Superbike
A story. About four paperback pages.
Two strangers meet on the road. This story was published on July 15, 2023 as part of the Fictionistas July 2023 prompt challenge. It won Fan Favorite.
On the first Sunday of September, 1996, eleven high-security inmates escaped from the Lynaugh Men’s Unit in Fort Stockton, Texas. Because of an electrical malfunction, a wire gate opened when it was supposed to be shut, and a gaggle of dumbstruck felons shuffled through. Most of them ran east and were caught alongside FM 2057 the same morning. Three went north and were apprehended in Balmorhea in the afternoon, after a member of the Rotary Club identified them through her window. And one inmate went west, into the clear desert, humming a song while he walked. He was there now.
The inmate had a handkerchief laid on his head, and the collar on his jumper was turned up. He was stopped at a narrow road. It was unpaved except for white caliche gravel, and it looked like it curved south into a spine of rusty hills. It seemed an unlikely place to follow. The inmate looked over his shoulder, then he turned down the road, still humming.
After a half-hour, a cloud of dust rose on the horizon behind him, and with it came a sound like angry bees. The inmate froze, thought about hiding behind a cactus, then he sat down on the road with his hands on his head.
Out of the cloud came a six- or seven-year-old boy leaned back on a tricycle. He wasn’t pedaling. As the boy got closer, the bees’ hum tightened into a smooth electric whine, and the boy waved. The inmate stood up and waved back. He held out his thumb with a hitchhiker’s crook in it.
“Goin south?” he yelled.
The boy slowed down by flipping a switch on his handlebar and kicking a heel into the caliche. He squinted.
“Whadja say?”
“Headed to Los Fresnos?” The inmate smiled.
The kid shook his head.
“That’s a cool ride.”
“My dad invented my bike.”
“He did?”
“Mmhm.”
“Your dad must be pretty smart. You goin this way?”
“Yeah.”
“Don lemme stop you.”
The kid put his sneakers on the pedals and rode up slowly, doubling back and twisting to keep the inmate’s pace. The inmate waved him on.
“Git on home.”
“I’m not goin home.”
“No?”
“I’m runnin away.”
“Oh.”
“Mmhm.”
The kid waggled his handlebar so that his front wheel made a rut in the gravel. He had a backpack on with a plastic canteen hooked on it.
“Hey—whadja think if I could get a drink?”
“Sure.”
The kid stopped and stood up astraddle. He pulled the canteen around and unscrewed it, then held it out to the inmate.
“Thanks.”
“Mmhm.”
The inmate drank loudly and finished with a deep gasp. He handed the canteen back to the kid.
“You keep drinkin that, too.”
“I know,” the kid said. He tipped up the canteen and drank.
“Your house int too far, is it?”
The kid gasped when he was done drinking, like the inmate had.
“No.”
“I ran away, too, when I’s little. Wish I’d gone back.”
“You dint go back?”
“Nope. Got too old.”
“My dad said I could run away but I hafta be back before dark.”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
“Yeah.”
The kid squinted at him.
“Are you a ghost?” he said.
“What?”
“My dad says sometimes therra ghosts in the desert. He said you can see em but only if you look.”
“I think he’s right about that.”
“So are you?”
“Sure.”
“You’re a ghost?”
“Yessir.”
The two of them went on. The inmate kicked his feet ahead while the kid scooted and feinted. He stopped behind the inmate.
“Can I take a pitcher of you?”
“What?”
When the inmate turned around, the kid was looking at him through a Polaroid Sun600.
“Hey, hold on,” he said.
The kid snapped the exposure. When the photo rolled out, the kid shook it and dropped it in his backpack. The inmate set his jaw, then relaxed. He kept walking.
“You know, you shouldn take pictures of ghosts,” he said.
“Why not?”
“It can make em disappear.”
The kid was pedaling in a zig-zag. When he heard what the inmate said, he turned and hung the wheel to one side.
“What?”
“Yep. Happened to summa my friends. Faded right away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Are you gonna fade away now?”
“Maybe.”
The kid looked horrified.
“I’m sorry,” the kid said.
“It’s alright. Come on.”
They went on. The sun looked like an egg yolk stuck to the sky. The heat thickened up and settled down on them.
“Drink your water,” the inmate said.
“I did.”
“Good.”
“I need to pee.”
“Okay.”
The inmate stopped while the kid waddled off the road toward a cactus. He waited until the kid had his hands in front of him, then he bent down and opened the kid’s backpack. He pulled out the Sun600, pointed it ahead at the empty hills, and snapped the exposure. He shook the photo before he dropped it into the bag with the camera, then he pulled out the other and slipped it in his pocket while the kid zipped up.
“Think you should probly get headed home,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“It’ll get dark fastern you think. How fast does that thing get goin?”
“It can get fast.”
“I’ll bet. Let’s see.”
The kid stepped over the tricycle and flipped the switch on his grip. The electric motor whined up. The kid waved while he kicked into the gravel and spun.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
The kid disappeared into a cloud of caliche dust. The inmate turned and hummed.
The end.