The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ old helmets here. I search them out of the garage. Dad’s watching me.

      ‘How about it, Dad? How about a slow ride on my motorcycle down to the ocean; it’s a fine afternoon; let’s go watch the sunset.’

      He stares at the bike.

      ‘I don’t know about that; it looks scary to me.’

      ‘If you get scared, we won’t go. Let’s try it around the block here one time to see how you like it.’

      I help strap the extra helmet on him. I don’t know why he looks so out of it, not like a motorcycle rider, more like Charles Lindbergh in one of those old leather aviation hats. Also, the helmet makes his head lean forward as if it’s too heavy for his neck.

      I straddle the bike and kick down the foot pegs. I show him how to get on. I tell him to put his arms around me and hold tight.

      ‘Is that the only way I can hold on?’

      ‘It’s the best way, Dad. I want you to lean when I lean, as if we’re one person.’

      He grabs hold; I kick the starter, put her in first gear gently. We ease out the driveway and cruise very slowly up and down some of these short dead-end streets. I never get out of second gear. We roll back to the house and stop.

      ‘Well, Dad, how was that?’

      ‘It’s no worse than riding a bicycle. I haven’t been on anything with two wheels since I was a kid.’

      ‘You ready to take a chance going down to Venice? I’ll take back streets and we won’t hit any traffic.’

      ‘It’s OK with me, Johnny, but, boy, I hate to think what your mother would say if we have an accident.’

      He giggles and straightens his helmet.

      ‘There she’d be in the hospital and we’d both be dead.’

      ‘Don’t worry, Dad, we’re not going to get killed. I’ve been driving motorcycles for twenty years. We’re safer than in a car.’

      He starts climbing back onto the bike. I hook my helmet strap.

      ‘The trouble is, Dad, most people who drive motorcyles are maniacs. If those same people drive cars, they’ll have car accidents.’

      I kick but it doesn’t turn over. I give her a little choke.

      ‘What kills you in a car is the steering wheel, the windshield and a face full of dashboard; the car stops and people keep going. On a motorcycle, there’s nothing to run into; you go flying through the air and slow down some before you hit.’

      I hear what I’m saying and decide to shut up. It’s not exactly encouraging. Dad grabs hold and giggles again.

      ‘John, you could sell holy cards to the devil.’

      He tilts his head back and laughs; he doesn’t put his hand over his mouth; he can’t, he’s holding on for dear life.

      We start slowly along Palms. It’s a beautiful afternoon and the sun is low in front of us. There are gentle hills along here, almost like a children’s roller coaster. We lift up one side and lower on the other. We go along the Palms golf course and across Lincoln. I roll down Rose Avenue and park on the boardwalk.

      We walk out toward the ocean; there are some good-sized breakers; spray is flying up, refracting the sun. There’s a bicycle path built along the edge of the sand; it’s well designed in easy, twisting curves.

      We tuck our helmets under our arms like a couple of beached knights. There are people coming in from the water; kids are sitting in the and playing bongos and a drunk is trying to dance with the music. It’s mellow and I hope Dad’s relaxing and not fighting it all too much.

      We stop and listen to the music. There are a few guitars with the bongos. It’s like the tropics; hard to believe Lincoln Boulevard is only eight short blocks inland, crowded with cars, light industry and thousands of signs screaming for attention. Dad turns toward me.

      ‘You know, Johnny, I’ve missed my calling. I think I could be a hippy.’

      We stroll along the boardwalk. It’s peculiar they call it a boardwalk, because it’s cement and isn’t up on piers. It’s only a street without cars next to the sand. It might’ve been boards once or it could be a cross-country carry-over from the boardwalks on the Atlantic shore. Or maybe I’m the only one who calls it a boardwalk.

      We come on a place called The Fruits and Nuts. A young couple, Tony and Shelly, run it. They take all the time in the world with us. They’re interested in Mom and suggest herbs to strengthen her heart. They offer big glasses of carrot juice squeezed from fresh carrots. They make it with a blender and it’s sweet, not like Mother’s pot liquors. Dad’s peeking at me from the corner of his eye, drinking carrot juice and smiling away. Tony has a beard with long hair pulled back in a ponytail. This is a surefire hippy, the enemy.

      He tells Dad how he has herbs to help with blood pressure. I want to buy these for myself; I’ll try anything! But Tony gives them to me. I’m feeling so guilty I buy some apples and bananas; Tony assures us they’re fresh and tasty. He quarters an apple with a penknife so the four of us can share around.

      It’s hard to get away. We walk along munching our apple. Dad can make more noise crunching into an apple than anybody in the world; he makes an apple sound like the most delicious food ever invented.

      ‘Goodness, John, those people are nice; do you know them?’

      ‘Nope. I don’t know how they stay in business either; they give everything away.’

      Dad takes a bite into another apple from the bag.

      ‘Maybe they’re rich. Maybe they only have this store for fun.’

      ‘Yeah, that could be it.’

      ‘But they don’t look rich.’

      We put on our helmets, climb on the bike and roll slowly back to the house. The sunset is still redding the sky behind us. It’s one of those balmy evenings you get sometimes in California, when the coastal fog holds off till dark.

      We’re just inside the house, and the phone rings. It’s Marty. She and Gary want to phone Vron and tell her the news. They want me with them. I say they should come over here, we’ve got an extension phone.

      They arrive as we finish eating. Marty’s eyes are bright with excitement. We direct-dial and get straight through. Marty starts crying soon as she gets the words out of her mouth. I’m on the extension in the bedroom. It’s so good hearing Vron’s voice. She could be crying, too; I am. We spend ten dollars crying at each other over six thousand miles by satellite. When we hang up and I come back in the living room, Dad’s pulled off his glasses and is wiping his eyes. He looks up at me.

      ‘What’re we crying about, Johnny?’

      That cracks us up and we’re practically dancing with excitement. We drink some wine together before they go home.

      Dad turns on the TV. I’d asked Marty to bring me a book. I try reading it, but every time I СКАЧАТЬ