| General Fiction posted February 19, 2024 |
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Another Rabbit, Allen, and Roy adventure.
The Stolen Bikes
by papa55mike
It was different at school today. Everybody is dragging around, waiting for the last day of school, but we're still three weeks away. I call it the waiting for summer doldrums.
I'm not allowed to ride The Tank to school yet, especially after the Pinnacle Hill incident. We still need to figure out who told our Moms or how they even knew. It was an oath-bound secret between the three of us. Sometimes, Moms know things.
I'm walking down Drexel Avenue, thinking about finishing all this homework and starting something for supper. When I cross Third Street, Allen runs at me, screaming, "They stole it, Rabbit!"
"Stole what, Allen?"
"My bike!"
"Wow, I heard somebody is stealing bikes in this area. I wonder if they got The Tank?"
"Nobody wants that thing, Rabbit."
"Yeah, it is one of a kind."
"And it stands out like a sore thumb."
I start jogging up the driveway and then behind our house. The Tank is still there, propped beside the back door. That's when we hear another voice wailing in the front yard.
Roy is moaning away. It sounds like a Blues song. "Oh, somebody stole my bike!" His music comes complete with hand and arm motions to enhance the mood. The tears are also a nice touch.
Allen speaks up, "Well, they got mine too! But you don't see me acting like that."
"I'm doing it so Dad will get me a new one. The sadder I am, the better the bike."
I have to chuckle at that one. "Good one, Roy. I hope it works for you."
Roy asks, "Did they steal The Tank, Rabbit?"
"No. Where did you leave your bikes last night?"
Allen scratches his head, then says, "Where I dropped in the front yard, by the road."
Roy answers, "I leaned mine next to the garbage cans."
"That's the problem. Your bikes were easy pickings. It wouldn't take twenty seconds for someone to pick up your bikes and throw them in the back of a truck."
"Do you think they used a truck, Rabbit?" Allen asks.
"It would be too hard to put them in a car. Where would they hide them, though? They can't be out in the open; somebody would see them."
Roy says, "It sounds like Rabbit is on the case."
"Well, maybe," I think for a moment. "We know every square inch on Infirmary Road, but they're not around here. We need to keep our eyes open."
Roy and Allen kick some gravel around and finally answer, "All right." They dejectedly head for home.
It's time for me to get a little payback. I want to get The Tank and take it for a spin in front of Roy and Allen. I remember them showing off in front of me when I didn't have a bike. Before I get past the side door, I stop and think that would be mean. So, I park The Tank back in his spot. Besides, I still have all of that homework to finish.
~
Schnieder's Grocery is a place of wonder for anybody. There's nothing they don't have in that big yellow building, from groceries to liquor, tomatoes to charcoal. Schnieder's has it all! Anyway, that's what the sign says. On Saturday mornings, Mr. Schnieder will get me to fill up his outside ice machine for thirty cents - a small fortune to me, and no, Mom doesn't know about it.
Mr. Schnieder smiles when I walk in with my blond hair a mess and sleep in my dark blue eyes. I'm holding my coat, gloves, and sock hat under my arm. Mr. Schnieder says with a chuckle, "Here's the keys, Michael. Don't get hurt in there. That cold air will wake you up."
"Thank you, sir. I won't be long."
He's right about the cold air, and I can't get my coat on fast enough. There's not much to do, mainly the bag ice and a few blocks to load. Forty-five minutes later, I stumble out the back door with frost hanging on my nose, gloves, and hat. It quickly melts in the muggy eighty-degree morning.
There's a fifteen-foot gap between the ice house and the store, and it goes back quite a distance. We used to hide back there and play when we were younger. The weeds had grown tall with the early heat, but now they're stomped down. Sometimes, the old wine-os would sleep back there instead in the field behind the store.
Something tells me to walk back there and see what's going on. There's a giant tree shading the area, and it's darker the farther you go back. Suddenly, the gleam of chrome starts to glisten in the dim light. There are at least twenty bikes back here from several neighborhoods. I see Roy's and Allen's and the Murphy twins' bikes. The others I don't recognize. "Wow, somebody has been busy. What do I do now? I have to let the police know."
I stumble back into the light, shading my eyes, and hear a deep voice say, "Michael, come here."
A small black man is sitting on a railroad crosstie, waving for me to come here. He's dressed in tattered jeans, and his shirt is almost in shreds. "It's okay, son. I knew your Mom a little before I ended up here."
"What's your name, friend?"
"Sammy Boyd."
"How do you know my Mom?"
"She once tried to help me. If I would have stuck it out, I wouldn't be here now."
