We could build cell on cell/Mainline him straight to hell/But that would not dispel violent men, hardheaded women/Unloved Children
Act 2 takes place here (Wolvertons): long torn down
I had to think fast. No way to change the future, I was an inmate. Must smile, be the best actor anyone ever saw. A few days of riding around on the bike, quietly saying goodbye, then crying myself to sleep hardened my reserve. Looking back, I realize I was already changing drastically.
Fortunately, I had a few days to force myself into my role as an actor. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of being effusive, but when spoken to, I would smile like the good boy I was.
Come Saturday, he was ready with his sadistic grin. “help me wheel that bike into the station wagon.”
I knew that was just another way to abuse–I was buying into his sick plans. I wasn’t quite ready for it, but I recovered fast.
5 minutes to the bike shop. Mr. Big shot. He goes to the first clerk he sees. “Let me see the most expensive boy’s bike you have.” (Note the pronoun ‘me’, not ‘us’)
The owner shows me a 5-speed that has a small front wheel, like Peter Fonda’s wheels in Easy Rider. It is called the ‘Crate,’
Mr Big Shot is exuberant, talking loud. “Perfect! We’ll take it!”
The owner asks me what my favorite color is. I say Blue.
I feel his eyes, murderous behind me. “Sorry, it only comes in Red, Yellow or Orange.”
I choose the ‘Apple Crate.’
The old man goes out to wheel in my most precious possession to see how many dollars he can save.
Someone at the counter is writing up the order, taking his money. The owner stands next to me. He starts to say something, probably to congratulate me. I have tears in the corners of my eyes.
I can’t even look at him, only seeing my favorite thing for the last time. “My grandma gave me that,” I mutter. “She LOVED me.”
The owner is speechless, all of a sudden he gets it. Sad Boy, dead Grandmother, weird man with a smile and hatred in his eyes.
He walks over to my bike, pulls off the streamers before they can take it away. Quietly, he whispers, “These belong to you, I think.”
Just what I needed to snap out of it. Dry the eyes, put on the happy face, stuff the streamers in my pocket. Feel my anger burn.
It also occurred to me what deep irony felt like–I was getting a bike that thousands of kids would die for, and all I wanted was to throw it on the railroad tracks behind the bike shop.
“Guess what? The guy at the counter think they know some poor little boy who will really appreciate your bike!”
I didn’t respond. He was dead to me.