He was a gutter bunny-he commuted to work by bike-but he had always commuted on a mountain bike. His only mode of transportation that day was an old Huffy BMX that Tres had lent him until he could replace the Schwinn-but who knew when that would happen. He sat on the Huffy and sank; it had a flat tire.
Figured.
He went back inside and found a pump. He inflated the tire then climbed aboard again. He strapped on the helmet, inserted his sunglasses, and rode down the porch steps and the front sidewalk to the street. He stopped and looked both ways. He could turn south and take James Street, which was more direct, or he could turn north and take Nellie Street, which held the promise of an early morning adrenaline rush.
He turned north.
No doubt he looked like a dork riding a boy's candy-apple-red twenty-inch Huffy, but it was that or walk to work. He clicked the razor on and ran the rotating blades over his face. He whistled to Max, who bounded after him. Two houses down, he saw Liz out front tending her Xeriscape landscaping; he gave her a sheepish 'Sorry about that.' She just smiled. Of course, it wasn't the first time she had seen him naked.
He rode on and gazed upon the downtown skyline.
Austin sat at the edge of the Texas Hill Country where the flat prairie land first began to rise and wrinkle up like Andy's shirt, so the town's topography was full of ups and downs and twists and turns; the roadways followed the lay of the land. Newton Street was a narrow residential lane that ran north-south on one of the 'ups.' From that vantage point, Andy could see the skyscrapers of downtown rising in sharp relief against the blue sky and the construction cranes towering over new condos and hotels going up, all of which now blocked the view of the state capitol unless you were standing in the middle of Congress Avenue-a crime committed by developers and sanctioned by the city. Austin was a hot market, and there was money to be made, so city hall and developers, once lethal adversaries in Austin, had joined forces to pillage the place for profit.
His mother often said, 'Money makes good men do bad things.'
Newton followed the perimeter fence line of the School for the Deaf then made a sharp turn to the east- which turn Andy now made-and became Nellie Street. Nellie abruptly pitched downward at a sharp angle on its short journey to Congress Avenue, which ran north-south in one of the 'downs.'
Andy picked up speed.
By the time you hit Congress, you could build up a pretty good head of steam flying down Nellie. Andy had once hit Congress at full speed only to have his brakes fail; he flew right through the intersection and crashed into the patio at Doc's Motorworks Bar amp; Grill. He tapped the Huffy's coaster brakes; they were in working order.
He pushed the razor into his pants pocket. He sat up, adjusted his helmet and sunglasses, and watched the traffic light at the bottom of the hill where Nellie intersected Congress to form a T. The white pedestrian WALK signal to cross Congress changed to a flashing red DON'T WALK; he had exactly twenty-four seconds.
Congress was a broad five-lane avenue that served as a major north-south commuting route. It was morning rush hour, and traffic was backed up at the light. Impatient drivers revved their SUV's big engines, in no mood to wait for pedestrians to cross Congress or share the crowded lanes with cyclists. Austin was officially a bicycle- friendly town, but the memo had never gotten to motorists; you get in their way and they'll run you down like a vindictive mother-in-law. Add in the fact that they were probably hung over and late for work, and a cyclist cutting in front of them made for a volatile mix on a Monday morning. Consequently, any gutter bunny foolish enough to challenge automobile traffic on Congress Avenue during rush hour was well-advised to have his last will and testament up to date.
On the other hand, if Andy timed it perfectly, he could hit the intersection just as the north-south light changed from red to green and beat the cars heading south on Congress; he'd be leading the pack instead of merging into the pack. Of course, less-than-perfect timing and he'd broadside a southbound car, be ejected from the bike, and hurtle through the air until his body collided with a northbound car, resulting in death or serious bodily injury.
He hadn't had a shot of caffeine yet, so it seemed like a reasonable risk. Max, though, wasn't so sure; he was keeping pace from a safe distance on the sidewalk.
Andy steered to the far left of the road. He picked up speed fast now; he tapped the brakes to time the light.
Forty yards from the intersection, he had ten seconds.
Thirty yards and seven seconds.
Twenty yards and five seconds.
Ten yards and three seconds… two… one…
He hit Congress just as the north-south light turned green, leaned hard to the right, and swerved into the southbound lanes in a wide arc. Angry horns honked behind him, and Andy heard the roar of massive engines as drivers put their pedals to the metal, but he was a block out front before the SUVs cleared the intersection. They were just losers eating his dust. He straightened his course, sat up, and tried to raise both arms into the air like Lance Armstrong crossing the finish line at the Tour de France-but he winced with pain. His right arm still wouldn't go past half-mast, so he settled for one raised fist.
'Yee-hah!'
He had won that morning, for what it was worth. He glided past the 1200 block of funky SoCo shops-Vivid and Blackmail and Pink Hair Salon amp; Gallery-and the Austin Motel, a favorite stop of Julia Roberts and your other celebrity types, then skidded to a stop at Jo's Hot Coffee. He leaned the Huffy against the newspaper racks lined up along the curb and removed his helmet. He passed on the Texas papers and the New York Times and grabbed a free Austin Chronicle, the bible of SoCo. Just then one of the SUVers blew past, yelled 'Asshole!' and gave Andy the finger.
'Drink decaf!' Andy yelled back.
Okay, that was lame, but it was the best retort he could come up with before his morning coffee. Max barked to show his solidarity-or he wanted a muffin. Smart dog that he was, Max had stayed on the sidewalk all the way to Jo's.
'You want a muffin, big boy?'
Max bounced up and down and barked a Yes! Yes, I do!
A Great Dane the size of a small horse stood at the sidewalk tables next to its guardian-in dog-friendly Austin, you were not a 'dog owner'; you were a 'dog guardian.' The Dane gave Max a guttural growl. Max ducked behind Andy's legs.
They stepped to the back of the line that looped down the sidewalk. There was no walk-in lobby or drive- through lane at Jo's. It was a walk-up place, a small green structure stationed curbside on Congress in the parking lot of the hip Hotel San Jose. Jo's catered to those Austinites who loved good coffee but hated corporate conglomerates and so could not in good liberal conscience drink Starbucks. Jo's cost almost as much, but Andy preferred the place because (a) it was locally-owned, (b) the coffee was stronger than Starbucks, and (c) you didn't have to say 'venti.' You could just say large.
Andy said, 'Large.'
'Like I don't know, three thousand straight days I've made your coffee.'
Guillermo Garza. Every morning since Andy had first moved into SoCo ten years before, he had stopped at Jo's and bought a large coffee and a muffin, two since his dad had transferred guardianship of Max to him.
'Banana nut muffin for me and a…'
Max was fixated on the freshly-baked muffins behind the low glass display; the intoxicating smell had him salivating only slightly more than Andy.
'Max, you want banana nut or blueberry?' Max barked. 'Blueberry?' Another bark. Back to Guillermo: 'Max is going for a blueberry this morning.'
Guillermo bagged the muffins and nodded at the Huffy.
'You steal a kid's bike?'
'Crashed the Schwinn.'
'You land on your face?'
'Several times.'
Guillermo pointed down the street.
'I saw that stunt you just pulled coming off Nellie. One of those SUVs hits you, dude, you're a piece of
