Burning Time

14

It was a hot, clear, California day with a deep blue sky and no sign of smog north of Pacific Beach when Troland took the second of his many steps to make things Right. He headed up the Five to sell his bike. Looking back, he saw a gray haze over the city.

He wore sunglasses but no helmet. He liked the feeling of the wind whipping at his face. He didn’t want to go all the way to Santa Monica or Malibu, so he got off the highway at Torrey Pines. He rode around Del Mar and Miramar for a while, then headed to the better bike shop. It was on a different planet from Stephen’s Motorcycle Salvage where he and Willy used to go. This was the kind of place with ads that said you meet the nicest people on a Honda.

There wasn’t another Harley like his either on the street or in the window of the shop. The only bikes he saw here were Hondas, Kawasakis—Yuppie Jap bikes with the guts all covered up. Riding a bike like that was like fucking a girl with all her clothes on.

He parked in front of the diner across the street. One of his voices told him he was hungry, so he went inside. Bikers were scattered around at a few tables drinking beer. Troland sat at a table in the front by the window, where he could see his bike prominently parked by the door.

A short, tired-looking blonde in a white bikini top and denim shorts came over with an order pad.

“Hi, I’m Jean. What can I get for you?” she said pleasantly.

“I’ll have a pitcher of draft, double cheeseburger, and fries.”

“Sure thing.”

He looked at her retreating back. The round ass, jiggling under the short shorts, held no interest for him. He couldn’t concentrate on wanting to hurt her. It made him feel cursed. He couldn’t even think about taking her out on the desert where no one could see or hear anything and sticking her dry little cunt. He didn’t think of this one screaming, trying to kick him with sandy bare feet, and missing. Breaking her arm. It usually made him feel good to think about it.

The little blonde put the foaming beer down. “Anything else I can get you?”

“No,” he said flatly. He had been sitting very still, staring straight ahead since he came in.

She hesitated for a second, “You okay?” she asked.

“You got a problem?”

“No.” She turned away quickly.

He didn’t turn to look after her this time. He knew he’d been brought real low if he had no interest in sex. It was like they all got together and did something to his balls so his dick wouldn’t work anymore.

The girl returned with the plate and put it down gently in front of him. She moved the ketchup bottle closer and took off without a word. Troland looked down at the plate, then drank some beer.

A kid with a cross dangling from one earlobe, stringy hair, and bare feet in holey sneakers approached the table cautiously.

“Nice scooter, man. Looks low.”

Troland nodded without looking at him. “It’s been stretched and lowered.”

“No shit.”

Troland picked up the cheeseburger and took a huge bite. He chewed and swallowed before answering.

“It’s for sale,” he said flatly. “Wanna buy it?”

“You’re kidding.”

“I don’t kid.”

“But it looks brand-new,” the kid protested. “It’s just last year’s. It’s not even a year old.” He sat down without being invited.

“It’s two years old, but I spent a year customizing it. Yeah, I guess it is brand-new.” Troland poured half a bottle of ketchup on his plate.

“Stretched and lowered, huh.” The kid watched him, eyes narrowed.

Troland’s plate became a sea of red.

“Hey, you really like that stuff.”

“Yeah.” Troland dipped his hand into it and licked his fingers. “Tastes better than blood.”

The boy laughed.

“The bike’s for sale,” Troland said flatly. He could tell by the way the kid walked he had money, probably even went to college. Poor kids didn’t look like that. “Want it?”

“Well, sure I want it. Who wouldn’t?”

Troland lifted the plate and stuck his tongue in the ketchup.

The kid watched him uncomfortably. “Uh, how much do you want for it?”

“You can’t afford it, out of your range.”

“I got enough out of my dad to buy a Fat Bob,” the kid said indignantly.

Troland nodded. That meant he had eleven grand. “This is better than a Fat Bob.”

The kid didn’t even pause. “Let’s have a look,” he said.

A few minutes later he was squatting in front of it, looking the Harley over, touching it here and there, smelling it even.

Troland answered all his questions in a dead voice. Yeah it was a real nice bike. He handed over the keys and let the long-haired freak go for a ride.

“You okay?” the kid asked when he came back fifteen minutes later.

Troland’s face was frozen behind his sunglasses. He had hardly moved during the whole process.

“You got a problem?”

“Uh, no,” the kid said nervously. “You just seem kinda—I don’t know.” He paused. “Ah, is it hot?” he asked finally.

Troland reached in his pocket for the registration and the receipt from the bike shop in San Diego where he had bought it. Two and a half hours later he was on a bus, heading back to Pacific Beach with the kid’s check in his wallet. Now he had plenty of money. All the way home, and deep into the night, Willy’s voice told him he did good.