.:ELECTRIC VELOCIPEDE:.

Morris Fetterman, a middle-aged bookkeeper and loner, was stereoscopically unattractive. He had thin legs that were overshadowed by his huge, eerie belly. This bowling-ball gut was often the first thing people perceived of him—usually because it preceded him through doorways. His head was a ruddy dome, and two ears stuck out like handles. Thick, coke-bottle glasses slid endlessly down his nose. He sweated mercilessly and triumphantly, with the art and complexity of a great orchestra working its way painstakingly through a private avant-garde masterpiece.

Morris lived in his mother's midtown apartment. His mother had been dead for years, but he continued to sleep on a cot at the end of her empty bed. There was one other room in the apartment. It was littered with newspapers, lamps, an old television with two stubborn knobs, a bookshelf that leaned forward menacingly, and dark, old-lady knick-knacks in the shape of animals carved from wood. There was a tiny kitchen in an alcove by the front door emanating the perpetual odor of vegetables in various stages of decay. Martin used to own a cat, but he didn't know what happened to her. Once, in a strange dream, he saw her skeletal outline as if with science fiction x-ray beams under stacks and stacks of old magazines covering his floor. When he woke up he tore the place apart, worked his heart into a graceful fluttering and his forehead into a mad fountain, but eventually he settled on his couch, tired with defeat, and remembered that the cat had been gone for years.

On a Thursday night, Morris flipped on the television and crouched down next to it. The sound pierced the silence, the picture grew from a tiny dot in the middle of the screen, and two mammals were engaged in the late stages of a courtship. Not waiting, Morris flipped through the local channels with the knob. The television’s antennas, wrapped in aluminum like obedient space insects, sucked up the invisible signals from the air.

Game shows. Bowling. Golf—a long, slow put on a rich patch of green. A car commercial. Solicitations for money on public television—it was the Spring membership drive. A ticker across the bottom of the screen promised that the program, "The Planets and the Tide," would return in twenty minutes. Morris didn’t wait.

He twisted the knob with all his might until it click-click-clicked. A baby afloat in a sea of paper tissues—a commercial. Morris retreated to his plush couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. His socks had holes in them. He held a diet soda in his left hand, low on the couch next to him. Sitting on a plate to his right was a happy chunk of fresh cheese.

When the last baby had floated away into the permanent bliss of extra-wispy softness, the screen showed a dark stretch of street attended by cheering fans on both sides.

"If you’re just joining us, we’re at the Inland Empire West midway point for the perpetual Gran Velocipedum. This is the premiere biking even of our times, and boy, Dan, has it been thrilling so far!"

"Indeed, Don, and our racers are due at this point in seconds." The camera panned to the white ribbon. "And here he is! In first place, dukeing it out, nearly neck-to-neck, arm-in-arm, Goodbye Sorenson and Goodbye Johnson! Right behind them, the man who was previously in the lead, Goodbye Vnarov, and then a pestilent swarm of hundreds stretching as far as we can see!"

The first two bikes broke the ribbon simultaneously, followed by a rush of dashing bicycles, flamboyantly red, orange, green, white—all sleek and mounted by sweaty riders with ant-like helmets and spandex shorts. This leg of the race was ending.

Morris peeled a chunk of cheese with his fingers and placed it softly in his mouth. He let it sit on his tongue for a few seconds as he watched the cyclists sail past the line. Spouses rushed out to hug, fans cheered, and the announcers prattled on about split-hair seconds. The line of racers stretched deep, and the broadcaster cut to a commercial after a few minutes even as dozens of men paddled to cross the line that promised rest for the night. Morris pinched another slab of sweet cheese, ate it tenderly, and gulped some diet soda.

The commercials came on, and Morris sat, engrossed in his cheese. As his eyelids fluttered in ecstasy and his eyes rolled, he watched an angry truck growl across a mesa, plow through a maroon canyon. Morris’s stomach purred approvingly.

