she'd invite to dinner are Jesus, Gandhi, the Dalai Lama, and Paris Hilton."
"Dumb and dumber. Next."
"Okay, listen to this one. She's twenty-six, a kindergarten teacher, and lives in SoCo. She's five-five, one-ten, athletic build, drug and disease free, drama free, and maintenance free. Reads the Chronicle, shops at Whole Foods, works out at the Y, and gets her coffee at Jo's. Says her idea of a perfect date is shrimp fajitas at Guero's and Mexican Vanilla ice cream at Amy's. She drinks socially but doesn't smoke. Her favorite activity is-get this, Andy-biking the greenbelt followed by swimming at the Barton Springs Pool."
Andy sat up. "Wow, she's perfect."
"Except there's one catch."
"What's that?"
"She's seeking a 'man or woman ' for dating."
"She's bi?"
"Apparently."
"Now there's a girl you could take home to your mother," Dave said. "Or to your sister."
"I wish I had a sister," Curtis said.
"Maybe I can take her home to my new sister."
Andy Prescott leaned back and turned up his beer. He was twenty-nine years old and the last girl he had taken home to meet his mother was Mary Margaret McDermott. He was on a twenty-year losing streak with women. He considered that sad record a moment, then sighed and waved his empty Corona bottle in the air until Ronda spotted him.
" Uno mas, senorita. "
He had read that beer was not only a natural anesthetic, but also an herbal remedy for depression.
THREE
At exactly seven-thirty the next morning, loud rock music woke Andy Prescott from his coma-like state of sleep with all the subtlety of a SWAT raid. He reached over and smacked the radio across the room, but it was just a symbolic gesture. He was awake. He tried to sit up, but the movement sent a sharp pain ricocheting around his skull like a pinball.
A dozen Coronas sure packed a wallop.
His head ached from the beers and his body from the fall down the ravine, and he was as stiff as a two-by-four from sleeping in one position all night. His right arm was numb. He must have slept on it-or he had suffered permanent nerve damage in the fall.
Heck of a start to a new week.
He rolled out of bed and realized he was still wearing the same clothes from the night before. There was a sizable salsa stain splashed across the front of his T-shirt; Willie looked as if he had been blasted in the face with a double-barreled shotgun. Andy tried to recall the last hours of the evening, but all his mind could retrieve was a vague image of falling over a table… and not his table.
He dropped his clothes on the floor and limped to the bathroom. The anesthetic properties of the Coronas had worn off; his left knee burned with each step. He turned on the hot water in the shower then relieved himself of the beer and brushed his teeth. He stared at his reflection in the mirror.
He looked every bit as bad as he felt.
He walked into the living room and found Max stretched out on the couch. The Keeshond bolted to the front door and barked an I need to pee! Andy opened the door and recoiled from another bright, sunny day. His front porch looked out onto the Texas School for the Deaf campus across the street, which made for a quiet neighborhood. His neighbor was walking her little white Lhasa Apso past the house; while the dogs sniffed each other's butts, Liz called over to him.
"Nice look you've got going there, Andy."
He had forgotten he was naked.
He waved lamely to Liz and returned to t
he bathroom. The hot shower brought most of his brain cells back to life, but there would be no quick fix for his body. The red scratch marks across his face made him look like Geronimo with his war paint on. Nasty scabs had already begun to form on his elbows and knees. His left knee was swollen. The feeling had returned to his right arm, but he couldn't raise that arm above his shoulder. He would hurt for a week, but all in all, it wasn't that bad. If you can't take the pain, don't go extreme. Stay at home and play pretend bowling on your Wii.
His home was a one-bedroom, one-bath rent house on Newton Street just across the river from downtown in the part of Austin known as "SoCo" because it straddled South Congress Avenue. Newton paralleled Congress two blocks west. The other houses on the street had been renovated by urban frontiersmen and women like Liz and her husband, young professionals who drove Vespas and Mini-Coopers and had braved the neighborhood back when SoCo's leading citizens were hookers and addicts.
