The Common Lawyer

He then heard a different voice. A smaller voice.

'Is he dead?'

Damn. He hoped he wasn't dead.

Andy opened his eyes onto a dark, blurry world. He saw two figures standing there. A big Tres and a little Tres. No, Tres and a kid… holding a rope?

'Is he dead?' the kid said again.

Andy had gone into the falls right where kids played Tarzan on a rope hanging from a tree. Tres frowned at the kid then put his cell phone to his ear. Andy heard Tres' distant voice.

'Hello? Hello? Damn. Can't ever get a signal down here in the canyons.'

Tres resumed slapping Andy across the face.

'Andy! Andy!'

Andy tried to fend off Tres' blows before he suffered irreparable brain damage, but his arms were spaghetti.

'Dude, quit hitting me!'

'I'll run up and call nine-one-one.'

'I don't need an ambulance, man. I need a beer.'

'You sure?'

'Yeah, I'm sure I need a beer.'

'No. That you're okay?'

'Yeah, except I can't see. Tres-everything's dark!'

'Dude, you still got your sunglasses on.'

'Oh.'

Andy removed the glasses. Tres studied him from close range for a long moment then broke into a big grin.

'Man, that was a spectacular stack! The most awesome face plant I've ever witnessed!'

Andy extended a closed hand to Tres; they tapped knuckles. A fist-punch.

'Glad you enjoyed it. Did get the adrenaline pumping, I'll give it that.'

The kid turned away and yelled to someone, 'He ain't dead!' Then he swung out on the rope and somersaulted into the water. Tres chucked Andy on the shoulder.

'The Samson theory held true-at least this time.'

Andy tried to shake his head clear, but it just made him dizzy.

'How's the bike?'

'The bike? Who gives a shit about your bike? Look at yourself.'

Andy looked at himself. He wasn't one of those weekend warriors who wore protective armor like the pros, so his body had absorbed the full brunt of the fall. Blood striped his arms and legs where tree branches had whipped him on reentry, and his knees and elbows sported strawberry-red road rash, which meant he would have to endure a week of painful bacon. His clothes were soaking wet and ripped to shreds, which wasn't much of a financial hit since he had acquired his entire wardrobe at the St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Shop-well, except his underwear. He drew the line at used underwear.

No jagged bones jutted through his skin, and all limbs seemed in working order, although any movement of his right shoulder or left knee produced extreme pain-hence the term, 'extreme sports.' His brain bucket had stayed in place and he wasn't bleeding from his ears, so he had apparently suffered no closed-head injuries. But he was bleeding. He spit blood and wiped blood from his face, but it couldn't be that bad because Tres was still looking at him. Tres had gone to law school instead of med school as his parents had wanted because he couldn't stand the sight of blood.

'I'm good.'

His bike was not.

His sweet ride was now a yard sale. The wheels, frame, seat, and tire pump lay scattered over the white rock that was Sculpture Falls, limestone carved into crevices and furrows by the running water over millions of years. The Schwinn had slammed into the rock and disintegrated upon impact. That was bad luck. He still owed five months' payments on the bike.

'Finally got the bike dialed in, then I run into a tea party.'

'Andy, if you'd hit those rocks instead of the water, you'd be in worse shape than your bike. Why didn't you bail?'

'Bike would've nailed the old ladies.'

'Oh. A boy scout.'

Andy stood. Either he or Tres was swaying side to side, he wasn't sure whom, until Tres grabbed his shoulders.

'Steady there, partner.'

When the world finally stood still, Andy said, 'My bike.'

'I'll get what's left of it,' Tres said.

Andy waited while Tres retrieved the remains of the bike. The wheels looked like potato chips and the frame like a pretzel, the tire pump would never pump again, and the seat was now floating in the water. Andy felt like John Wayne when the bad guys had killed his favorite horse.

'My trusty steed.'

They climbed back up the ravine to the trail where they found Tres' bike and the three women waiting; they were wearing big wraparound sunglasses, visors that matched their color-coordinated outfits, and waist packs. The most dangerous obstacles on a single-track were not rocks, roots, or ruts, but white-haired walkers.

Andy sat on a boulder, removed his helmet, and ran his fingers through his thick wet hair that hung almost to his shoulders. He wore his hair long on the Samson theory: long hair made him indestructible on the bike. He dug out a few small rocks embedded in the raw hamburger meat that was his left knee, which made him grimace. One of the old ladies leaned over and yelled as if he were deaf: 'Are you okay, sonny?'

He recoiled. 'Yes, ma'am.'

The second one put on her reading glasses and examined his face from a foot away. Her breath smelled like mints.

'I was a nurse. You may need stitches.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'At least put Neosporin on those cuts,' she said, 'so you don't get an infection.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'The water's down there?' the third lady asked.

'Yes, ma'am.'

She turned to the others. 'I told you.'

'We got lost,' the first lady said. 'Took the wrong trail.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'We were checking the map. I guess we shouldn't have stopped in the middle of the trail.'

'No, ma'am.'

She shrugged. 'Our bad.'

She unzipped her waist pack and pulled out a can of Ensure. She held it out to him like a peace offering.

'Homemade Vanilla.'

Tres turned away and choked back laughter.

'Thank you, ma'am,' Andy said, 'but I've got Endurox in my CamelBak.'

He reached around and found the rubber tube hanging from the hydration pack. He put the mouthpiece between his teeth and bit down on the bite valve. Nothing came out. The CamelBak must have punctured on the fall-but the three liters of liquid cushion had probably saved him from a serious spinal cord injury.

'Or I did.'

'Endurox?' the Ensure lady said. 'Does that relieve constipation?'

Tres couldn't hold back now; he buried his face in his hands and howled.

'Constipation?' Andy said. 'Well, no, ma'am, it doesn't. At least I don't think so.'

'The key to life is fiber. I mix Metamucil with my Ensure every morning. I can set my clock by my morning