Chapter 16. A Dream
Kevin went to his factory temp-job as usual. Pissed off and sticky, he complained to the woman next to him about not having enough time to himself.
“I’ve been doing this for twenty years,” she said twisting lids with both hands never catching a drip. “This is time to myself.”
By the end of the day he had filled three thousand jars of Chocolate, Butterscotch and Strawberry syrup to exactly sixteen ounces each.
He waited in line to punch out — the fifth fourteen-hour day in a row. “Even ten hours would be nice,” he thought to himself.
His boss — a low-life scum, according to Kevin — who only knew the words: “We’ll see,” came out of his office to greet the workers. “Good day today, crew. Tomorrow will be the same so get some rest, luv ya.” He kissed his hand in a gesture that read as “Kiss my ass.”
Then the boss noticed Kevin’s head down, and him inching toward the time clock. Kevin wasn’t exhausted, only discouraged, dissatisfied.
“Kevin, could you come into my office,” he said and turned to the door. He spun around again just before entering, “Uh, after you punch out.”
Kevin went in the office wondering what it was this time. “Fuck it, this is my chance,” he thought. “I’ll stick that mother fucker right in the balls this time. Six dollars an hour and fourteen fucking hours a day. I’m going to take this job, roll it up in honeyed tin foil and ram it through his butthole till it comes poking out his esophagus. Then I’ll cut it into small triangles and shove it back in “Here comes the airplane” style so hard that both of my feet on his cheeks won’t be enough leverage to pull the fork out of his inner neck.”
“Kevin,” his boss started, “I’m sorry about last week’s check. It should be ready tomorrow. We tried to rush it through after you, uh, pointed out the mistake. I’m, we’re, sorry for the inconvenience but, well, it happens. This week we should have both checks for you on Thursday. Won’t that be nice? A big old double checky.” Kevin couldn’t take his eyes from the maroon carpet under his fudge smudged shoes. “Did you hear me?” He heard what sloppy dick was saying. “Is there something wrong? Are you ok?”
“No, ay, I - I’m just tired. Yeah, that double checkeroo won’t be bad. I need the money more this week anyway.”
“Well,” bossman said, “I wouldn’t go putting down payments on any car dealer’s ego, if you know what I mean. Of course we may not be able to give it to you all at once. We’re going to try, don’t get me wrong, that’s goal number one. But if for some reason we can’t we may have to break it up over the next several checks. But even then they’ll seem like you worked more than you did. Extra money every week, you can’t beat it. Sometimes making a mistake works to your benefit. Come to think of it, you might get some time off. We may keep you from working overtime hours so you can make up for the money lost. You could have some free nights ahead of you from this mistake. But we haven’t figured out how we want to handle it. But either way you come out a winner.” He put both of his empty hands out.
The phone rang and bossman picked it up, “Thanks kid, we’ll clear this up in no time. Get some sleep.” He shoed Kevin out of his office and began talking into the receiver.
Kevin drove home feeling good about his job. “Yeah, I missed out on two weeks’ pay of fifteen-hour days, but one check for four weeks will be massive. And even if I don’t get that I’ll get semi-larger checks for the next few weeks. That’d be nice. Or even if I didn’t have to work those overtime hours and didn’t get the money but got the time, that’d be nice, too. No one HAD to work overtime hours. For the next few weeks I just won’t work them until I make back the equivalent in time. Bossman was right. That would be nice for a change.”
Kevin’s spirits were lighter. He thought of things he could buy with the extra money or how he could spend his time off: Either in the park or just sleeping or maybe watching TV or renting videos.
The next day he punched in to work, ready and as waterproof as a trained seal.
“Remember, yesterday, how I wished I had more time to myself,” he said to the same woman.
“Umph,” she replied.
“Well, I think it may happen. My wish may come true.” He bent his head around to peer into her face and catch the expression. He overflowed with so much excitement and anxiety that he missed one jar. She tried to catch it but two arms on two people were necessary for this job. Chocolate syrup poured directly over the conveyor belt. It slipped underneath into the gears. After slowing down gradually the belt came to a humming stop. Chocolate spilled onto his shoes and filled the factory floor. It slowly crept up his legs. All the workers were paralyzed in an absurd swimmer’s glee.
It was up to Kevin’s rib-cage when the woman said, “You’re crazy kid, what do you want time off for anyway?” She peered at him over the chocolate that her Adam’s Apple jumped above as if gasping for breath.