Now SoCo was a hip and happening place to be, a highly-desired and highly-priced in-town location. The houses on either side, nothing more than cottages, were valued on the tax rolls at over $300,000, and the one a few doors down was on the market for $600,000; his place was still awaiting renovation and so was valued at only $87,500. Andy's landlord had been transferred to California six years ago by his high-tech employer; he hoped to return to Austin one day. Andy hoped he wouldn't because he was charging only $600 in monthly rent, way below market for SoCo.
Andy dug through clothes piled on furniture until he found a pair of jeans and a clean shirt with a collar. He tried to shake the wrinkles out of the shirt-he didn't own an iron-then got dressed, grabbed his electric razor, and went outside. The remains of his trail bike lay on the front porch like the aftermath of a tornado. Andy Prescott felt like a man without a reason to live: he had no mountain bike.
He was a gutter bunny-he commuted to work by bike-but he had always commuted on a mountain bike. His only mode of transportation that day was an old Huffy BMX that Tres had lent him until he could replace the Schwinn-but who knew when that would happen. He sat on the Huffy and sank; it had a flat tire.
Figured.
He went back inside and found a pump. He inflated the tire then climbed aboard again. He strapped on the helmet, inserted his sunglasses, and rode down the porch steps and the front sidewalk to the street. He stopped and looked both ways. He could turn south and take James Street, which was more direct, or he could turn north and take Nellie Street, which held the promise of an early morning adrenaline rush.
He turned north.
No doubt he looked like a dork riding a boy's candy-apple-red twenty-inch Huffy, but it was that or walk to work. He clicked the razor on and ran the rotating blades over his face. He whistled to Max, who bounded after him. Two houses down, he saw Liz out front tending her Xeriscape landscaping; he gave her a sheepish "Sorry about that." She just smiled. Of course, it wasn't the first time she had seen him naked.
He rode on and gazed upon the downtown skyline.
Austin sat at the edge of the Texas Hill Country where the flat prairie land first began to rise and wrinkle up like Andy's shirt, so the town's topography was full of ups and downs and twists and turns; the roadways followed the lay of the land. Newton Street was a narrow residential lane that ran north-south on one of the "ups." From that vantage point, Andy could see the skyscrapers of downtown rising in sharp relief against the blue sky and the construction cranes towering over new condos and hotels going up, all of which now blocked the view of the state capitol unless you were standing in the middle of Congress Avenue-a crime committed by developers and sanctioned by the city. Austin was a hot market, and there was money to be made, so city hall and developers, once lethal adversaries in Austin, had joined forces to pillage the place for profit.
His mother often said, "Money makes good men do bad things."
Newton followed the perimeter fence line of the School for the Deaf then made a sharp turn to the east-which turn Andy now made-and became Nellie Street. Nellie abruptly pitched downward at a sharp angle on its short journey to Congress Avenue, which ran north-south in one of the "downs."
Andy picked up speed.
By the time you hit Congress, you could build up a pretty good head of steam flying down Nellie. Andy had once hit Congress at full speed only to have his brakes fail; he flew right through the intersection and crashed into the patio at Doc's Motorworks Bar amp; Grill. He tapped the Huffy's coaster brakes; they were in working order.
He pushed the razor into his pants pocket. He sat up, adjusted his helmet and sunglasses, and watched the traffic light at the bottom of the hill where Nellie intersected Congress to form a T. The white pedestrian WALK signal to cross Congress changed to a flashing red DON'T WALK; he had exactly twenty-four seconds.
Congress was a broad five-lane avenue that served as a major north-south commuting route. It was morning rush hour, and traffic was backed up at the light. Impatient drivers revved their SUV's big engines, in no mood to wait for pedestrians to cross Congress or share the crowded lanes with cyclists. Austin was officially a bicycle-friendly town, but the memo had never gotten to motorists; you get in their way and they'll run you down like a vindictive mother-in-law. Add in the fact that they were probably hung over and late for work, and a cyclist cutting in front of them made for a volatile mix on a Monday morning. Consequently, any gutter bunny foolish enough to challenge automobile traffic on Congress Avenue during rush hour was well-advised to have his last will and testament up to date.
