Andy’s mind was racing. He needed to calm down, so he put on Are You Shakesperienced for the second time today, and for approximately the fifteen-thousandth time since August 5th, 1991, when he found the CD in a second-hand bin in a used record store on Lake Street in Minneapolis, when he was 15. The jaunty strains of “Diane” flowed into his veins and instantly he was back in his teenage bedroom in St. Paul, reading his older brother’s torn copy of The Dark Knight and swatting mosquitos that had made it through the many gaps in his window screen. It was suddenly summer, and he was happy again. He closed his eyes, and tried to forget the most hideous reality:
His bike was in the shop.
This was a problem on more than one level. Not only did he have to face riding a bus to work (and back home, later on) this evening, but his only anxiety-management equipment was in the shop, which meant A) he was not going to manage his anxiety very well, especially because he couldn’t just play Are You Shakesperienced for six hours straight at the bar, and B) it meant his Bianchi Pista was fallible. His therapist had reminded him that everyone needs the occasional tuneup, that no-one functions perfectly all the time. And the Pista did its utmost to disprove that. But the winter potholes of Denver can shake any screw loose.
Fortunately, of course, he had this CD. The only thing in his worldly possessions that had even survived since 1991, and it was still perfect. No skips; no scratches; even the jewel box was completely unblemished. The Cover-art booklet was worn, sure, but he hadn’t even taken it out in over a quarter-century. He knew all the words, the run time and personnel for each track, even the copyright and publishing information. On bad days, he could recite all of it like a litany, like a transcendental mantra, and peace would be restored to the world.
The Pista was the only other thing that came even close.
He put on his white shirt, the comfort-fit jeans that really made bartending so much easier these days, and his shoes. And just as his therapist had coached him, he envisioned his commute, his shift behind the bar, the closing routine, and the bus ride home. And he promised himself —without ever quite believing it — that everything was going to be ok. Even if some douchebag went over to the jukebox at 1:45 a.m. and played Closing Time. It was going to be ok.
It was going to be ok.
He put on his jacket and grabbed his phone from the charger on his dresser, left his apartment building, and headed to the bus stop, still humming “Toolmaster of Brainerd.” His phone vibrated.
Someone had sent him a message on Facebook.
Their profile photo was a Cannondale Synapse.
Weird.
©2020 by Nick Trotter. All rights reserved.