Bradbury, Ray - SSC 10 (3 page)

The Young Man
But
I've never heard of an accident like this in all my life!

The Old Man
(fascinated
with
the
doc)
That
you didn't!

The Young Man
Are
you sure there were absolutely no cars?

The Old Man
None.

The Young Man
Only
these two men on their bikes?

The Old Man
(turning)
Only
!
Only!

The Young Man
(embarrassed)
I mean—

The Old Man
Great
gods, man,
what
do you
know
of
buy-cycles?

The Young Man
Just—

The Old Man
Just
nothing! Clear the way!

the old man
fists
a path to the two bikes leaned to the wall.
Flynn! Donovan! Lend a hand! Casey, the other bike!

He kicks the
hackstand
of the bike down. He
swings astride a
bike. The men grab
front and back to steady it.
CASEY
does like
wise with the
second bike.

Where
am I now?

The Young Man
In
Heeber
Finn's—

The Old Man

No!
I'm on the
Meynooth
Road
. . . idling home lazy as you
please . . .

He pumps. The back wheel, being free, hums quietly at a nice
easy
pace,
casey
pumps, too.

(Listens)
I hear a church
bell. I know I'm late for meals. So
what
do I do?

The Young Man
(trying)
Go faster?

The Old Man

Now
you're with it, lad! Faster I go! Where before I was toddling
along easy at twenty or twenty-five, now here I
work up a driz
zling sweat at—

Flynn

Forty
an hour!

The Old Man
Forty-five!
Fifty!

He pumps furiously, bent down in concentrated passion.

Now
with a long downhill glide I hit sixty! So here I come, with
no front or
taillights.

The Young Man
Isn't
there a law against that?

The Old Man
To hell with government interference!
So here I come!

Casey
And here /
come!
the
other way!

Both
pump
furiously, heads down.

The Old Man

The
two of us, no lights, heads down, flying home from one
town to the next, thrashing like Sin
himself's
at our behinds!
Both going opposite ways—

Casey
But both
on the
same side
of the road!

The Old Man

Always
ride the wrong side
of the road, lad, it's safer, they
say!
But look on those boys, fair
destroyed by all that official palaver. Why? One remembered it, the other
didn't! Better if the officials kept their mouths shut! For there the two boys
lie, dying!

the young man
stares.
The wheels hum, whining!

The Young Man
Dying?

Casey
(pumping)

Well,
think on it, man! What stands between two able-bodied
hell-bent
fellas
jumping
along the path from
Kilcock
to
Mey-nooth
?

The Old Man
(pumping)

Fog!
Fog is all.
Only fog to keep their skulls from bashing to
gether.
So look now! Here we come,
bang!
The old man jerks his bike up in the air with a
grand whining,
humming flourish, as
does
casey.

There
we go, nine feet up in the air, heads together like dear
chums met, flailing the mist, our bikes clenched
like two tom
cats. Then we all fall
down and just lay there, feeling around for the Dark Angel.

They let the bikes jail and stand over them, looking down at the
imaginary
wreckage.

the young man
looks
from them to the bar.

The Young Man
Surely
these men won't—

Casey

Oh,
won't
they?
Why, last year alone in all the
Free State
, no
night passed some soul did not meet in fatal
collision with an
other.

The Young Man
(aghast)

You
mean to say over three hundred Irish bicyclists die every
year, hitting each other?

the old man
bows
his head as at the grave of a friend.

The Old Man
God's
truth and a pity!

heeber
FINN
eyes the "bodies."

Finn
I never ride my bike nights. I
walk.

The Young Man
Why
. . . let's get them to a hospital, then, quick!

the old man
is
mildly irritated at this interruption of their
round-robin discussion.

The Old Man
One thing at a time, please.
You
was
saying, Finn . .
. ?

Finn

I
walk!

Casey
But even
walking, the damn bikes run you down!

The Old Man
True!

Casey

Awheel
, or afoot, some idiot's always
pantin
' up
doom the other
way, they'd sooner
split you down the seam than wave hello!