Slowly, I sit down with him, but not too close, "Is this place what you call here?"
"No, Michael, here is more than this empty field. It's a feeling of despair that's deep in my heart. The disgust for letting myself arrive in the most bottomless pit imaginable."
My curiosity is piqued now. "Why did you call me over?"
"I know who's stealing the bikes. Do you know the Hagar's that live on the corner of Infirmary and State Street?"
"Yes, sir. Junior and his older brother Tim. They love to torment me because I don't have a Father. I don't see them much anymore."
"They've taken up new habits, like stealing everybody blind. I heard them talking about selling all these bikes at a flea market in New Lebanon."
"Would you go to the police with me, Mr. Boyd?"
He laughs, then says, "I don't think I'd be a credible witness, Michael. They would take one look at me and start laughing."
"Why?"
"Because I'm a homeless alcoholic. Better known as a wine-o."
"I don't see you that way, Mr. Boyd. You're still a person to me. Mom saw something in you, or she wouldn't have reached out to you."
Mr. Boyd drops his head for a moment and then turns back to me with tears in the corners of his bloodshot brown eyes and says, "Thank you, son. You're the first person who's said that to me in many years."
"No, thank you for your help, Mr. Boyd. We won't forget it. By the way, my friends call me Rabbit, and you can too."
"You're very welcome, Rabbit."
~
That afternoon, a Dayton Police cruiser pulls into our driveway. It woke everybody up in the neighborhood; they were all gazing away on their porches. I told them everything I knew about the bikes and said I heard from someone else who stole them. But I left Mr. Boyd out of it.
Roy and Allen were watching from across the street and nearly fainted when Mom and I got in the back of the cruiser. The police had to impound the bikes for now but said they would return them soon. We never saw Junior or Tim again, and the Hagar's moved a month later.
It's Sunday morning; Mom is working on something from the office at the kitchen table when I ask her, "How much does a blanket cost?"
"Thin ones start at a dollar, but the thick ones are two dollars at the Dollar Store. Why?"
"I want to help a friend who is in need, Mom, like you do."
She stared at me for a long moment, then slowly smiled. "The Dollar Store is open, but don't take too long."
"Thanks, Mom. I won't."
That night, Sammy Boyd slept under a new blanket with no holes.
It was different at school today. Everybody is dragging around, waiting for the last day of school, but we're still three weeks away. I call it the waiting for summer doldrums.
I'm not allowed to ride The Tank to school yet, especially after the Pinnacle Hill incident. We still need to figure out who told our Moms or how they even knew. It was an oath-bound secret between the three of us. Sometimes, Moms know things.
I'm walking down Drexel Avenue, thinking about finishing all this homework and starting something for supper. When I cross Third Street, Allen runs at me, screaming, "They stole it, Rabbit!"
"Stole what, Allen?"
"My bike!"
"Wow, I heard somebody is stealing bikes in this area. I wonder if they got The Tank?"
"Nobody wants that thing, Rabbit."
"Yeah, it is one of a kind."
"And it stands out like a sore thumb."
I start jogging up the driveway and then behind our house. The Tank is still there, propped beside the back door. That's when we hear another voice wailing in the front yard.
Roy is moaning away. It sounds like a Blues song. "Oh, somebody stole my bike!" His music comes complete with hand and arm motions to enhance the mood. The tears are also a nice touch.
Allen speaks up, "Well, they got mine too! But you don't see me acting like that."
"I'm doing it so Dad will get me a new one. The sadder I am, the better the bike."
I have to chuckle at that one. "Good one, Roy. I hope it works for you."
Roy asks, "Did they steal The Tank, Rabbit?"
"No. Where did you leave your bikes last night?"
Allen scratches his head, then says, "Where I dropped in the front yard, by the road."
Roy answers, "I leaned mine next to the garbage cans."
"That's the problem. Your bikes were easy pickings. It wouldn't take twenty seconds for someone to pick up your bikes and throw them in the back of a truck."
"Do you think they used a truck, Rabbit?" Allen asks.
"It would be too hard to put them in a car. Where would they hide them, though? They can't be out in the open; somebody would see them."
Roy says, "It sounds like Rabbit is on the case."
"Well, maybe," I think for a moment. "We know every square inch on Infirmary Road, but they're not around here. We need to keep our eyes open."
Roy and Allen kick some gravel around and finally answer, "All right." They dejectedly head for home.
It's time for me to get a little payback. I want to get The Tank and take it for a spin in front of Roy and Allen. I remember them showing off in front of me when I didn't have a bike. Before I get past the side door, I stop and think that would be mean. So, I park The Tank back in his spot. Besides, I still have all of that homework to finish.