On the other hand, if Andy timed it perfectly, he could hit the intersection just as the north-south light changed from red to green and beat the cars heading south on Congress; he'd be leading the pack instead of merging into the pack. Of course, less-than-perfect timing and he'd broadside a southbound car, be ejected from the bike, and hurtle through the air until his body collided with a northbound car, resulting in death or serious bodily injury.
He hadn't had a shot of caffeine yet, so it seemed like a reasonable risk. Max, though, wasn't so sure; he was keeping pace from a safe distance on the sidewalk.
Andy steered to the far left of the road. He picked up speed fast now; he tapped the brakes to time the light.
Forty yards from the intersection, he had ten seconds.
Thirty yards and seven seconds.
Twenty yards and five seconds.
Ten yards and three seconds… two… one…
He hit Congress just as the north-south light turned green, leaned hard to the right, and swerved into the southbound lanes in a wide arc. Angry horns honked behind him, and Andy heard the roar of massive engines as drivers put their pedals to the metal, but he was a block out front before the SUVs cleared the intersection. They were just losers eating his dust. He straightened his course, sat up, and tried to raise both arms into the air like Lance Armstrong crossing the finish line at the Tour de France-but he winced with pain. His right arm still wouldn't go past half-mast, so he settled for one raised fist.
"Yee-hah!"
He had won that morning, for what it was worth. He glided past the 1200 block of funky SoCo shops-Vivid and Blackmail and Pink Hair Salon amp; Gallery-and the Austin Motel, a favorite stop of Julia Roberts and your other celebrity types, then skidded to a stop at Jo's Hot Coffee. He leaned the Huffy against the newspaper racks lined up along the curb and removed his helmet. He passed on the Texas papers and the New York Times and grabbed a free Austin Chronicle, the bible of SoCo. Just then one of the SUVers blew past, yelled "Asshole!" and gave Andy the finger.
"Drink decaf!" Andy yelled back.
Okay, that was lame, but it was the best retort he could come up with before his morning coffee. Max barked to show his solidarity-or he wanted a muffin. Smart dog that he was, Max had stayed on the sidewalk all the way to Jo's.
"You want a muffin, big boy?"
Max bounced up and down and barked a Yes! Yes, I do!
A Great Dane the size of a small horse stood at the sidewalk tabl
es next to its guardian-in dog-friendly Austin, you were not a "dog owner"; you were a "dog guardian." The Dane gave Max a guttural growl. Max ducked behind Andy's legs.
They stepped to the back of the line that looped down the sidewalk. There was no walk-in lobby or drive-through lane at Jo's. It was a walk-up place, a small green structure stationed curbside on Congress in the parking lot of the hip Hotel San Jose. Jo's catered to those Austinites who loved good coffee but hated corporate conglomerates and so could not in good liberal conscience drink Starbucks. Jo's cost almost as much, but Andy preferred the place because (a) it was locally-owned, (b) the coffee was stronger than Starbucks, and (c) you didn't have to say "venti." You could just say large.
Andy said, "Large."
"Like I don't know, three thousand straight days I've made your coffee."
Guillermo Garza. Every morning since Andy had first moved into SoCo ten years before, he had stopped at Jo's and bought a large coffee and a muffin, two since his dad had transferred guardianship of Max to him.
"Banana nut muffin for me and a…"
Max was fixated on the freshly-baked muffins behind the low glass display; the intoxicating smell had him salivating only slightly more than Andy.
"Max, you want banana nut or blueberry?" Max barked. "Blueberry?" Another bark. Back to Guillermo: "Max is going for a blueberry this morning."
Guillermo bagged the muffins and nodded at the Huffy.
"You steal a kid's bike?"
"Crashed the Schwinn."
"You land on your face?"
"Several times."
Guillermo pointed down the street.
"I saw that stunt you just pulled coming off Nellie. One of those SUVs hits you, dude, you're a piece of history… and Congress Avenue."
Andy shrugged. "Nothing like a little adrenaline rush to get your day going."
"First step to recovery, Andy, is to admit you're a junkie."
"Never denied it."
"Brother, you got more guts than brains." Guillermo Garza knew of what he spoke; he had an M.A. in political science. "Any progress on the Slammer?"
Andy threw a thumb at the Huffy.
"You're looking at it."