The next commercial, though, put his sentient paunch into an appreciative and loving silence. A man and his son, wearing matching red caps, were fishing on a boat. The lake rocked gently to the stirrings of some easy string music. Morris could smell, even through the gluttony of his cheese, the swarming and delicious sea life just below the tranquil glass of the lake’s surface.

"Now, let’s see if we can’t catch us some dinner, eh, little guy?" says the father as he pulls the tip of his rod closer to his face to string some bait. "Pass the box on here." The boy hands a wooden box to his father, who rummages through it and pulls out a silver package. "Ahh, guaranteed..."

"No dad," the kid implores, "Not the sardines! I thought those were for us!"

"But fish love sardines!"

The camera pans to the little kid’s precious face. His cheeks are round and soft, his eyes brown and expressive. His eyebrows curl and roll like hairy worms.

"Not as much as I do!"

The father and son hug laterally, and as the father unpeels the container, the view flips to a studio shot of a dozen rumpled sardines in an astronaut-like pouch. Five, six seconds, and then a forceful, masculine voiceover:

Sardines. Good for bait. Better for us.

Morris’s cheese rolled down his chin and was flattened in the crush of his belly against his deflated chest as he gasped. All he could hear, see, feel, and especially taste, were the delicious sardines.

He pictured himself on the edge of that lake. The kid and his father had gone home. The bright sun had begun to set behind the sloping hill to the west, drawing a comfortable umbrage over the entire private scene. Morris, the shadow Morris, sat on a towel with a paper plate, four packages of fresh sardines, a half-liter diet soda as cold as ice, and toothpicks. Both Morrises, real and fantastic, began to sweat the primal sweat of sardine lust. He speared a tiny sardine with a toothpick like a Visigoth and shoveled it in his mouth. It sat on his tongue, but only for a second. The strength of its promise overpowered his mouth-muscles and the fish swam down his throat. His sweat had covered his entire bald head like a tone poem, the low, persistent background music of strings and oboes. He quickly speared another sardine and scooped it into his mouth. Down it went, and another to replace it on his demanding tongue. And another. And another.

There was only one place in the city to get good sardines. Fresh, tightly packed, sardines, straight from the sea. Morris boarded the downtown trolley after work on Friday and headed to the Onbegone Seaport.

The crowds clanged and clamored from right to left, mixing the confusing airborne scent of marine victualry such as slabs of crabmeat, salmon on ice, and snapping lobsters in leaking tanks. Morris resigned himself to the directional discretion of his stomach and his nose. Working together, they formed a detective team while Morris’s arms and legs focused on negotiating couples, children, punks, tourists, and pickpockets. At some point he froze and his nose communicated the faint smell of sardines slightly northward. His stomach concurred. A desperate, anxious sweat on his shoulder urged him to get on as fast as he could. The crowd at the Seaport was growing dense as the day wore down, and up on the Great Stage leaning against the decommissioned U.S.S. Sleee, a gypsy band tuned their triangular instruments. People congregated in a square in front of them, preparing to dance, and onlookers loitered. Morris was on the edge of this commotion, at the mercy of his confused body, when he finally espied a booth labeled Sardines.

With four packs of fresh sardines, "straight from Crescentia," Morris snuck around the passionate gypsy band and made his way toward the trolley stop. The sun was nearly down and great white marble Central Bank shadowed the street in darkness. As the din faded behind him, he fell into a few brief moments of blissful and not yet disconcerting silence, but soon he heard voices ahead. Only blocks from the trolley stop, which was located on the far side of the imposing Central Bank, he found his progress blocked by an aggressive troop of prostitutes.

