2

Shut-ins.

Rodd and Mick pedal in unison past pueblos in ruins.

Rodd is talking.

“Garrido’s got a connection in Auburn Hills, Michigan, he says. What could be better than Corinthian leather to cover these front bucket seats? ‘Rad Pads,’ I said to him. ‘Rad Pads, my friend.’ Patterson, Pro Neck, Robinson, DG, Diamond Back. I had all my vinyl packed in gym bags at the shop. I unzipped one and he reached in at random, pulled out a Torker pad. Frank Garrido was sponsored by Torker! Him and Dale Perez. That sidehack they rode at Pipeline Skatepark? It was a Webco with Bottema forks. Shinglehead sent me photos of a JMC Racing commemorative quilt someone had made and I thought it would be great if we did the same thing for these seats. Garrido goes, ‘That’s gonna be hot. You’re gonna need air conditioning.’ I didn’t know about A/C at the time but I did know I was gonna need a seamstress. And I knew just the girl to go to: Genevieve Fennelseed. If I could find her.”

“Whoa,” Mick says.

“I know—amusing name, eh? ‘Genevieve Fennelseed’? Her friends call her ‘Jean.’ Crazy kids these days.”

“No,” Mick says. “Whoa!”

“’Whoa’ what?”

“There’s a skinhead bodybuilder about to bunnyhop a Bully with a bashguard—“

“What?”

“—onto us!”

Impact to the roof of the hardtop coupe.

Mick feels the door panel is padded, too.

They’re tipped sideways on two wheels.

Slow motion sensation for a second.

Rodd lands it.

“Adam-12!” he yells. “Wasn’t that where the cars went up on two wheels? No! Dukes of Hazzard! Knight Rider!”

He’s looking into the rear-view mirror.

He picks up a reporter-style microphone.

It has MTV stickers on it.

“Kerrang!” he bellows over a loudspeaker. “Bloody hellion! Ease-up, mate! Mate?”

He keeps looking.

“He’s not gettin’ up, gang! Let’s hear it for him! Come on, Bicycle City! Make some noise!”

Rodd returns the microphone to the center console.

The dashboard above his chopped Peregrine Q handlebars and ODI Mushroom II grips is slick from spilled soda.

“Good thing my pop was a wounded soldier,” he says. “My banana fell though. I lost it. Now would be a good time to throw stickers, O’Grady. Open the glove box.”

There aren’t many onlookers on the scene that Mick can see.

The ones that are, are riding.

“Throw stickers? To who?”

“To whom it may concern.”

The glove box door has a gold Cordoba logo on it.

Mick opens the door.

The compartment is packed with stickers in stacks: Jive Handles “Live, Thrive, Jive,” Anarchic Adjustment, GT.

“Neon ‘Crack ‘n Peel’ Club Homeboy? Wow. Where did you get these?”

“They’re re-pops. Reproductions. Not those.” Rodd grabs a different stack. He hands it to Mick. “These.”

Mick reads:

2019
2-Hip Meet the Street
Saturday, October 12th
Bicycle City, New Mexico

“You made stickers.”

“Ron Wilkerson made stickers. Toss ‘em.”

“All of ‘em?”

“Yeah, I got a ton of ’em. And the contest is tomorrow.”

Mick presses the down arrow and lowers the Plexiglas window.

He rolls the rubber band off the stack.

He tosses the stickers.

They scatter.

Flutter.

He raises the window.

Rodd turns up the A/C.

Mick looks into the side-view mirror.

Riders are going for them, he notices.

A roadie, even, has stopped and stooped.

Bearded roadie.

“Get a good gander, O’Grady. Because tomorrow mornin’ these side mirrors are gettin’ knocked off by a General rider from New York—General Kearney. He’ll be usin’ a two-by-four for authenticity. Ceremony. Then it’s gettin’ duct-taped and spraypainted. That’s why the colorway is primer grey at the moment. Hand me those wet weather gloves, please.”

“JT wet weather gloves in a glove compartment! This is startin’ to make some sense.”

“Don’t Die Wondering,” Rodd says, referencing the Vision Street Wear sticker on the ash tray.

Mick laughs.

“Actually, I’ll just use this—”

Rodd un-does the quick release on his Vision hip sack and uses it to wipe the windshield and dash.

“Vision Street Wear,” Mick says. “The quicker picker-upper.”

“Speakin’ of ‘quicker picker-uppers,’ there’s a place up here that has chicks who do cherrypickers.”

Mick isn’t interested, he says. Not unless they do angel dust.

“It’s called Thrusters,” Rodd says. “Elina’s Thrusters.”

No thanks. Tempting, but he’ll decline.

Rodd wants to know how Mick can not be interested! Cherrypickers! Barspin cherrypickers!

Mick says he doesn’t have cash for it, anyway.

What if Mick is sponsored? Factory sponsored?

Mick asks Rodd what he meant by that.

Rodd meant that he owns the establishment.

Mick is not a fan of organized crime.

Rodd laughs and says that’s what Mick says, but Rodd thinks he might be.

Rodd thinks Mick might be a fan of organized crime?

Rodd thinks Mick might be interested.

Are they Moon Babes?

They’re not Moon Babes, no. Is Mick crazy? Thrusters, brother. The instant replays are radibonzical.

Stop, Mick says.

No, Rodd says. It’s too early. They’re headin’ straight to the shop. Mick’s pickin’ out a build then they’re shreddin’. Has he seen the Fall catalog?

Yes, Mick wants the Panda. The R.C. Alderman Replica Panda Pro-Am.

Fantastic choice, Rodd says.

They pedal past Thrusters.

Elina’s Thrusters.