Swing State by Michael T. Fournier

Author:Michael T. Fournier
Language: nld
Format: epub
Publisher: Three Rooms Press

18.

BIKING WAS UNCOMFORTABLE, BUT ZACHARIAH STILL thought of it as the best way to lose weight. And riding his bike made him feel bold; he knew, despite his size, that he was still faster on two wheels than anyone was on foot.

He went on the Patch Bike Challenge.

The kids at soccer practice had talked about the place in the woods where the older, high school types went to drink beer and smoke cigarettes and make out: no middle schoolers allowed. Sal the goalie knew a kid who had a brother whose friend had been beaten up by kids who hung out there; Sal’s friend’s brother’s friend simply dared to walk the trails behind the L’il Bee and had landed in the hospital with a broken arm.

Yet the Patch was magnetic despite its potential dangers. For one, there was an abandoned hearse out there. Zachariah had heard about it for years. He was pleased to discover, after his initial visit, that it lived up to its lofty reputation. Layers of graffiti which struck him as archeological in nature, applied and reapplied by generations of high schoolers, giant spouting penises among the more specific messages boasting JOHN G. CRUSHED BEERS and TOM BLEW A WAD HERE 7/98 and MARIANNE GIVES GREAT HEAD and, simply, PUSSY. It was fascinating stuff—evidence that the hearse, with its patina of broken glass and bottle caps, rusty springs bursting from tears in the seats, which looked and felt like real leather, had been an institution for years. Zachariah wanted to ask his dad about it—how it had gotten there, and when—but feared doing so would incur a beating, reminding Paul Tietz of the good times he’d had prior to Zachariah’s accidental arrival, or, alternately, some ill-fated visit. He didn’t know who else he could ask and hadn’t found any information about it online.

There were the quarries out there, too. On his initial visit he heard them well in advance of seeing them—the echoes of splashes and yells hit him even before his arrival at the long, steady hill leading to the path spilling onto the spray-painted granite rim. He had been spooked by the sounds and stopped his ascent. Stupid. The only way to get to the top on his bike was with a full head of steam.

His next visit was quiet. No jumpers. Nobody at all. He could explore.

At the far end of the quarry, near a stubby granite jut named Cock, was a path. He walked it with his bike, winding past unrecognizable tall plants.

With each passing minute, Zachariah wondered if he was on a path to nowhere. At some point he’d have to turn around. He didn’t want to get stuck in the woods after dark.

Then he saw a ring of unfinished houses in the distance.

This was the Mayers Road development, he knew—the boundary his father had set for his biking, past the trailer park. He remembered his dad talking about a rich developer—Paul called him a Masshole—thinking that nice houses would be a fine addition to Armbrister.

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