Page 38 of Odin
I’m late. We had a customer come into the shop ten minutes before closing. I won’t say he was being a dick, but he was complaining about some work we’d done to his car. Even though we gave him a quote for work that needed to be done, he declined to do half of it. Fair enough, everyone has their budget, but then he was right back, telling us that we’d fucked shit up and hadn’t fixed anything because the car was still banging as it went down the road. It stopped just fine, but was loud as hell. I tried to explain that yes, that’s what happens when you get new brakes, but opt out of suspension.
He wasted a bunch of time and in the end, left his car with us again, agreeing to pay for the suspension work if we gave him the same quote as before. I was eager to get him gone so I could get out of there myself, and I agreed, even though we’ll have to bite a bunch of labor again.
Of course, right as I was walking out the door, this guy asks if it’s possible to use budget parts.
I didn’t lose it. I deal with people like this on the regular. I promised that we’d find the best deals we could. He asked if that meant we could go under the original quote. I might have wanted to leap onto my bike and spray gravel in his face at that point, but I behaved, and said again, that I’d see what I could do.
And then I left, even though his mouth was opening for more questions.
I got on my bike, slapped my helmet in place, and got ready to ride across the city to Crow’s shop.
I’ve made a few miles progress, and resist the urge to check the time at a red light. That would involve taking out my phone, and I don’t want to get caught doing that. I’m wearing my club jacket, and the last thing I need is for a screenshot to last forever about how dangerous we are on the road because we’re distracted drivers.
My gut tells me that I’m at least twenty minutes late, if not more.
Willow invited me over for dinner. She said it wouldn’t be much, but she was going to cook anyway, and we could talk about the decision she’s made about the arrangement. She wouldn’t say the word wedding or marriage, and she never mentioned insurance. She texted me last night. We haven’t seen each other for a few days. I wanted to give her space, even though I wanted to do the exact opposite and be all up in it. I just want to make sure that she’s settling in okay, but she did promise she’d call me if she needed anything.
I haven’t felt this out of control in a long time. I’ve been fighting every single emotion I’ve had, and lately, it’s been a deluge.
I’ve had my own thoughts to battle with. Coming to terms with being a dad, at any age, is a big deal. I’ve spent the past few days working out harder than I ever have, riding my bike late at night when I need to clear my head, and trying not to think about Willow at all hours.
I curse under my breath as I reach another red light. At this rate, I’m at least thirty minutes late. Has she even kept dinner waiting? Is it ruined because of me? What kind of mood will she be in when I get there?
She’s going to think that I don’t care. That I value the garage and our clients more than I value her, even when she’s carrying my child and we have to talk about something incredibly important.
It’s crazy, but a lump forms in my throat and I can’t push it down, no matter how many times I swallow. It’s been so important to me for all these years that I grow past being a selfish asshole. I wanted to use my brain more than anything. Plan ahead. Build a life. Put good back into the world, if I can. I’ve done a lot of work figuring out what emotions are, so that I could stop numbing out.
Imagining Willow’s disappointment, or having her think that she doesn’t matter and that I shit all over the effort she put into tonight, shoots a hole inside of me that I feel myself bleeding out from.
I want to push the bike harder, but I don’t want to speed. Part of riding a bike and loving it means being aware. You have to pay attention to what everyone else is doing around you, or you could be spread out on the pavement. I’ve lost brothers that way. When you’re young and think you’re invincible you take risks. But with age comes wisdom.
It might be cheesy, but it’s true.
I do push the bike a little bit harder, but for once, the grumble of the engine between my legs, the loud growl, the wind in my face, leaning into the turns and letting the bike have its head on the faster, straighter stretches, does absolutelynothing for me. It doesn’t help me breathe, doesn’t clear my head, and doesn’t give me the same rush that it usually does.
I’m literally counting more minutes in my head, adding them onto the late tally, when the bike’s front tire hits a tar snake. It’s not overly hot, and it’s not wet out, but these things are sometimes a bitch, and that sometimes is now.
I tighten my hands on the handlebars fast, but the front tire wobbles. I try to get my foot down, but the bike pitches. It’s a big bastard and it throws itself off balance in less than a second. I know I’m going down before it happens.
I wasn’t going all that fast, but my side hits the pavement and it bites like a demon anyway. My helmet thumps against the ground a few times until I get my head picked up. I grind my teeth against the pain exploding along my hip and leg as my jeans shred and the road rips at my skin below. My jacket protects me from the road rash, though I know that it’s going to be beyond saving. It keeps tearing away as I go skidding along, until I finally come to a stop.
The bike is on top of me. I’m pinned beneath, my entire right side along the ground. There’s no way that I’m going to be able to shove it off and get up. Shock dulls the pain for a moment, but then fire erupts. The pain lances over my skin like millions of tiny needles, burrowing under the surface, straight into the pit of my bones.
I’m being dramatic.
This isn’t the first time I’ve tipped a bike, but my god, it’s going to go down as the most embarrassing. Defeated by a tar snake. What a fucking amateur move. My mind obviously wasn’t fully focused on the road, and now my bike is going to need weeks of work to put it back to rights.
“Hey, man, are you okay?”
I turn my face at the male voice. There’s a crowd rapidly gathering around. Traffic has stopped, since I’m blocking an entire lane, and just now, I can hear sirens in the distance.
The only thing that is going to make this worse is getting carried off in an ambulance. I hope it’s just the cops that someone panicked and called.
“I think he’s trapped,” another male voice says. “Let’s see if we can get the bike off of him. Hey! Jake! Will! Come here and help me lift this up.”
Three young faces loom over me. They’re teenagers, but bigger and bulkier than most. Probably football players. They shouldn’t risk their own health to help me. They could hurt themselves if they lift wrong.
They’re worried about me, though.
