If Only by Chance Novels by Erik Wallbank
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If Only by Chance Novels by Erik Wallbank The Ride The Audit If Only by Chance Plays Echo, Texas Website neverhadaboss.com email [email protected] If Only by Chance Erik Wallbank If Only By Chance published by neverhadaboss.com Copyright © 2018 Erik Wallbank ISBN: 978-0-9862865-3-7 thanks to George Shearer for the cover layout This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagi- nation or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Many of the the descriptions of places, persons, and events in this novel have been fabricated. Produced in the United States 1 "I done some shit." She was attractive. Even under a grimy wife-beater, she gave off self-containment to the point that even asking her if I could use the folding metal chair next to her would have seemed an imposition. So I just sat down. I'd ridden all night. I was in Eastern Oregon when I got the call from Dan that Domo was short a crew member for his land speed attempt at Bonneville. Domo already owns the record for the 1350cc class so he would be going after his own record—some- where around ten in the morning. First sparkles skittered off the morning salt when I set my R80gs on the sidestand and walked out towards the staging area looking for Domo's garden-snake green, aerodynamic, aluminum shrouded bike, which I found next to a trailer, from which came muffled snores. As I sometimes do when I'm tired at rest areas, I put my helmet back on and lay down with my back on the salt. I was asleep in seconds. The most refreshing sleep can come in un- expected places. When Dan woke me around nine, it was as if I'd slept all night. I wouldn't be needed except between runs and there might not be a second run. I was on call and it was beginning to heat up so I went under the canopy that was set up for riders wait- ing on their runs. "You making a run?" she asked. "No, I'm part of a crew. My guy has the record for 1350ccs," I replied, with a hint of smugness. "He's trying to break it today." "What do you do on the crew?" I was going to lie but I didn't. "They were short a guy so I rode all night to get here. If they make a second run, I'll probably be making runs to Subway." I liked her look. She wasn't at all my type—a bigger girl—135 or 140 pounds. More handsome than pretty. She was dirty but it wasn't the kind of dirt that comes through habit—it was Bonneville grime—greasy finger nails and shirt stains. Her hair needed a good wash. "Arlene Dawson, 171" came over the speakers. "Arlene, you're up." To my surprise, she stood up and pulled a skin-tight, latex rid- ing suit up over her wife-beater. "Nice talkin to ya," she said in thick Australian and headed out to the bikes. Dan came over and sat on her warm chair. "What were you and Arlene taking about?" "Not much. Who is she?" "You kidding? She's motorcyclist of the year—every year. She has the unlimited land speed record." Some minutes later the an- nouncer came back on: "Arlene's first mile—321—2 miles an hour above her record. Oh my god! I'd been sitting with a woman who rides a motorbike 321 miles an hour. I was on my feet and moving towards a spot where I would be able to see her return run—out onto the salt to where I could just make her out through the haze. She'd made the turnaround and was accelerating again towards the measured mile —two runs in opposite directions for a combined average. Sixty seconds later came the announcement: "a combined speed of 318.6 miles an hour—three-tenths of a mile off her record." I walked to where the bikes were parked—anxious. She rode slowly between two rows of bikes and when she saw me, she kept on to the end of the row. But I wouldn't be denied. I caught up to her towards the trailers. "Arlene." She turned enough to give me a look. "Arlene, can I talk to you?" "What do you need?" "I just want to talk." She turned with a look John Lennon might have given a fan who wanted him to sing "Yesterday" for his wife. She said nothing. "I want to take you to dinner?" I felt stupid. She didn't have to say anything for me to know that her afternoon and evening had ended with that second run out on the salt. 2 "How old are you?" she asked. "I'm almost 23." "That like when you tell somebody you're fifteen and a half?" "How old are you?" "I'm 28—just plain 28." "Five years older than me." "Six years older than you. And a hundred years of experience older than you. You're banging on the wrong door." "You think you're something, Arlene. Maybe I am 22, but I done some shit," I said, walking away. 2 The first two novels I wrote were fiction—this one's for real. This was too good—the beginning of a movie could come from what just happened. At least a book! A trashy book in which she would be indelibly recognizable. Uppity bitch—a hundred years more experience! It was just dinner so why slam me? Then again, she'd just missed a world record by a nudge. But why give me her unhappiness? I only want- ed to buy her dinner. Well, not quite. I gotta quit rationalizing? If it's just dinner, you don't get all anxious. She knew that. She's the world's fastest woman and she's been around. Maybe not as much as me... She knows what I want, but she sees me as a kid. Any- way, I tried, and you don't get no hits without having at-bats. Dan and Domo were doing something with the bike when I came up. "You left your gear under the canopy," said Dan. "I put it in the trailer." He introduced me to Domo, who I'd neither seen nor met. I kept quiet, listening to their talk about the bike. Domo's run was up in a few minutes. Green wasn't my color but I liked it on Domo's bike. All green except for yellow flames on the cowling 3 out front and a yellow 199 above a little yellow flame with Dan's name in yellow script as the mechanic. Domo's 199 was called. I walked towards the bike in case I might be needed and I was in luck. Dan and I pushed, fast enough to bump start, but it sputtered and died. We did it again and it caught. Dan walked back under the canopy while I stayed out on the salt watching Domo, who was lined up behind two waiting bikes. After a few minutes, he went through the first mile, then turned back into the second. When the last timer went off, I headed for the canopy to the announcement that his combined speed was 211. Just like Arlene. Missed it by a nudge. I was one step into the canopy when I saw Dan, sitting on my chair, next to Arlene—her latex suit again stripped to the waist. I looked away and walked out into the sun. Which was fine because there was some cool shit out there. I headed towards a black bike and trailer pulled by a Rolls Royce—an ensemble that looked to be worth a million bucks. The bike and its black jet-streamed shroud alone looked to be worth a million bucks. I passed by some Eng- lish accents. They probably paid a fortune just to get that kit across the pond to Bonneville. Whatever they were saying wasn't getting through to me because my reality was back there, in consternation, under the canopy. It's not easy being a genetic romantic. To most people, matter of fact people, you appear insane. You're the one who hears Miles Davis blowing "I Fall in Love Too Easily" and it never goes away. You know it's stupid, but you can't help yourself because you be- lieve that one day, maybe today, one of those love at first moments will prove true, dispelling any doubt you're a whacko. Until then, I struggle. Now there was nowhere to go and nothing to do. I was stinging from what she'd said and I wouldn't be initiating anything between us—not again. When I have feelings for a woman and she shuts me down, I'm done. I reached out and she smacked me. How stupid that sounded. Maybe there was no intention on her part to hurt me, but I was done. 4 Romantic absolutism has made for unease in my relations with women. Sometimes, after a hard bump along the road of love, I can get back to being friends, but from that point, I stay protected. I thought on her remark about fifteen and a half, which described me and her—perfectly.