mashed the pedal to the metal and ran him down? Turned him into roadkill?
He didn’t bother to open his eyes, didn’t waste time confirming that it was still the
deserted road instead of the basement alcove. Instead he squeezed them even more
tightly shut, focused all his attention on the sound of the alarm, and this time turned
the polite voice of the barman into an impatient bellow:
HURRY UP PLEASE GENTLEMEN IT’S TIME!
And suddenly, thankfully, it was the sound of the engine that was fading and the
sound of the Brookstone alarm that was swelling, taking on its old familiar rough get-
up-get-up-get-up bray. And this time when he opened his eyes, he saw the projection
of the road instead of the road itself.
But now the sky was black, its organic redness hidden by nightfall. The road was
brilliantly lit, the shadow of the bike—a Raleigh—a clear black on the leaf-littered
hardpack. He could tell himself he had dismounted the stationary bike and painted
those changes while in his nightly trance, but he knew better, and not only because
there was no paint on his hands.
This is my last chance, he thought. My last chance to avoid the ending everyone
expects in stories like this.
But he was simply too tired, too shaky, to take care of the stationary bike now. He
would take care of it tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, in fact, first thing. Right now all
he wanted was to get out of this awful place where reality had worn so thin. And with
that firmly in mind, Sifkitz staggered to the Pomona crate beside the doorway (rubber-
legged, covered with a thin slime of sweat—the smelly kind that comes from fear
rather than exertion) and shut the alarm off. Then he went upstairs and lay down on
his bed. Some very long time later, sleep came.
The next morning he went down the cellar stairs, eschewing the elevator and walking
firmly, with his head up and his lips pressed tightly together, A Man On A Mission.
He went directly to the stationary bike, ignoring the alarm clock on the crate, dropped
to one knee, picked up the screwdriver. He slipped it once more into the slot of a
screw, one of the four that held the left-hand pedal…
…and the next thing he knew, he was speeding giddily along the road again, with the
headlights brightening around him until he felt like a man on a stage that’s dark save
for one single spotlight. The truck’s engine was too loud (something wrong with the
muffler or the exhaust system), and it was out of tune, as well. He doubted if old
Freddy had bothered with the last maintenance go-round. No, not with house-
payments to make, groceries to buy, the kiddies still needing braces, and no weekly
paycheck coming in.
He thought: I had my chance. I had my chance last night and I didn’t take it.
He thought: Why did I do this? Why, when I knew better?
He thought: Because they made me, somehow. They made me.
He thought: They’re going to run me down and I’ll die in the woods.
But the truck did not run him down. It hurtled past him on the right instead, left-side
wheels rumbling in the leaf-choked ditch, and then it swung across the road in front of
him, blocking the way.
Panicked, Sifkitz forgot the first thing his father had taught him when he brought the
three-speed home: When you stop, Richie, reverse the pedals. Brake the bike’s rear
wheel at the same time you squeeze the handbrake that controls the front wheel.
Otherwise—
This was otherwise. In his panic he turned both hands into fists, squeezing the
handbrake on the left, locking the front wheel. The bike bucked him off and sent him flying at the truck with LIPID COMPANY printed on the driver’s-side door. He threw
his hands out and they struck the top of the truck’s bed hard enough to numb them.
Then he collapsed in a heap, wondering how many bones were broken.
The doors opened above him and he heard the crackle of leaves as men in workboots
got out. He didn’t look up. He waited for them to grab him and make him get up, but