The excerpt below is from a book I never published, titled How the Gods Shook or A Season Underneath.
“What’s the story?” I asked.
“Morning glory!” he said. “My battery is getting worse and worse. We should move to a quieter place. What’s with the cap?”
“I’m not allowed to wear one?”
Pedaling slowly, he led me over to a corner of the building populated with people hushed by their cigarettes. “Well, you’re allowed I guess,” he said, “but you never do. Bad hair day?”
“More or less.”
“You look like one of those sorority chicks the morning after. You’re just missing the baggy college sweater and the sense of shame, although you do look a bit tired.”
“Tactful. What’s going on?”
“What’s the tale, nightingale? That’s the next line, right?”
“Yes, the next line. I’m talking about the job.”
He summoned a granola bar from somewhere on his messenger bag and unwrapped it. “Want half?”
“Gosh. No.”
He shoved the enormity of the bar into his mouth.
“Did you talk to your boss?” I suppressed the growing urge to throttle him.
His chipmunked face lit up. “Yeah! I just found out before my last run.” It was agony watching him articulate. “I didn’t have time to let you know. You can start whenever you can.”
My heart skipped a beat at the news. “Thanks for doing this for us.”
“No need to thank me. Thank our dispatcher. He kind of left it up to me to find someone. He trusts me for some reason. How ’bout that?”
He had just finished his sentence when a low-statured man in a spotless suit and a cell glued to his ear knocked straight into him with his shoulder. Marcus’ limbs, flummoxed, splayed about while he coughed to control granola that had gone down prematurely. I reached out to steady him by grabbing the top tube of his bike. I managed a firm grip but his instability tilted the bike enough to bring it toppling onto its side, bringing me fully down on top.