Kevin tilted his head and licked a bit of the chocolate.
“To watch TV.”
He was sweating. “A pilot,” he said and rubbed his eyes with his fists. The window behind his head framed the open sky. An airplane Kevin didn’t see sliced the square into two blue triangles.
Kevin woke up four years later as an adolescent, eighteen years old, in a new home, with the heart wrenching desire to become a pilot.
Chapter 17. A Move
Sarah sat in her kitchen watching the chicken burn rather than the TV. The phone rang. Her sister was dead.
Finally. The phone rang several more times. She had grown accustomed to the calls: A reporter from the Times, agents for TV advertising companies, and Big Spanglehoff, the national TV talk show host: “It’s Big Sarah. It’s really Big,” the message began. Without saying a word she turned the volume down on her answering machine. She screened all of her calls. Margaret Thatchery from the hospital had tried several times to get an answer from Sarah’s house. Being unsuccessful, she decided, even though it was cold, to leave a message was better than to have Sarah find out the news second hand. Sarah listened as it came.
Then she called the train station for two tickets. The real estate agent she’d been in communication with for several years was ready. But it wasn’t she that was moving. It was Kevin. He wasn’t prepared for this. She was.
She found him in his bed sleeping. He had come back from fishing an hour ago. His body shook slightly but not because she had entered the room. He was dreaming. Sarah filled a suitcase for him with clothes, books and other items. She knew what to get and where to find it. Then, in the night, in his sleep, she moved him out of his hometown.
For a short time, after the custody decisions had been made, Kevin stayed with Sarah FoldEconomy. Sarah would have preferred to put him up in a boarding house but she realized that there anyone could have access to him. In her house, she could protect him. She managed to keep her life private from his. She locked her room every day and only allowed him in the kitchen, bathroom and his bedroom. He could never have friends over. Although “friends” is hardly the appropriate word: most people either picked on him or pretended to like him in order to get information no one else could get, like, for example, if Sarah FoldEconomy indeed had an inverted crucifix burned onto her left breast.
When he woke up in his new apartment with pilot ambitions, he behaved as if he’d been living there for four years. His sleep erased all recognition of the move. He was now eighteen years old, Miss Pumpernickel Bread had just died and Sarah FoldEconomy was nowhere to be found. Since his independence was certain, his home became familiar.
Sarah moved him covertly because she wanted to separate him from his friends and the community who were, she believed, stunting his growth. She had been planning the move for the day Miss Pumpernickel Bread’s body died because she knew the media would be, one, preoccupied but, two, ready to devour Kevin. She was less trying to covet his great expectations for herself than trying to prevent other people from determining them for him.
Since Sarah became Kevin’s surrogate guardian, she had decided to protect him from the media. She successfully managed doing the same for herself so the work was not out of her line.
Along with never speaking to callers inquiring about interviews, guest appearances or even afternoon tea, she never let anyone into her house to take photographs, visit, or repair things — she either fixed things herself, left them broken or bought new ones. It may have been easier if she had removed herself physically from the community but, instead, she stayed. People knew her and which house was hers, but about her they only knew from gossip. When everyone realized that Sarah had removed herself socially from the community and preferred it that way, they stopped calling and trying to speak to her. They respected her like a famed widow.
Kevin’s sudden disappearance created an effect that Sarah couldn’t have helped. It created mystery that made people crave him even more. His disappearance united the community. Fund Raisers were organized to collect money to search for him. Teams of university professors and interns were funded to “Find the Little Boy,” — as the FLB campaign slogan went. No one knew how to find him, so they spent years in libraries and in print writing different theories about where he was and what he would become. Additional money that was raised was distributed to, usually, new businesses patronizing the spirit of Miss Pumpernickel Bread. Even though people were sent on expeditions to find Kevin, for the present it was to the community’s advantage that he not be found. The search satisfied them financially and socially.
Sarah was accused of hiding him, but no one investigated. It made for an intriguing story. Sarah was also criticized for the way she failed to keep his best interests in mind. Individuals and organizations always offered to help Kevin financially (with donations or fee waivers), but Sarah wouldn’t allow it. She didn’t want him to have debts. She regarded their generosity as buying stock in his “Great Expectations,” so she worked harder to provide for him.
That’s all she did. When she and her sister had talked about Miss Pumpernickel Bread’s pupils, Sarah always said she would breed heralds for the future. Now with the opportunity before her, she backed away. Her present activities were all she could concentrate on.