They shuffled with sass toward him, two on each side of the street. From far away, they seemed dark and malevolent, clad in leather and carrying handbags which contained untold terrors. Morris hesitated and decided that he must perform a circumnavigation of the prostitutes. He dug in his shoes and considered the topography of the street. He triangulated the distance to the trolley stop and calculated the rate of speed of the oncomers. He considered his escape routes—

"Want some candy?" And as they emerged from the shadow into the honey light of the street lamps, Morris caught sight of the two prostitutes that shared the sidewalk before him. One was white as coconut with cherry red eyes and chocolate syrup hair. She wore a puffy, powdery sugar coat and a mini-mini skirt showing off her candy cane legs. Her associate had dark skin, a swirl of chocolate and fudge, and deep, almond eyes. Morris stood transfixed.

"Come to Venus, honey. Mmmm."

It was much too late! They were too close! Strategy-be-damned, thought Morris, and he shot down the nearest side street, leaving his sardines behind in confusion as he clenched his fists to run.

He was lost. He passed a sign that read Ship Street and followed its curve deeper and deeper into shadow. The taunting of the prostitutes disappeared in the maze behind him. Two- and three-story tenements crowded the sidewalks, leaning in towards the street, blocking the sky. It was deserted, desolate. Round and round his route took him, until he found a clearing, a dead park, from where he caught the glow of the city’s bright monuments and determined that he was deep into the warren of the West Side, near the artists’ quarter.

"Why hello!" A deep rich voice greeted him. A body followed—large, imposing, covered by a loose, brown sweater. "Lost?" The ends of his moustaches curled in a smile.

"Yeah. I was...uh..."

"Don’t you worry! You’re only blocks from the West Side."

"I was looking for the trolley to go uptown."

"Nonsense! Come with me. You must be famished. And parched. Everyone gets lost around here. Even people who have lived here for years. Why don’t you recharge and refuel? I was looking for some company myself—need to kill a few hours."

"Thanks, but—" he didn’t have the words to decline the offer. "OK."

Gordon escorted him through a few more streets which deposited them on a road that intersected the neighborhood’s main thoroughfare. They ambled by wooden pubs crawling with bohemian types, restaurants with diners patting the white tablecloths, and tiny boutiques lit with lamps and the warmth of conversation. They passed a cheese shop and Morris unconsciously stopped.

He nodded and bought a pound of Gouda.

Down the busy road, Gordon held the door of Petulant Pig open for Morris. The pub was boisterous and full of men—throwing back thick, frothy brews and slapping each other’s backs. Gordon led Morris to an empty table in the corner. Morris took out his cheese, and Gordon ordered them some drinks.

"So, what brings you downtown tonight?"

"Tell me a little about yourself." Morris stated his age, occupation, where he lived.

"But what do you like to do?"

"Oh, I read. I was watching the Velocipedum last night. I like special events."

"Wonderful! I’m a sculptor and bon vivant. A little past my prime." He winked. "You caught my eye, your form against the, ahh, angular crowded row houses."

Morris swallowed his cheese like a brick. He helped it down with some beer. The sweat trickled all over like a mirrored crystal.

"I’m interested in forms and whatnot," Gordon continued. "I’m glad I ran into you, Morris! I love meeting new people! This is fascinating!"

"This is very nice, yes."

They passed the time and talked about the city. Morris was fond of trivia, and Gordon picked his brain about architecture. The beer flowed, and abruptly Morris’s stomach chimed in and called for a conference in private. When Morris returned, he found a fresh round at the table and Gordon with his arm around a friend. They could have been brothers—handsome, middle aged men with only a slight hint of delicate decay. Friendly, with deep smiles beneath their bushy moustaches.

Morris didn’t catch Gordon’s friend’s name as he began to feel a bit drunk. His cheese was nearly gone, and the thought of putting one more thing in his mouth made his stomach sputter angrily.

"Thanks. I have to go."

"You’ll do no such thing! Come out with us to the Thworp House. A bunch of us are hopping in a car in an hour or so, and we’ll spend the weekend cooking, sleeping, swimming and having fun! Don’t you want to have fun? Of course you do. We have plenty of room for guests."

"Pshaw!" said the newcomer. "What are you doing tomorrow?’

"And you live alone?"

