A Matter of Fact

The day ran away with him, and he dragged his heels, as always. He went to see Donald at the pharmacy, leaning on the counter until Donald kicked him out for scaring off customers with his foul mouth and his wheedling voice. He walked down to the park but when he found it empty he went up 3rd to see if Doc was at his post. Doc was there, sitting on the steps drinking a coffee and watching the afternoon traffic with listless concern. He sat down beside Doc and watched for awhile, too.
"You wanna go to a show, Doc?"
"Nope."
"O.K. I'm gonna go then."

As he crossed Main he checked the bins along the alley and found a hat someone had thrown out. There was nothing wrong with it except for a small grease stain on the band. He put it on his head. It was a pretty good fit and it was free so he decided to keep it. He watched himself as a reflection in the window of the Sears outlet and thought he looked good in a hat. He slowed down his stride and leaned back a little, put his hands into his pockets and let the hat do the walking. He chose to ignore the curious looks from the people he passed.

When he turned the corner at Watson's he saw the bikes, jammed into the stand all in a row and got an idea. With a glance over his shoulder he walked along pulling back on the seats until one, about half way down, came loose and he swung it around and hopped onto the seat. He pedalled furiously for about two blocks to make sure no one had seen him and then he settled back and began to enjoy the ride. It was a girl's bike but it was better than the feet. He rode back up 3rd and waved at Doc as passed, but Doc didn't wave back. He didn't care; he was free and easy now. The best thing about riding a bike, apart from not having to walk everywhere was finding a good hill and riding down it at full speed. It was a matter of fact. He took the bike up Rivington, but had to stop halfway and walk it up the rest.

From the top of Rivington you could see most of the Eastern Sidings and out over the lake. The markets that crowded the lower end were full of people shopping for dinner and talking in the street. The criss-crossing wires of the telephone and the electricity, made the Sidings look like a paint-by-number he did once at the home. He smoked a cigarette, leaning on the bike, his hat set back so the smoke didn't get his eyes. This was going to be dangerous. The traffic was light but some old bat could pop out of nowhere and smash him up pretty good. He looked up at the sky, as if he was consulting the heavens for a sign, then got on the bike, jammed his new hat down hard on his head and pointed the bike downhill. Yeah, this was going to be dangerous.