She spent most of her time setting up a data base on a computer she was just getting familiar with. Her current project was devising a system that would prompt companies to deliver merchandise to random addresses — merchandise paid for by credit card numbers she had acquired. She would show up on the delivery day and pick up the package from the doorstep after the truck drove away. Occasionally, she would meet the delivery person at the bottom of the driveway and claim the package. She rarely had to sign for something but, in case she needed to, she had accessed the credit card owner’s signature from their signature card on a bank computer. She always had six to eight weeks to master the handwriting. Once in a while the owner of the house would come out before Sarah had an opportunity to intercept the delivery. In this respect, her system wasn’t up to snuff. Her next trick would be to find the home owner’s work schedule.
Instead of taking Kevin on as an apprentice she hid these activities from him. In the end it was easier to move Kevin away than keep her business under lock and key.
At first she planned to meet him every two weeks to guide him. Since she was the only one who knew who and where he was, she would have the most influential power. But soon after she moved him she forgot. Her computer took over her life. She set up a bank account for him that her computer would directly deposit into. She never had to meet him to give him money. Much later she stopped sending payments when she discovered another bank depositing money into his account — his employer’s. She left him to his own devices but occasionally monitored him by computer. He also forgot to expect to hear from her.
Sarah had furnished his apartment with everything including a TV, VCR, and DVD player. She thought these could entertain him as well as keep him away from talking to other people. Sarah trusted the influence of the television more than that of other people who might want to coerce him into providing for them somehow. This was one of her oversights.
For Kevin the move had advantages as well. Besides the curious attention, he was also getting negative attention in his hometown. His classmates picked on him, adults in the community felt threatened by what he might become. That he drank urine became the specimen of ridicule, but, really, everyone envied him. If they had been given the opportunity, they would have done the same. Since they hadn’t, they tried to diminish its value.
So with the acceptance of the move and the awareness of the social mockery and curiosity, Kevin set out to create himself anew. He decided on his own to keep his previous identity a secret. He wasn’t in for a tune-up but an overhaul. First he would have to destroy all that had made him who he was. This would start with Miss Pumpernickel Bread.
He sat on his bed thumbing through the pages of the scrapbook of Miss Pumpernickel Bread he’d collected over the years. Everything he saw he would now do the exact opposite of. The book was his reference for contradiction. “In order to build, one must destroy” he thought. The book would remain in tact, but his personality and identity would grossly transform.
But separating Miss Pumpernickel Bread from Kevin was as difficult for Kevin as it was for other people. Kevin had never known what was his own. Miss Pumpernickel Bread became a piece of his life at a young age.
The scrapbook contained photographs, quotations and biographical newspaper articles. This provided his concrete memory of her. Otherwise, he knew her well as a concept. He had the same expectations for himself as other people had and wondered when they would come to fruition. But his new freedom led him to destroy those very expectations. He wanted to be the polar opposite of Miss Pumpernickel Bread.
So he opened the scrapbook to a photograph of Miss Pumpernickel Bread sitting at the picnic table behind her house staring away from the lens. Kevin thought this exemplified her obliviousness. She never understood her own ideas and feelings. She was impulsive and couldn’t stop herself from self destruction. Her death was proof of that. So Kevin would now stare directly into the lens.
He set up his camera on top of the television and pressed the shutter with a ruler. He stared hard into the lens imagining he could see images of his new identity inside the camera body. (Later when he developed the film, he found his eyes looking down. Apparently he hadn’t turned off the video he was watching which stole his vision).
The next photograph was of Miss Pumpernickel Bread playing Frisbee with a boy Kevin didn’t recognize. The boy was in mid air trying a between-the-legs catch, but the Frisbee floated just below his hand. This was a photograph of failure. Kevin had pasted a quote from the public records office that was randomly printed in the newspaper below the picture. It read, “If you help people only a foot closer to their goal of a yard, they fail farther from the point they felt safe at.” This had been provided by a high school guidance counselor, apparently Miss Pumpernickel Bread said it at an open house. Kevin interpreted this as, “If you don’t intend to go all the way, don’t bother starting.” So he chose to contradict it by not starting. He would only help himself, and if anyone got in his way he would plow them over. He would consciously not help people, when Miss Pumpernickel Bread unconsciously helped everyone.