~
Schnieder's Grocery is a place of wonder for anybody. There's nothing they don't have in that big yellow building, from groceries to liquor, tomatoes to charcoal. Schnieder's has it all! Anyway, that's what the sign says. On Saturday mornings, Mr. Schnieder will get me to fill up his outside ice machine for thirty cents - a small fortune to me, and no, Mom doesn't know about it.
Mr. Schnieder smiles when I walk in with my blond hair a mess and sleep in my dark blue eyes. I'm holding my coat, gloves, and sock hat under my arm. Mr. Schnieder says with a chuckle, "Here's the keys, Michael. Don't get hurt in there. That cold air will wake you up."
"Thank you, sir. I won't be long."
He's right about the cold air, and I can't get my coat on fast enough. There's not much to do, mainly the bag ice and a few blocks to load. Forty-five minutes later, I stumble out the back door with frost hanging on my nose, gloves, and hat. It quickly melts in the muggy eighty-degree morning.
There's a fifteen-foot gap between the ice house and the store, and it goes back quite a distance. We used to hide back there and play when we were younger. The weeds had grown tall with the early heat, but now they're stomped down. Sometimes, the old wine-os would sleep back there instead in the field behind the store.
Something tells me to walk back there and see what's going on. There's a giant tree shading the area, and it's darker the farther you go back. Suddenly, the gleam of chrome starts to glisten in the dim light. There are at least twenty bikes back here from several neighborhoods. I see Roy's and Allen's and the Murphy twins' bikes. The others I don't recognize. "Wow, somebody has been busy. What do I do now? I have to let the police know."
I stumble back into the light, shading my eyes, and hear a deep voice say, "Michael, come here."
A small black man is sitting on a railroad crosstie, waving for me to come here. He's dressed in tattered jeans, and his shirt is almost in shreds. "It's okay, son. I knew your Mom a little before I ended up here."
"What's your name, friend?"
"Sammy Boyd."
"How do you know my Mom?"
"She once tried to help me. If I would have stuck it out, I wouldn't be here now."
Slowly, I sit down with him, but not too close, "Is this place what you call here?"
"No, Michael, here is more than this empty field. It's a feeling of despair that's deep in my heart. The disgust for letting myself arrive in the most bottomless pit imaginable."
My curiosity is piqued now. "Why did you call me over?"
"I know who's stealing the bikes. Do you know the Hagar's that live on the corner of Infirmary and State Street?"
"Yes, sir. Junior and his older brother Tim. They love to torment me because I don't have a Father. I don't see them much anymore."
"They've taken up new habits, like stealing everybody blind. I heard them talking about selling all these bikes at a flea market in New Lebanon."
"Would you go to the police with me, Mr. Boyd?"
He laughs, then says, "I don't think I'd be a credible witness, Michael. They would take one look at me and start laughing."
"Why?"
"Because I'm a homeless alcoholic. Better known as a wine-o."
"I don't see you that way, Mr. Boyd. You're still a person to me. Mom saw something in you, or she wouldn't have reached out to you."
Mr. Boyd drops his head for a moment and then turns back to me with tears in the corners of his bloodshot brown eyes and says, "Thank you, son. You're the first person who's said that to me in many years."
"No, thank you for your help, Mr. Boyd. We won't forget it. By the way, my friends call me Rabbit, and you can too."
"You're very welcome, Rabbit."
~
That afternoon, a Dayton Police cruiser pulls into our driveway. It woke everybody up in the neighborhood; they were all gazing away on their porches. I told them everything I knew about the bikes and said I heard from someone else who stole them. But I left Mr. Boyd out of it.
Roy and Allen were watching from across the street and nearly fainted when Mom and I got in the back of the cruiser. The police had to impound the bikes for now but said they would return them soon. We never saw Junior or Tim again, and the Hagar's moved a month later.
It's Sunday morning; Mom is working on something from the office at the kitchen table when I ask her, "How much does a blanket cost?"
"Thin ones start at a dollar, but the thick ones are two dollars at the Dollar Store. Why?"
"I want to help a friend who is in need, Mom, like you do."
She stared at me for a long moment, then slowly smiled. "The Dollar Store is open, but don't take too long."
"Thanks, Mom. I won't."
That night, Sammy Boyd slept under a new blanket with no holes.
|
Post Number 500 A Milestone Post |
I finally found a picture of all three of us. I'm on the left, Allen in the middle, and then there's Roy. My brother John snuck in at the bottom.
Many thanks for stopping by to read.
Have a great day, and God bless.
mike
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Many thanks for stopping by to read.
Have a great day, and God bless.
mike
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