Training Wheels by Yance Wyatt

So, Terry is in the middle of the cul-de-sac with a screwdriver in either hand: a Black & Decker and a Grey Goose & Tropicana.  He twists his lips at the first sip.  Must’ve just brushed his teeth.  

“Get up.”

“I can’t.” 

“Don’t ever say can’t.”

“Never?”

“And never say never.”

Terry picks a strand of pulp from the tip of his tongue.  

“I said get up.”

I pull myself and my five-speed Falcon from the blacktop.  There’s a horn on the handlebar and an ace of spades in the tube of the rear wheel so that if I ever get going, it’ll tick.  

Terry was pissed last night when he found out his deck was down to fifty-one.  He undid his belt in front of his friends, and he would’ve gotten me if Mom hadn’t brought in the other deck right then.  

“Next time,” she warned me, “take the joker.”  

“I don’t have all day,” he says, rattling his ice. 

I step over the crossbar and stand above the not-quite-triangular seat.  I begin to walk, then jog, then run—before sitting down and feeling for the pedals with my feet.  The wheels wobble beneath my weight, and I lean to whichever side is opposite, just as Terry demonstrated on his Harley.

The Harley is his latest hobby, but he only rides it Sunday mornings when he has the PCH to himself.  Most of the time he just rubs it with Armor All in the garage then dry-humps it around the cul-de-sac until the neighbors come out and compliment him.  He gave it to himself for Christmas, the same day he gave me the Falcon, as if I was his protégé or something.  He made me sit on it to prove it wasn’t a toy.  I twisted the throttle when he said so, and the thing quit purring and roared like a mountain lion.  I wanted to cry but I didn’t.  Like now.   

I stare straight ahead for fear of losing balance, and the neighborhood becomes a blur of brick and stucco and left-up holiday lights.  I have tunnel vision.  Mom’s at the end of the tunnel.  She’s pretending not to watch from the kitchen window, but each time I crash she winces and looks down into the sink.  

Veering off, I hit a curb and get thrown from the bike, which goes on cartwheeling even after I come to a halt before the training wheels Terry took off.  I bring my busted knees to my chin and wrap my arms around them, waiting for my nerves to register the pain.  

Terry doesn’t budge. He just wags the shaft of his Black & Decker. 

“Get up.” 

“I can’t.”

“What did I tell you about can’t?”

“I can’t say it.”

“You said it again.”

“I’m not allowed to say it.”

“That’s more like it.  Now get up.”

Mom’s no longer in the window.  Now it’s just me and Terry, her idea of a man.  

I go through the whole routine again: walking, jogging, running beside the thing. But this time I run faster and peddle harder, because this time I’m going to crash like none other.  I’m going to make sure I bend the bike beyond repair, and if I’m lucky, I’ll smash my skull so the neighbors come rushing out to see me in a halo of blood, someone calls an ambulance, and Mom leaves Terry the day before my funeral—though he’ll attend anyway, knowing him.  Even if he doesn’t, he’ll just drink himself to death on account of the guilt, and then we’ll be buried side by side.  See what I’m dealing with?  I can’t escape this guy.   

That isn’t how it happens, of course.  The harder I peddle, the steadier the bike.  

Thinking I’ve learned my lesson, Terry goes inside for a refill and an oil change.  

Dipstick. 

Yance Wyatt earned a master’s in fiction from the University of Southern California before becoming Director of the Writing Center and Associate Professor in the Writing Program. His stories have been published in over a dozen journals including ZYZZYVA and THEMA, two of which were nominated for The Pushcart Prize. 

29 October 2021