He didn’t have time to waste on other people. His life was now his own. He was the designer, architect, construction company and resident. He was too busy working for himself to have time to help or even sympathize for other people. If they couldn’t help themselves, he considered them pathetic and weak.
Next he found a birthday card she had sent. It said only, “Happy Birthday, Love Miss Pumpernickel Bread.” The image on the card showed two chicks and a rabbit hopping through a golden field. Kevin felt the torment of having a spring birthday. He hated his age and hoped to forget it. “What a miserable day,” he thought. That night he would have chicken or rabbit stew if he could find it.
A few pages further, Kevin reread the excerpt, “On Religion,” from Tales in The Life and Opinions of Miss Pumpernickel Bread. “On Religion indeed,” Kevin thought, having disregarded the footnote. “What a foolish woman.” His new image was so omniscient he felt there must be a god — a larger being creating Kevin into a god.
Regardless of his present state, he respected Miss Pumpernickel Bread wholly. He knew it would be impossible to detach himself from her — after all, they were biologically connected.
It wasn’t her so much that he was rejecting but her legacy. In his hometown, random people who knew him remarked, “He’s got her eyes,” or, “Did you see that, he’s just like his mother.” At block parties he couldn’t have a water balloon fight without being criticized for throwing like a girl — meaning Miss Pumpernickel Bread. The question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” tormented him. The querent always had more answers than he did. His teachers had mapped out his life for him, talent agents had constructed his future twenty years ahead of him. He was too young to accept their offers. And Sarah kept people at a distance by threatening them with child exploitation suits. At the time, Kevin didn’t care.
Now he cared. But he wouldn’t accept those offers. He liked his life in hiding. He also liked being freed from the, “witch that trapped me in her dungeon.” Now it was his turn to, “Be all that you can be.” He took this inspirational line literally from the television and that’s where I return you to our story. I send you to an image of Kevin racing full throttle into the welcoming arms of a recruiting officer who could offer him the Air Force ladder to the success he so desires.
I have consolidated these ideas in order to give the reader help in understanding the subtext floating alongside the more descriptive portions of the book. Kevin’s future, past and present, can be examined like weather conditions. They can be hypothesized at a concrete base grounded by gravity. From there they eject into space seeking verification. Then they descend again having found it or not, only to be re-hypothesized and sent up again.
I am a trampoline. You are a curious jumper.
Chapter 18. Recruit
That evening, Kevin walked to the eighteen-hour magazine stand and bought the latest issue of Jet Fighter: “Tom Gun Top Cruise” on the front cover. He sought help and knew where to get it. He held the magazine out in front of him to see it from a distance. He squinted — yes, he could see himself. From now on he would call the shots and operate his own aircraft. He would nurture his Top Gun kindred spirit — take “No” from nobody, fall in love and maintain a strong sense of patriotism. He bowed to the icon before him and said, “Sensei,” like he had seen in martial arts action movies.
His guidebook sent him fifty thousand feet above sea level. If he wanted to crash, he could. If he miscalculated one move, he’d smash into a million bits. He would, he could, take out any building of his choosing. He could free hostages, blow the fuck out of assholes — political assholes who should have died a long time ago. If he had the gun he’d know how to handle them. “There’s no discussing with the Ayatollah Khomenis, Noriegas, Saddam Hussiens. We’ve been too nice to them.”
That week Kevin maxed out his seven citywide video rental cards — forty-two movies in all. He alphabetized the tapes according to actor or character, whichever was most memorable to him: Bond, James; Bronson, Charles; Cruise, Tom; Dundee, Crocodile; Eastwood, Clint; Gibson, Mel; Jones, Indiana; Lee, Bruce; Norris, Chuck; Reagan, Ronald; Schwarzenegger, Arnold; Stallone, Sylvester; Wayne, John; Willis, Bruce. But he watched them at random, disregarding chronology and generation. Action was his theme, and charisma was his game. Each hero handled the same situation differently.
Empty tape cases and their miscellaneous matches surrounded his television and VCR. Throughout the days and hours of viewing, he opened and closed his hide-a-bed alone in his self-sufficient room. His home entertainment system included a twenty-six-inch TV, two VCRs — one for dubbing — a Nintendo system and a full stereo rack with a five-CD changer. Sarah had gotten all of this for him to keep him inside. They became the parents he never had. Everything was within reach from his bed by way of a remote control. This tool could do everything except send his urine to the porcelain toilet in the bathroom across the room. A small soda-stocked refrigerator waited to the right of his bed. The walls were void of decorations.
