Torn Voice

He was riding around on his bicycle, trying to find a pay phone to answer about a possible gig next week. Coasting from one busted booth to one unlit corner of piercing glances till finally finding a dial tone, then remembering that he had no money. First things last. Day once again depleted of direction. A host of hours among which he was too fearful & fickle to command. A pang in his stomach but he didn't budge & got back on, riding down the bike path along the sidewalk. The sun breaking through again. A guy walking his bike on the path. On his shoulder, people strolling by. He had to skim through, almost hitting the guy & asked what the hell the problem was. The guy answered in English, telling him to suck it. He slid his bike around, let it fall gently to the ground & walked back over to the guy & asked him what he'd said. The guy kept repeating nothing, nothing, keep on going. What'd you say, mother fucker, he asked again. The guy’s bike stood between them. He leaned over, asked louder. I said nothing. Keep going. The guy calmly walked on. He stood on the sidewalk. The wheel of his own bike still spinning. Breathless, bargaining with the pain inside. You haven't done that since you were kid, wrestling the Patchett brothers in their backyard, scratched like girls until fists started to fall. Words would never set you off. Failed to see their magic when spoken by fools & violence is the ruin of many a night. Proud of nothing yet beholden to pride. Frail voice of youth. People who had gathered moved on. He got back on the bike & went home & plundered his roommate's room for loose change.