The Young Man
(touching
the old
man's
elbow)
The
victims here—

The Old Man

One moment, lad.
(Shakes head)
Ah, the brave men I've seen
ruined or half-ruined or worse, and headaches their
lifetimes
after.

He looks at the bicycles on the floor between them, and trembles,
his eyelids shut.

You
might almost think, mightn't you, that human
beings was
not made to handle such delicate
instruments of power.

The Young Man
(still
dazed)
Three hundred dead each
year . . .

Casey

And
that don't count the "
walkin
' wounded" by
the thousands
every fortnight who,
cursing, throw their bikes in the bog forever
and take government pensions to salve their all-but-murdered
bodies.

The Young Man
(nervously)
I hate to bring it up but should
we stand here just
talking?

The Old Man
(wounded,
as are the others)
Just
talking! We're debating the problems and making
the deci
sions! Look there, do
ya
see?

They look.

the doc,
quite
obviously enjoying his moment of power in
center stage of the crowd, walks back and forth between the two
creatures on the bar. The crowd looks after him
from right to
left. He is building his
moment of suspense. He squints one eye,
closes both, rubs his chin, scratches his ear.

The Men
(restlessly)
Ah
...

the doc
realizing
he has gone almost too jar, feeling his audience
begin to drift away, now snatches their attention back by
straightening up and exhaling briskly.

The Doc

Well,
now!

The men quicken.

the old man
whispers
to
the
YOUNG
man,
grabbing his arm.

The Old Man
He's
ready for his pronouncement!

the doc,
veteran
of much medical play-acting, rocks on his feet,
and points at the first "body."

The Doc
This
chap here—

The crowd leans toward the chap.

Bruises, lacerations, and
agonizin
'
backaches for two weeks run-
nin
'.

Everyone nods at the shame of it.
the doc
now turns to the
other and
makes his face grim. The men lean that way.

As
for this one—

He pauses.

(In a dramatic whisper)
Concussion.

All
Concussion!

The quiet wind of their voices rises and falls in the silence.

The Doc

He'll
survive if we run him quick now to
Meynooth
Clinic.
Now then—whose car will volunteer?

The crowd looks at itself,
then
turns as a
staring body toward
the young man.
He
feels the gentle shift as he is drawn from outside the ritual to its deep and
innermost core. He looks about,
thinking
perhaps there may be another volunteer. Then he walks
to the door, half opens it, and looks out.

The Young Man
{counting)

. . .
twelve
. . . fourteen . . . sixteen bicycles . . . and,
two
hundred yards down the road . . .
one automobile . . .
mine.

The Old Man
Praise
God, that's fortunate!

the young man
turns
sheepishly. The crowd leans toward him.
the young man
nods, once,
the doc
quickens with
gratitude.

The Doc

A
volunteer!! Quick, lads, now, hustle this victim—gently—to
our good friend's vehicle. Take his keys. Drive
the car up out
side!

the young man
holds
out the keys as someone runs by, seizing
them. The men reach out to lift the body and freeze when
the
young man
clears his throat. All look to him.
the young man
circles them with his hand, tips his cupped hand
to his mouth,
and nods at
finn.
The men gasp.

Casey
He's
right, of course! It's a cold night. One for the road!

heeber finn
Unes
up the shot glasses lip to
Up
and sprinkles
them all quickly with the passing bottle. Hands
seize the glasses. One of the victims is taken off the bar and set in a chair,
where,
reviving, his face like a
white cheese, he feels a glass put in his
trembly
hand.

The Old Man
Here,
lad, now
...
tell
us
...

Casey
What
happened, eh . . . ?eh?

The drinks are gulped. The second victim is hefted. The men
head for the door,
the young man,
amazed, watches them go,
his drink in his hand.

The Old Man
Finish
your drink,
Mr.
. . . ?

The Young Man
{faintly)
McGuire.

The Old Man
By the saints, he
is
Irish!

the young man
looks
—
at the recovering victim, at the bar, the
mirrors,
the two bikes against the wall, the fog seeping in through
the door, then, at last, at
the old man,
and the depths of the
drink in his hand.