From Rambo 1 to Die Hard 2, Robocop to Rocky 4, The Good the Bad and the Ugly to The Temple of Doom to Diamonds are Forever; Death Wish 2 to Terminator 1, he leapt time zones and countries. Eyes blurry but vigorously waking to action, he watched as if each movie were one more second in the final countdown to the New Year. He criticized his heroes when they failed or if he doubted the credibility of a stunt. He knew Hollywood from real life. Rather than learning tricks he was incapable of, he fed off the raw energy.
By the time the last victory song played Kevin was so pumped with secondhand adrenaline that he wanted to become the cross-cultural super-man, the pour-a-drink-of-my-villain’s-liquor-after-I’ve-run-him-aground cowboy, the nicest tough guy, and the ‘Don’t mention it,’ ‘Who was that guy?’ humble Lone Ranger.
But, “I’ll be known through word-of-mouth alone.” He thought. “The do-good ghost.”
Otherwise, he would become like the victims: “Just a normal slug to be taken advantage of. The only way to survive is to take life into your own hands, vacation when you can, but always protect. Be skeptical of the other guy, friendly, but never trusting. People turn on you. No one fights for you. Nourish Tom Cruise in your breast, and everyone will love you.” This persona was not for fame or recognition, it was for survival — his own.
As he watched, he paused and rewound parts to record into his new scrapbook. He filled page after page with cocky statements and one-liner comebacks. He clipped pictures from the newspapers or magazines where he saw his forefathers. With his arsenal full and his book under his arm he never hesitated to use a line — in supermarkets and crowded train stations. If Little Miss Muffet were sitting on her tuffet in front of the vegetable chiller he’d say, “If you’re not gonna take that lettuce I’m gonna throttle on it, Queen Bee.”
As if he’d been told by destiny, God smiling down on him, he felt drawn to face everyone, every event, with his new character — not new at all, but hidden all his life. Only now it had been released, freed from the closet. (He preferred, “Ripped from his outer masking.” He wouldn’t be caught dead in the closet.)
He photocopied the video covers and constructed a shrine — candlelit and multi-tiered. The Magic-Markered Top Gun cover was the center piece. His mirror made up the back wall. The American flag hung on the opposite wall in its reflection. He put magazine action photos in plastic bags and hung them on the other walls. On his shelves he put his collection of dubbed video tapes with the copied covers face out. The scrapbook of Miss Pumpernickel Bread was buried somewhere behind these.
“Face me! Face me!” he said to his mirror. “I’m your worst nightmare.” His reflection smiled back in-the-know. He felt the lineage of his forefathers’ spirits pour into his being at that moment, just like Jim Morrison’s child body vacuumed the souls of the car-crash Indians. He was of them but wiser and more tactful. This was Darwin’s natural regeneration of the species.
First he bought sunglasses — windows to the brick wall of his identity. To round out his “Look somewhere else, Bub” image he bought a leather jacket, an Armani suit, a Honda and Marlboros. He shot pool on weekends and drank whisky. Every night, the way he talked to his mirror would have made Travis Bickle’s reflection cower.
“To keep a good image you have to maintain it like a car with monthly checkups.” He tipped his head down to look over the glasses. “It’s too late after it breaks.”
He poked his glasses up the bridge of his nose where they belonged and flung a scarf over his shoulder. The American flag on the wall behind Patton-framed him in the mirror. “My brother Tom,” he said and touched the corner of the icon as if it where a shoulder. Then he backed away and saluted.
With his personal copy of Days of Thunder rewound under his arm he locked his door and entered the world. He boarded his Kawasaki KZ1000 and rode off on an open stretch of road. The needle was pinned past one hundred and ten miles per hour for twenty-five miles. The clouds and breeze seemed to caress his very being and its inherent truth. He would ride to his high school to meet the Air Force recruiting officer. As he rode, he worked out the conversation they would have.
Kevin would call the recruiter “Sir.”
“Sir dick,” he would say, “Comparing you as a pilot to me is like comparing a penguin to an eagle. I am the true American eagle. I challenge you.”
The recruiter would say, “Oh, I like your style son, a bit cocky, but that’s the spirit we like. Where’d you get the idea you could fly?”
“Watching Top Gun and a little ESPN. Sir, you’d be surprised how much you can learn,” Kevin would answer.
“Ho, Ho, there are some things you can’t learn from watching Hollywood movies and TV, son. But I’ll whoop your ass a few times and you’ll learn fast.”
