Steckland Russ (II.iii) -- The Ride and The Slick

    (vii) --



    The bicycle Thirteen Division gave me is certainly the worst bike I've ever rode. The seat is stiff and makes my butt sorer than an insert-prison-joke-here line. The wheels wobble and the steering stalls on left turns. The acceleration lags and costs me at least three red lights on any journey. All it has going are its exceptional brakes (which have already saved my backside twice) and the fact it was an unexpected gift of charity from a cast of people I assumed forgot me after paperwork. As such, I shall begin my tale of the first great adventure of my new bicycle, which I have since dubbed "The Golden Hornet."
    I was leaving my last class yesterday, which as a Thursday was World History. The Golden Hornet was locked next to the side exit of the school, and as I approached a voice called out to me from across the street:

    'Yo Steck! Where you ride to?'

    It was Mal Larson, atop a rather decent looking black road bike. I shrugged timidly and went about my business of unlocking my back wheel from the frame. Mal zipped across the street and pulled up alongside me with a rubbery screech.

    'You headin' north?' he asked me.
   
    I shrugged again. I feel weird not shrugging at unexpected questions.
   
    'Yeah. I head north.'
    'Wanna ride together? I know a nice spot up, I'm sure it's not far outta your way. Let's go.'

    Every instinct in my flesh wanted to refuse his offer, and I don't know why. There was no logical reason to reject him, for I had no plans or no stern before-supper curfew imposed by my father. Yet my first thought was to humbly refuse him, and if I hadn't taken that extra second of consideration I dare say I would've done so and the adventure would never have happened.
    So I agreed and he led the way. We went up along Jarvis until Bloor, east on Bloor and across the viaduct until Broadview, followed Broadview into O' Connor Drive and then its transformation into Millwood Road. At this point I was remarkably confused, for I had no idea where I was and the twists and turns had dissolved my sense of direction.
    It was when we crossed the Leaside bridge that the city transformed from the one I knew into one I was aware of only by its ink on a map. Now we had passed this threshold and I admit to being rather scared. The winding Millwood Road wound so only to make me lost. The dead looking trees behind the chain fences of the ravine glowered in the breeze to choke me with their branches. The people on the street just stared hollowly at me as I passed them by, like the obscene stranger I was. We went under a bridge and three passing cars nearly swiped me with their rear-view mirrors, as if there were black and white posters of my face posted all over telephone poles.
    I am relieved to have survived this barren spot, and after a confusing trip north on hilly Bayview Avenue, we reached the temporary end of Lawrence East. The wind of the cars zooming past bothered our faces so we dismounted from our bikes and walked up to a big stone gateway. A small, lime damaged metal plaque fixed upon the stone wall read:

    Glendon Hall

    'What is this place?' I asked.
    'It's a college.' answered Mal.
    'Are we allowed to go in?'

    Mal had already started into the grounds before I could finish my question, so I followed him in. My senses, still affected from the ride, became completely overpowered by the atmosphere of this place. An old fulfilled man here could still be lifted by the nooks of joy scattered about, while an uninspired kid could find something to believe. The noisy speed traffic of Bayview stays behind the walls of this kingdom, for I could hear the slow breaths of Mal Larson as we walked deeper. These bright green trees bid me hello in the wind, and the pink and yellow flowers in front of every squat stone building danced by the whim of the same breeze. Students of the campus passed by us, their minds too immersed in study to afford us any acknowledgement. Some small groups we encountered were even speaking French. We came upon several different pathways and I wished there was time to take them all. The light from the sky shone colourfully upon a still pool of water and I wanted the sun never to go down. Still as I write this now I am boggled that such an Elysium could exist within this bustling ever-growing city, and how I never knew about it.
    Mal and I found a bench with an excellent view of a tree filled valley. He took the chance to ignite a cigarette while I just watched the distance.

    'Whaddya think, Steck?' Mal asked, exhaling smoke.
    'Can we come back here tomorrow?' I replied with a smile.

    ***

    On Friday I had the fortune of meeting the forever infamous, never suspicious, Marcos Slickon, or "Mark Slick" as he's often called. He is a character previously mentioned in every social circle window I've ever peered through but had never encountered in the flesh or the word. As it happened we were both in class, vaguely listening to one of Calsuco's lectures when Marcos dropped his pen. By whim of the universe, the pen rolled to me and I grabbed it up. It was a particularly sleek pen, and by the sleepy slouching of his shoulders I could tell Marcos had not noticed it was gone. I decided to give it back after class, and despite his haste to pack away his books and papers in some hurry I caught him at the doorway before the hallway hustle.

    'Hey, think this is yours'
   
    At first he looked at me as though I were a mosquito daring to disturb him. It was certainly intimidating, as Marcos fits into a bruiser image seamlessly: broad shoulders, a thin gold chain around his neck, short sharp hair, and piercing blue eyes to look an enemy or friend directly in the heart. Once he noticed his pen, outstretched in my hand, his attitude adjusted instantly.

    'Yo thanks! I was wondering where that went.'

    By his over-confidence I could tell he never knew it was missing.
   
    'So I guess you find Calsuco pretty boring, huh?' I asked casually.
    'Ugh, man! He just goes on and on, here's what I know and listen to me because I know, right? I mean he's a big buyer and all, if you catch me, but man I just don't get what he's sayin' most of the time...'
    'Yeah, yeah. I don't get him either.' said I simply.
    'For sure, for sure. He's always like: "Oooooo-kay, guys. I'm just going to taaaalk about sommmething raaaaaandom for, twenty minutes nowwwwww.'

    His impression was flawless. I chuckled easily.
   
    'Yo, you don't know the tall girl with the torpedos stickin' out all nice...?'
    'Lindsay Chambly?'
    'Damn boy, yeah! Mmmmm! Tell ya what I'd do with those but, huh, there's my girlfriend comin' down the hall. Hey, you ever need a little something something, whatever it is, you come find me hey hey? Thanks for finding my pen!'

    He jogged down the hall into the welcome of a dark haired, stern looking girl who crossed her arms as soon as he was within range. I observed this encounter between them without seeming obvious, and I pondered if this dynamic was normal in all relationships. Is there natural happiness in such complacency and obligation, or does it have to be battled for? Suddenly I felt relieved at being unaccounted for, as it seemed safer, easier. For a long time I'm sure though, I'll remember the way Mark Slick's eyes went all wide, like a toddler released into a playground, by the mention of Lindsay Chambly.
   
   

    (vii) -- The Ride and The Slick