In Tandem by E. C. Traganas

“The journey of life is like a man riding a bicycle. We know he got on the bicycle and started to move. We know that at some point he will stop and get off. We know that if he stops moving and does not get off, he will fall off.” — William Golding

Queens, New York 1953

“Hop on,” the familiar voice coaxed with a slick, avuncular oiliness. “I’ll take you home.” Olga recognized the soft, confident tones with just a hint of adolescent huskiness. Big Dan was her brother’s older friend who would come around every now and then to work on their bicycles in the backyard. “Your brother said it’s okay.”

Olga glanced up from the schoolyard garden plot where she had been gathering wildflowers, pressed a golden buttercup under her chin, and smiled timidly at the hulking teenaged figure towering over her, blocking the afternoon sunlight. She assembled the feathery bouquet of cosmos and ranunculus into a tidy bundle and obediently sprang up on Big Dan’s sturdy bicycle with her spindly five-year-old’s legs, shyly settling herself on the crossbar.

“Here she goes!” Dan announced gaily. She could sense the youth’s bulky frame behind her protectively clutching the handlebars on either side of her diminutive shoulders, swaying left and right as his strong legs began to peddle the bicycle down one familiar street then another, gaining momentum, cruising comfortably until, suddenly, they veered unexpectedly away from her accustomed path, bolting wildly down into an abandoned construction site.

“This isn’t the way home,” she said with rising alarm.

“Don’t worry, we’re taking a detour,” Big Dan replied unctuously.

“But—” No, he’s my brother’s friend, she thought, checking herself.

Up and down, Big Dan’s muscular legs pumped, pedaling farther and farther away until he let the bicycle glide down a gravel incline onto a secluded railroad yard. Olga glanced up at the concrete wall enclosure looming above her, at the tangles of creeping vines, the broken bottles and crushed cans of beer and soda, the faint stench of stale urine rising up from every corner. It was eerily quiet, not a soul in sight.

“Ha! Look at that—” Big Dan exclaimed, pointing at a crude primitive chalk drawing of a pair of female breasts and grotesquely oversized penises shaped like exploding torpedoes. “Look at those tits!”

Olga felt a flutter of fear jolt through her stomach. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Her brother had warned her about this place. Just last Saturday, he abruptly shielded her eyes and pulled her away when they chanced upon the site while exploring the neighborhood. “Take me home!” she screamed.

“I will, I promise, but not yet. I want to show you something first.” Big Dan skidded his bicycle near a mound of overgrown ragweed and nettles at the mouth of the underground tunnel and came to a full stop. There was a moment of voiceless silence in the cavernous emptiness and then Olga heard a faint intake of air from the figure looming behind her. “Here,” the voice suddenly cooed softly with a honey-tongued urgency. Big Dan took her tiny frozen hand in his warm, sweaty grip and pulled it towards him. “Feel this—” Her fingers felt something slick but swollen and spongy, ballooning upwards from his trousers. “Don’t be frightened.”

“No!” she shrieked. She felt trapped, like the glass-encased flower preserved in her mother’s brooch. A sickening white frisson of shock washed over her and she found herself slithering past the stranglehold of Big Dan’s arms, pushing and scratching at his flushed and pimply face until her feet touched the dirt path and she was off sprinting madly. “Mama!” she was crying while her nimble legs pushed her frantically forward. But he was right behind her, peddling faster, panting hard and bursting into cruel, sardonic reels of laughter.

‘Mama! Mama!’ she heard him chortling in the background. “Aw, she wants her Mama…wah, wah! Ah, ha, ha!”

Olga heard an animal sound of panicked whimpering escaping from her lungs and trailing behind her like torn-off, ragged petals trampled about by a rushing whirlwind. She found herself spilling into the depths of the darkened overpass, splashing into muddy puddles, kicking away empty cans and shards of broken glass. Tripping, rolling to the side of the concrete divider, she crouched low, curling up into a defensive ball, holding her breath in check while the blood pulsed and hammered through her temples. She could hear Big Dan’s rhythmical breathing, the crunch of rubber tires on the gravel dirt side road, and the maniacal guffawing as it echoed deeper and deeper down the depths of the blackened tunnel. She waited while time stopped all around her, seconds turning into agonized minutes. And then, in the suspended vacuum of silence, a distant high-pitched whistle shattered her thoughts, springing her to her feet that now pounded their way back out the tunnel, darting along the bushes, past the embankment and back onto the side road just as a freight train emerged from under the tunnel portal barreling past her. There was a rush of air, a sharp clanging thud deep in the belly of the underpass, followed by a scrappy clanking sound of metal dragging along the locomotive’s front wheel rail guard, and then she recognized the mangled handlebar tube of the bicycle as it was slapped aside and tossed to the edge of the tracks like a useless appendage.

She stared as if entranced counting one car, two cars, five cars, a numberless procession of cars as they trundled past into the distant horizon, going somewhere, far away, taking her fears along with them: row after row of sealed boxcars, flatbed cars carrying rusted automobiles and gigantic wooden spools and pipes, jackhammers and farm machinery. She counted eighty, and finally ninety cars when the tail end of the train slowly rounded a bend and grew steadily smaller, as small as the caboose of her brother’s toy Lionel train set, and then disappeared altogether. Feeling wary, she crept up, straining her tensed muscles, dusted herself off and ran down a side street that led to her house.

Her mother was waiting for her, outside near the entrance, anxiously twisting her apron. “Do you know how late you are, young lady?” she shouted. “I was about to send your brother out with Dan to look for you!”

“Big Dan…is here?” Olga mouthed, looking up at her numbly.

“He’s in the back, working on your brother’s bike—”

The color suddenly drained from Olga’s face. She held out a trembling hand and let her mother pry apart the scrappy bouquet of wilted flowers embedded in her clenched fingers.

* * *

“Dan? Daniel—get over here, now!” the bald-headed man’s gravelly voice barked.

Olga’s mother was standing under the awning of the old wood frame house holding on to her daughter’s thin shoulders with a proprietorial grip, her body bolt upright and rigid with fury.

“Did you do this?” Dan’s father shouted. “Did you? No, don’t bother answering, you good-for-nothing—” Big Dan suddenly seemed small and shrunken to Olga, like a flaccid bicycle tire whose air had been pumped out, leaving it soft and rubbery. Dan’s father raised a ham-sized fist and sent it crashing on his son’s face. Dan flew against the clapboard wall, his body crumpling like a rag-doll. He tried to open his mouth. “Shaddup, you worthless—you’re a disgrace!”

“One more thing,” Olga’s mother added, “did my son know about this?” Dan looked up sheepishly, shook his head and furrowed his brows. “I didn’t think so. Come, Olga—”

“I’ll take care of this, I promise you,” Dan’s father said, pulling his son indoors by the collar and closing the front door.

Olga twined her hand around her mother’s arm and walked down the gravel pathway. The sun had already set when they turned the corner and walked past an empty lot dotted with pale patches of yellow wildflowers glinting in the fading twilight. Tomorrow, Olga decided, she would pick a fresh bouquet of buttercups.

E.C. Traganas

Image: ababdoned bicycle lying on its side with a broken wheel from Pixabay.com