“I dare you to try, Sir dick,” Kevin would respond, his sunglasses resting on the tip of his nose.
“Ah yes, always the last word, too. Here boy, you’ve an admirable character, sign here.”
Kevin, having thought he said “Admiral” would correct him, “No sir, President,” and sign the document with an illegible scrawl.
Chapter 19. Motorcycle Accident
On that ride to the recruiter Kevin crashed his motorcycle. He fractured his right arm, shattered his kneecap and got a minor concussion. His helmet suffered a crack through the American flag bumper sticker on the back.
Dr. Avery who reset Kevin’s bones joked with the investigating police officer about Kevin’s ride.
“So you’ve broken a few things. Have you ever broken things before? When was the last time you broke something? Do you plan to break something in the future? What was the hurry? Didn’t you realize you can’t jump cars going the same speed and in the same direction? How’d you do this anyway? What kind of road hog are you?
“Ok, your turn, now you answer as many of those questions as possible, and we’ll see how that old memory chip is working.” Dr. Avery finally concluded.
Kevin licked his dry lips and began, “Well, I wasn’t trying to jump any cars. I only pulled up to a stoplight and tried to keep coasting because I knew that if I stopped, I . . . I’d have a hard time getting moving again. It’s a new bike, and I’m a new rider, and I’m still a little jerky with it.” He gestured with his open hand pushing air forward and then backward. The policeman took notes in a small marbleized memo pad. “So I had to stop because the light had just changed or I’d be in the middle of the intersection and cars had already started to cross the opposite direction and turn. So I tried to come to a complete stop. That’s when my bike fell on top of me. See, my legs don’t touch the ground when I stop because my bike is so big and gnarly.” He talked with his good hand but the elevated position of his arm and leg in casts restricted his dramatics. “So I picked a side to lean the bike to and my right is my best so I let it lean until my foot touched the ground but my center of gravity must have been off. The bike just came over on top of me. I hit my hand first when I stuck it out to brace my fall then it must have broke and my knee took the next hit then I guess I hit my head. It happened kind of fast, I don’t remember everything. That bike weighs about a zillion pounds. But it moves like an invisible fairy. As soon as I can handle it well enough I’m going to get my license. Has the recruiter from my school called yet? If he asks for me, tell him I’m busy, but we can set up an appointment later at the hospital. Make it seem like I’m a hard guy to get a hold of but it’s worth it when you finally do.”
Dr. Avery took notes and concluded his memory wasn’t damaged. He had ordered some pills from the prescription for Kevin to take for the pain. Within a few days he could go home and recover in his own bed. The motorcycle was impounded by the police until he was well enough to pick it up, show proper ownership papers and present them with a valid driver’s license and pay the impoundment fees.
Before the police officer left, he added a word of advice. He leaned into Kevin’s face, his sunglasses his most prominent feature. “Get some more meat on your bones before you try to ride a beast like that. I got me a Kawasaki KZ1000 at home. It’s my daughter’s.” Kevin looked over his police uniform: his sunglasses — dark shades with silver rims, white helmet, black motorcycle pants and pointed toe biker boots.
Kevin, of course, wanted to spit in his face and say, “Why don’t you lose that chicken in your stomach and saddle up on your own tricycle and drive yourself along the crux of Niagara Falls, licking your wounds with the salt water that stings your eyes and makes white chalk marks on your leather. SUCK THE ETERNAL RAINBOW, PAL!” It took Kevin a while to think of this but he thought, “He’s lucky he left before I let him have it.” Then he progressively entertained the idea of becoming a police officer.
Kevin’s sunglasses had been mangled in the accident when they fell off his eyes. As he scrambled to the ground, they scrambled into the spokes of his back wheel and as a last nervous twitch to try to prevent himself from falling, he hit the throttle to force the bike up but it only managed to grind him harder into the pavement and to send his sunglasses shooting through the open window of the truck waiting for the light next to him.
Kevin asked another officer what the make of the official sunglasses of the motorcycle patrol of the traffic cop division were and told him he would buy a pair at any cost. Within the week they were resting on the bridge of his nose. Kevin took advantage of the opportunity to jibe the nurses.
Lying on his stomach with his backless robe exposing his rear-end, he’d turn his head so the nurse could certainly see her own reflection and say, “Get some more meat on those bones before you try to take the temperature of a beast like me." |
