From pyramid!nsc!voder!apple!bbn!csd4.milw.wisc.edu!mailrus!ukma!rutgers!att!ihlpa!fish Fri Mar 17 09:07:07 PST 1989 [Synopsis: a guilt-ridden, alcoholic Spike recounts his escape from the Detroit salt mines the world believes to be Spike Bike's tomb. Although 19 months have passed since the Detroit cataclysm, the memories of countless killings haunt him, even in sleep. Living as the reclusive Michael Resnick, an identity he has borrowed from a dead relative, in a cabin high in the Canadian Rockies, Spike spends his nights trying to drown his remorse in whiskey. Today, things are to change... --- My cabin cannot be reached by auto, even by 4WD, which is why I like it there; it cuts down on the riffraff. There are two ways to get there: on foot or by ATB. I prefer not to walk. The bright June sunshine had already melted the night's snow from the trail, leaving only mud, but I was used to that. I rode the mountain bike effortlessly down the five miles of familiar trail (riding back up with full panniers would be more taxing) to the Timberline Trading Post. At 6500 feet, it was well below the timberline, but it was the last outpost of so-called civilization for the tourists who passed by on their way to the campgrounds up the mountain. They were willing, if not happy, to buy their groceries, eggs, and notions at the Timberline's outrageous prices if it would save them the 20-mile haul into Caroline. As for me, I got a substantial discount, inasmuch as I half-owned the place. My partner, Jack, kept most of the obscene profits in return for not involving me in the day-to-day operations of the establishment. I got my eats and supplies wholesale, and I got to use the Timberline's ancient Jeep CJ when I had to go into town for stuff Jack didn't sell, viz. American bourbon. I pulled into town around 2:00. I stopped by the post office to get the month's mail. It was the usual stuff: bank statements, junk (even assumed names can't escape mailing lists), and a couple of letters from my mother, forwarded by my lawyer in Calgary. My family knew I was alive, but not where I was. My lawyer knew where I was, but not who I was, and I paid him enough not to ask. My next stop was Snuffy's Tavern, one of Caroline's less-classy saloons. Snuffy kept in stock for me an extra case of Jack Daniel's, which was my usual monthly supply. Stepping into the dark, smoky bar, I noticed something shockingly new: a 120-cm, wide-screen, high- definition, surround-sound, plasma-display television set. I had long ago forsaken such banalities, but I was snared by a close-up shot of a pitcher winding up. A "C" emblazoned on his jersey told all: the Cubs were playing, at Montreal. What's more, they were actually leading by four to one in the bottom of the eighth. I guess it's something about growing up in Chicago. The bums hadn't won so much as a division championship since 1984, but Cub fans die hard. I sat down, ordered a beer, and watched the rest of the game, which, of course, the Cubs lost on a grand slam homer in the bottom of the ninth. During the post-game wrap-up, I observed that the program originated from Chicago's WGN-TV, and was being picked up here in Alberta on a satellite dish. Snuffy had really gone overboard with this rig. I was just about to pick up my whiskey and head back up the mountain when the program broke to the local news. An attractive female announcer deadpanned: "Two more bikers killed in Oak Lawn. Details next on News Nine." Typewriter music faded into an inane beer commercial. I sat down again. Snuffy reached up to change the channel, but I gripped his arm. He gave me a startled look and backed away from the set when he caught the expression on my face. After an eternity of drivel, the announcer returned. "Two Oak Lawn teens are the latest victims of a hit-and-run driver. The bodies of sixteen-year-old... " The screen flashed high-school photos of the two victims, a boy and a girl. I was struck by the girl's pretty, white teeth and engaging eyes [at this point, the reader will notice, the narrative descends to contrived, manipulative hate-mongering, a cheap ploy to gain the sympathies of the reader and make his blood boil at the same time. -- Fish]. The announcer continued, " ...the youths were the fifth and sixth victims of what police believe to be the work of one man, seen fleeing the scene of this morning's tragedy in a late-model Ford mini-van. "Despite severe federal penalties, it appears, at least in Chicago, that the streets are still not safe for bicycles." The newscast switched to local politics. The announcer's voice faded into the rest of the background noise: the clinking of glasses, the murmur of the other patrons, the rickety ventilation fan. I sat in numbed silence, no longer watching the screen. Something familiar and yet new stirred inside me, a feeling I'd not had in years. After a while, I got up to leave. Snuffy called after me: "Hey, Mike, what about your booze?" "Pass it around when business picks up. Tell 'em it's on me." It was near nightfall when I got back to my cabin. I sat staring at the fire, sober for the first time in nineteen months. Their eyes were gone, along with their accusations, their hatred, their fear. The sons of bitches had deserved it. The old rage blazed inside me, searing away the guilt, cauterizing the wounds. The only pair of eyes I saw in the flames were the powder-blue discs of a dead girl, imploring me to avenge her. That night, I slept better than I had in years. The next morning, I was on my way to Calgary Airport. * TO BE CONTINUED * -- __ / \ Bob Fishell \__/ att!ihlpa!fish