He sipped his beer to hide his nervous scowl. His sense of decorum dictated his behavior, and it simply would be impolite to decline such a generous offer. The demon alcohol maintained a tiny yet perceptible hold on his judgment, and before he knew it he was packed in the back of a station wagon with Tim, Jim, Tom, John, Gordon, or something like that, wheels spinning as they crossed the bridge, crabgrass on the roadside blurring out the window and the long reach of darkness as the city faded away. They stopped twice for him to vomit politely before they stopped at a large house.

The Thworp House was a dilapidated beach house built in a mock Victorian style. The two levels and wide front porch gave it the impression of being larger than it really was, but for decades it had sufficed for various groups of city dwellers who sought refuge from the damp, clammy city summers by offering the damp, clammy heat of the bay at a discount of two or three degrees of temperature. It abutted sand dunes, the calm water. Presently, a group of no less than twenty middle-aged city men shared the house on weekends for their own brand of escapist frivolity.

Morris finished the evening of his long, adventurous day on a comfortable love seat where he fell asleep.

The social dominant of the group, as far as Morris could ascertain, was Jim, or John, a cheery blonde man with a thick mat of dark chest hair and a wide smile. He was friendly and took very seriously the task of introducing Morris to the housemates, even before breakfast. When that was done, Morris was introduced to the various eggs and cheeses and built himself a fortress of ham and sausages on a serving tray. He showered and put his old clothes back on, then joined the conviviality out back.

Around the pool, men held hands and conversed loquaciously. They drank beer; Morris sipped iced tea. They pulled off their shirts to reveal fat, hairy bellies with healthy tans. Morris wore his jeans and stained gray undershirt, with tiny tears in it like moon craters. They taunted him, asked him to take a dip in the pool. He demurred and sat in a reclining chair under the shade of the verandah. His sweat boiled in the humid heat. He stared out past the dunes beyond the pool, watching the occasional thin cloud in the sky, and wondered where he was.

"Come on, join us for a swim!" said John, or Jim. He wet hair looked like the gnarled root of a massive oak tree. "Live a little!"

"Oh, I'm fine here, thanks."

As the day wore on, the men became drunk and amorous. Someone set up a grill and began to make hot dogs. Morris said he'd have three.

Embarrassed, and a bit confused, he slid back into the shadows and waited for lunch. He ate alone realized he felt inordinately uncomfortable. And bored. It was unbearable, and he wanted to go home. As much as he tried to melt away and hide, he was inevitably found, ridiculed eagerly and ambiguously, and deeply ashamed.

At last, while it was still light, he gathered up his clothes and made the pretense of using the cabana bathroom to clean up. Instead, he kept walking, past the pool, over the weedy dunes, and straight through a level patch of sand that continued as far as he could see. He walked and walked, briskly at first, slowing as his energy drained and he became weighed down by the angry sweat on his every limb. The clumps of prickly weeds became crab grass. The sand stuck to his legs as he rolled along, sticking to his open sweat and then avalanching into great puffy patches like pantaloons of vegetation. Airborne briars and leaves thatched his upper body as rivulets of sparkling sweat cascaded through the lush microcosm.

He grew weak and famished, anxious and hopeless, and just as he reached an orgasm of panic, he couldn't tell if he had lost his mind or if he really heard a crowd ahead, and helicopters, and cars on asphalt, and was that even the squeaking of velocipede tires?

They zipped by like angry dragonflies. Maybe one or two hundred. A crowd moved along with them, spectators on rolling bleachers, holding sodas and water. They shouted, cheered, smiled, and pulled for their favorites.

Morris collapsed half a mile from the fertile banks of the wide road. The crowd streamed in endless procession; the Herculean athletes grinned and groaned with determination.

In his fevered vision, Morris raced with the velocipedists down a sensuous slope by a lake. The sun dipped across the placid water. In the lengthening shadows he glided past his empty towel and plunged like the sun’s reflection into the lake. He poked at the fishing line as it teased him with a rubber worm, the warm memory of sardine bait fresh in his puzzled mind and earnest belly.