lkhunsaker
Synopsis
A biker on a quest and a man who gets stuck where he doesn't plan to be intertwine and collect stories of the American way of life, as it really is.
Excerpt
Rain.
Again.
Joe stood at the window of the 11th floor room of the Holiday Inn Southside and considered whether to drive on and risk a good soaking or to hang out one more day and hope for sun. Or at least for clouds without rain. He was sure the weather called for sun by this morning.
The outline of the 10th Street Bridge cut through the haze. No wonder they were all bright yellow. Otherwise, the bridges would blend right into the gray skies and you’d only see them when you were right on top of them.
It didn’t stop everyone. Hardy Pittsburghers walked across the pedestrian section of the bridge decked in rain coats or carrying umbrellas. They hardly seemed to notice the weather. Joe supposed he could take a hint and imitate them, get into his rain gear and head out as he planned. As he planned three days ago.
So far the trip had been a wash out all the way around. And it had only started three days ago.
Technically, it started when he got on his bike in that city and headed out of it, with nothing on him but what would fit in his side saddles. He didn’t count that city. Or anything in between. He’d closed his eyes and pointed to a spot on the map and decided that was the beginning. To be fully truthful with himself, he first pointed at southern Louisiana but with thoughts of Katrina still in his head, he allowed himself a mulligan and pushed his finger farther north with his second try.
He did realize Katrina was years ago. He knew it was largely habitable now. He knew plenty about it, more than he would admit knowing.
Still, when your first thought was hurricane destruction, it didn’t bode well for the start of a journey. Pittsburgh gave him no immediate image. The perfect place to start.
In the three days he’d been there, he circled all around 10th street and its damned bridge he couldn’t quite get to twice: once at arrival when he had no more than an address and general directions memorized, and again the next day when he’d ventured out on foot during a short dry spell. Having decided to be frugal and stretch what he’d saved to make the trip as long as possible, he refused to flag a taxi. He’d walked from there into the edge of the cultural district. He could very well get himself back again.
So he thought.
And he did, with some help from locals and apologies from a tourist he couldn’t tell was a tourist and a college student who hadn’t been there long enough to know much beyond her dorm room yet. After over a year of attending Duquesne. Joe couldn’t help ask why she hadn’t been out more. She’d shrugged and said there was no need.
Either way, he did get himself back, but by then his feet were pinched and aching and his calf muscles far too unused to the hills were cramping. He’d stayed in since, venturing only to the little bar/cafe next door to eat and grab a beer to take back to his room.
He supposed he could use today to find walking shoes. His boots were comfortable in most cases, but they weren’t meant for long-distance walking. Especially long-distance walking in a hilly city. Joe wasn’t used to hills in the midst of a city. He was used to crowds and business suits and long square flat city blocks all the same length. He was used to leave-me-alone attitudes and closed lips. He was well used to tourists. He wasn’t used to ten thousand bridges in one small city. Okay, an exaggeration. But only a slight exaggeration.
With a sigh, he pushed himself away from the window that overlooked the wet parking lot and wet yellow bridge and the hill on the other side that looked like there might be residences mixed with businesses behind the line of trees. Continental breakfast had an hour left. He supposed he could start the day there. Maybe it would change his luck to stop skipping breakfast. Joe wasn’t sure when he had last bothered.
