The Bicycle Man of Carlin Hill by Harrison Kim

.

Shig Sagimoto appears to me in one short image, a slim, fedora hatted old fellow on a bicycle coasting down Carlin Hill, both hands on the handlebars.  As I observe him, he raises one arm upright into the blue sky of summer, then holds down the top of his hat, and for a few slight seconds, raises high his other hand, and balances as his bike wheels fly downhill through the hot afternoon air.  Then, he sees I’m watching.  Both hands press back to the handlebars, and he moves his head down as he pedals into the Tappen Esso parking lot.

Everyone knew him as the “bicycle man” of Tappen Creek, a Japanese Canadian who lived alone in a cabin on the old Calhoun Place, his home since the internment phase of World War Two.  Shig spoke a little English and avoided personal contact.  His brown face shone all wrinkly from the sun, his legs bowed in a wiry way.  Whenever the school bus passed as he searched for bottles at the side of the highway, he adjusted his battered fedora to fit lower over his eyes.  I’d watch from the windows and wonder “Could he give me some good advice?”

“Leave him alone, David” school bus driver Reinhart Pikker said.  “That’s what he wants.”

“I think he might be wise,” I told him.  

“He’s like a child,” Pikker continued.  “The only way to become wise is to know other people.”

Pikker, a sharp featured man who wore a black cowboy hat, served in the German Navy during World War Two.  His U Boat was captured in the Caribbean, and he spent the war at an internment camp in Arizona.  Afterwards, he immigrated to Canada and worked at various farm jobs in the Tappen area, just like Shig.  Unlike Shig, he learned fluent English and picked up his drivers’ license.  The school bus kids called him “The German.”  I liked sitting across from him because he didn’t dis me like they did.

“You’re ugly, David” they chanted in my face.  “You think you’re good-looking, but you’ve got a real crooked nose….”

“You’re wearing your pajama top,” added Sandy H., a tall, long faced girl with a loud voice.   “Why do you talk so much to the German?”

“I like his accent,” I said, then looked down to see the tell-tale stripes of my night wear.

I lived in a whirl of daydreams.  My favorite fantasy was being the only person alive after the end of the world, except for Sandy’s quiet friend, Connie C., who sat at the back of the bus, showing her perfect high-cheek profile as she stared out the window.  I dreamed of starting the world over with her.

“What do you think of the bicycle man?” I asked Connie.

She didn’t answer for a moment.  Then she turned her head and said, “Why does he want to be so alone?”

She gazed at me with big green eyes. I looked past her, concentrated on the birds flapping round the hydro wires, and said nothing.

Sandy H. giggled.  “You’re going to be alone the rest of your life, David.”

I understood then why Shig might want to keep his eyes down.  At least on this occasion I wasn’t wearing my pajama top.

One Saturday afternoon, my friend Ellis and his sidekick Fowler walked into Shig’s home.  

“The door was wide open,” Ellis told me.

“What did it look like?”  I asked.

“Western,” Fowler said.  He laughed.  “We opened the refrigerator and took a bunch of Shig’s beef jerky.”

“I think he makes his own,” said Ellis.

“The last Japanese didn’t surrender until 1974,” Fowler continued.  “They kept fighting on these remote Pacific Islands.”

“He doesn’t look like an enemy,” I said.

“He’s got a rifle,” said Fowler.

“My mom knew him.  He told her once that he lives in his dreams,” Ellis said.  “Do you want to go check out his place?”

“That beef jerky is on your conscience,” I said.  “I’m going to build a lean-to on the mountain and camp out under the stars.”

“Are you pissed off at us?” Ellis asked.

“It doesn’t seem right,” I said.

The more I thought about Fowler and Ellis, the better the lean-to idea sounded.  I walked home, borrowed my Dad’s axe and headed up the mountain.

A couple of weeks later Fowler invaded Shig’s place again and stole his rifle.  He made sure Shig was out, walked in and shoved the gun down the front of his pants. Farmer Calhoun caught him stepping funny down the road with the barrel sticking out the top of his shirt and called the police

“The Judge told Fowler if he joined the army he wouldn’t go to jail.” Ellis said as he tinkled away at the school piano.  “They sent him to do peace keeping in Egypt.”

“I guess he’s eighteen,” I nodded. “Old enough to join.”

“He was breaking into places all over the valley,” said Ellis. He played a few bars of “Wipeout.”

“Fowler played drums real well.  Maybe you could help me out now he’s gone.”

I frowned. “I can bang the bongos.”

“Sure.  We could form a band,” Ellis added.

By now I’d finished my lean-to on the mountain and tried camping there overnight. The roof leaked and smoke from my campfire billowed in.  I wondered how Shig could live by himself in his old shack.

“Did you even see a bathroom at his place?” I asked Ellis.

He looked up from the piano.  “I was just following Fowler,” he said. 

“What else did your Mom say about Shig?”

“Not much. She got moved up from the coast during the war like everyone else,” he told me.  “She was only ten years old.  Shig was already working at the farm back then.  He didn’t talk much to anyone, even to her.”

“I guess he didn’t tell any of his secrets,” I said.

Ellis nodded.  “I bought some beef jerky for him.  Maybe he’ll like it better than his own.”

Ellis and I hiked over the hill to Shig’s place. We crept to the cabin and peered in one window.   An old record player played squeaky music.  I raised my head again and Shig’s eyes peered at me from the other side.

“This is for you!” Ellis said and held up a few meat packages.

Shig pulled the curtains shut.

“I think he’s going to get his gun,” I said.

We dropped the jerky by the window, along with a note, and tore off down the hill.  The note read “I hope you like our gift.  Sorry to have disturbed you.”

Even though Ellis’ piano fingers beckoned “sit with me,” I couldn’t go to the back of the bus, Connie’s looks made me anxious and Sandy yelled insults like “you wore your shirt inside-out again.  You’re gonna end up in the mental hospital.” 

I stayed up front and talked to Pikker, as Shig wobbled his bike across the Tappen bridge on the road ahead of us.

“It’s tough being alone,” I said.

“I live with it,” Pikker told me.

“Why didn’t you get married?” I asked.

Pikker shrugged.  “I don’t answer personal questions,” he said.

Shig turned his wheels, took off down a side path.

“Maybe the two of you could be friends,” I offered.

Pikker shook his head. 

“We’ve got nothing in common,” he said. “He wasn’t even in the war.”

I saw Shig the next time a few days later, coasting down the hill to the Tappen Esso parking lot with his hands in the air, the image I always remember.  He stopped when he saw me, laid his bike against the station sign and shouted in my direction.  His voice sounded rough, out of practice. 

“I give you some advice,” he said.   “Don’t come around my house.  I will shoot you.  One last thing.  I don’t like your beef jerky.”

Then he turned his back and walked into the Esso, holding his hat down with one hand.

“Some people just want to be left in their dreams,” I told Pikker as I stepped on the bus the next day.

That morning, I made sure I wore normal clothing, the right way around. I brushed my teeth. On the way to the bus stop, I picked a dandelion flower and a wild rose.  I walked right to Connie’s seat, sat down beside her, laid one flower on each of my knees.  She smiled.

 “That’s very cool,” she said.

“Yes,” I told her. “I’m starting the world over.”

I passed the dandelion to Sandy, and she grimaced, flung it aside.  

“One day,” I said, “I hope you’ll appreciate this moment.”

I reached for the rose.

Harrison Kim

Image by Tomáš Sova from Pixabay – A pile of Beef Jerky