Hidden Wheel. Michael T. Fournier
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so I took the back way. Nothing wrong with those places. You know some—
Hey.
What?
This is, you know, for a book.
Sorry. What was I talking about?
The back way. With the, you know, shopping cart.
Oh yeah. Sorry. Bernie knew some of those guys. You can edit this, right?
Right.
Bernie knew some of those guys before he started catalogues especially Amy she’s been at that place for years even speaks it a little and the ladies I hear the ladies are fucking dirty two three guys at a time you name it. Crazy dirty. Damn. The blacktop was all chewed up impossible no one ever even bikes down there it wasn’t bad at first pushing my shopping cart those people know how to party man just got done with their shifts almost two in the morning right they’re all yelling playing music ba ba ba ba ba hey! I tried push down the road fucking wheel pothole the wood like a sail for assholes I hear laughing they start yelling stuff I don’t know what they’re saying thing is I don’t need to the words I know they’re calling me a fuckhead or something seriously if I had gone maybe one street behind the pavement would be the same but at least there wouldn’t be porches full of fucking Brazilians on both sides just done with their restaurant shift laughing yelling there’s warehouse on the street behind on one side it wouldn’t be like stereo insults but I don’t care I don’t care I smile it’s dark they can’t see me anyway probably just a silhouette through the fog I wave instead like if I had a hat I’d take it off tip it for them they all laugh some more the shopping cart keeps bucking to the left plywood I hear clapping laughing the music ba ba ba ba ba hey! They’re okay.
* * *
Lynch asked Ben if he wanted to come along. That was how it started. Mostly because it sounded so unbelievable. He could’ve changed his name, if it bothered him, but it didn’t. Not exactly. Getting things done was easier, but only among the gladhanders and turkeynecks in his father’s circle. Regular people had no idea.
Artists had no idea.
Ben’s gym bag, in the trunk, held five thousand dollars.
So they drove in shifts, that first time, slept, and drove some more. It was exactly as Lynch described it: a small line of cars at nine o’clock sharp. Each stopped at a black pickup truck blocking the road. A man in an USF cap stuck his head through the open window.
Open your trunk. Open your glove compartment. Get out of the car.
He recognizes me, Lynch said.
How can you tell?
He didn’t point the rifle at me.
Lynch popped the trunk. They both stepped out. Two frowning men with rifles standing next to the pickup walked over as USF man patted them down. Ben’s heart raced. Lynch had told him over and over again about it, how technically it was sovereign, the cops were paid off, vacuum sealed, the scent and warmth to calm you, completely safe. He smelled rifle oil as sweat trickled down his back.
Fine.
Get back in.
They did. Ben watched one of the riflemen deposit the gym bag in the pickup’s cab. The other lifted a large box from the payload and walked, passenger side, to the rear of Lynch’s car. The open trunk obscured Ben’s vision. He heard a thump and felt the car bounce. Then a slam, and rearview vision returned.
The USF man held a white bag through the window. Ben took it. It was warm to his touch.
Go.
Lynch turned and drove away. The smell of fresh bread filled the car as Ben closed his window. Lynch had been right; it was calming. So much so that he almost forgot about the box in the trunk.
In the years since, the three maintained the same brisk tone, though Ben never again saw their rifles up close.
The boxes varied: IKEA, Target, Bed Bath And Beyond. Scentless, vacuum-sealed, maybe three times a year. Never quantity. Just enough to make connections. The perfect entrance to a new town.
* * *
It had been nine days.
I stood in front of the door with the passcode email printed on a sheet of computer paper. The email instructed me to punch five digits into the doorknob keypad, followed by the pound sign. So I did. I heard a click, and turned the knob.
Drab linoleum on the floor, scuffed, a fire extinguisher bolted to one wall. A brushed steel tank against one wall, plastered with ‘hazardous’ stickers.
I followed the hallway at the end of the room down to a small ledge in front of a sliding window. I whacked the ‘ding for service’ bell sitting on the ledge.
A woman rolled into view.
She pulled down her blue mask—she was Chinese, I think, maybe Korean—and asked if she could help me. I told her my name and appointment time. I was four minutes early.
She handed me a clipboard and pen.
There’s a reception area down the hall, she said. Return this to me when you’re finished.
I walked nine steps past the window, further down the hall. The reception area had a few chairs around a table roughly the size of a Frisbee, littered with sports and men’s lifestyle magazines. A plant that felt fake to my touch2 rested on a square table in the corner. The plant was surrounded with brochures. Good layout—whoever put it together had a nice eye for fonts and colors.
‘When you make it big,’ it read, ‘we make it big.’
The first four and a half questionnaire pages were simple. I answered with checkmarks. No, I was not taking any medication. No to alcohol. No recreational drug use. I didn’t think secondhand smoke from Amy counted. Yes, I attended a four-year college. No history of cancer in my family.
Then to the short answer section: life goals, aspirations.
I paused to consider my answer for ‘life goals.’ Making my living playing drums didn’t seem like it’d work. But it was what I wanted. And the best way to make such a living was to get a kit that didn’t rattle with every snare hit. Which is why I applied.
My life goal, I wrote, is to become a professional percussionist.
The Asian lady was sitting at the window when I return. I handed her the clipboard, questionnaire and pen through the window.
I felt uncomfortable as she scanned my answers. My hand started to shake.
She spun the clipboard towards me and pointed with a fat finger.
This one, she said. I looked down. She was pointing at the alcohol question.
Not even at parties?
I shook my head. Not even at parties, I repeated.
She scanned the rest of my answers. You don’t look like a drummer, she said.
I was wearing one of my pairs of grey workpants, and a white t-shirt I ironed the night before.
Maybe not, I said.
She put the clipboard into a standing file.
Okay. We’ll call you. Probably two weeks.
Don’t I have to—
She laughed. Maybe next time.
* * *
When I saw him pass the window I wanted it right away. I slammed my laptop shut ran outside followed him down State to make sure if he went down to the river it was all mine I thought of showing up at parties everyone looking at me being like whoah Max! but there was chance this guy already got it it was his if he’s not going to the river so I had to find out. I wanted him to walk through the intersection of State and Webster then cross Riverside to the pedestrian path