A pleasant delirium follows a four-o’clock rainstorm. The herd of Hondas and Dodges mill around the rider, half-dismounted on a red Cannondale filly. Combustion engines low under the red light. Steam rises from their hoods. The oil-beeves won’t move and the rider gets to asking, “what’s the deal?” He sits too high in the saddle, the mark of a pandemic-greenhorn from out East. Red Dust canters around the pileup across the streetcar tracks and sees the commotion. Fireboys are all over, great big lassos strewn across the street connected to green hydrants. A cook is out watching the hub-bub and the rider approaches him. “A fire. Since 10:30. This morning.” The cook chuckles. “Look here,” the cook shows the rider a video of the flames. “Renovations.” The street is all bud emporiums and mutt farriers. Stagecoach passengers wait in the shelter on 14th. Two are strung out like a sinewed bow. They bow to fent or iso or some other pagan god. The rider leaves the herd behind to scout. A groundhog inured to the clacking passage of oil-beeves over the Whitney Young casts a skeptical eye on the dusty red filly. The rider whistles at it. The critter looks back impassively.
The rider first notices the boys on his initial pass through Mayfair. They’re riding a busted 49-cc burro. He lets Red Dust pull him up through the meadows above Kenilworth and into Maryland, across the settlements at Colmar Manor. The lengthening shadows tell him to head off the spirited bike and make back for town. Back through the aquatic gardens where birds sing through pistol play. The rider is pulling past Mayfair when the boys spot him. They spur on their burro, heels clacking useless against her plastic white frame. The boys are dressed sharp in light ripped skinny jeans, foamposites and hoodies. “Yah, yah, yah!” They’re jeering on the rider’s tail. He rips the reins to pull onto the East Bank Trail. The boys are in pursuit. He edges the filly left and they pull up beside him to the right. “Wanna race?” The boy riding pillion begins to laugh. The driver guns it and they’re off. The rider slinks low, finally one with the bike, and becomes the pursuer. Their shoulders shift together left and then right as filly and burro lean through turns. A rat snake whips across the trail. The old burro begins to falter as it climbs a rise. The rider catches the rascals and laughter breaks out. The boys flip a bitch. The rider says, “good shit, fellas. Good shit.” All parties ride off into the dusk.