Getting Off

Getting Off

A SHORT STORY BY DAN PURJES/Like I took this spill, see? On the highway it was, the Major Deegan Highway in the Bronx. I was doing oh sixty, maybe sixty-five, when BANG! I’m down on the ground falling ass-over-elbows. It happened so fast I didn’t even know what happened. I mean, one minute I was mounted up there sitting high and mighty and the next minute I’m rolling on the ground like tumbleweed in a storm. And all I can think of is God Almighty, when am I gonna stop this damn tumbling. It looks like it’s gonna last forever. I keep rolling and rolling and I’m praying nothing runs over me.

So finally I stop sliding, see, and this ain’t my first spill so I know what to do. I take stock of the situation, as they say, and I see I’m still in the right lane, so like a shot I jump for the shoulder before some dummy makes a pancake out of me.

The bike is farther down the road a piece—about fifty yards—and I’m kind of surprised to see it’s still in the same lane. I guess I was pretty lucky ’cause the bike and me stayed in the same lane; we didn’t slide over any other lane except our own. I just glance at the bike from where I am on the shoulder and then I sort of lie down and close my eyes. They say the first thing a true motorcyclist thinks of after a spill is his bike. That’s a lot of crap. There’s a lot of things in life you start to believe in until it happens to you. They say you see your life rushing by when you’re staring death in the face. That’s a lot of crap too. Usually you think about something real stupid when it’s happening, like when will you ever stop tumbling round and round, or you may notice how red the tips of a shark’s teeth are before they rip your head off. I don’t know much about the second thing-sharks and all— ’cause it never happened to me. I’m just using it as an example. And afterward, you probably don’t care to do much thinking for awhile. So I didn’t think too much about the bike. After all, one glance told me I’ll never ride again. Not that machine.

Anyway, I’m just lying there on the shoulder with my eyes closed for awhile, and in my ears I can hear traffic building up, cars blowing their horns and all, but who cares. I sort of feel around my body with my mind to see what kind of shape I’m in. It doesn’t feel too bad, but who knows, maybe I’m dead and just haven’t found out about it yet. I smile a little at that, but it’s an inside type of smile—my lips don’t move.

My eyes open a slit and I see traffic is really bad. The funny thing is nobody is doing anything about it. Everybody is waiting for somebody else and his mother to take care of it. The bike is flopped over the right lane like a dead elephant and pieces of it are all over the middle lane, so the only one that’s open is the left one.

Now, I’m just sort of sitting there, see, my back against the guard rail with my legs stretched out in front of me and I’m starting to wonder why nobody’s coming to take a look at me. I mean, I’m still pretty shook up and I’m bleeding a little here and there—nothing too painful, see, but enough to shake me up-and I’m wondering what the hell is it with these people. Lookit, my eyes are closed and ...Jesus Christ! I could be dead or something and these people wouldn’t care. They don’t want to get involved. And that makes me sad. It makes me very sad. And a little afraid, too, you know what I mean?

When I open my eyes, I can see them lowering their electric-powered windows to stick their heads out for a better look. And I can hear the ones farther behind curse and swear about these Goddamn motorcyclists. They should all be illegalized and outlawed off the road. One guy passes by and yells at me to get my freaking bike off the road. It makes me want to puke.

Now, I’m starting to get mad, see? Wouldn’t you? Sure, a few people open the windows and poke their heads out a bit to ask me if I’m all right, but they don’t even bother to stop for an answer. Which makes me even madder. The thing is, who can I get even with? How can I take it out on fifty million motorists who just don’t give a damn?

Finally, I get up. A little wobbly, right, but not too bad considering. I limp over to the machine, giving the folks a little show, making it look like I’m really screwed up. I’m not sure why-like I say, the folks don’t give any kind of damn.

The bike is totaled. It’s twisted and broken and gasoline is all around. It looks like a beautiful animal, once so proud and free, now lying in its own pool of blood. And I feel like crying. Yeah, would you believe it? Me. Me! They say I got a heart like the pistons in my machine, but now I don’t understand what’s happening. There are thousands of people around me and it’s only a bike, but I feel so lonely and so sad. God, how bad I feel.

And then it comes to me. A funeral for my bike and a way to get back at the kindly public. I light a smoke and turn to face the crowd. The bastards are jumping on their idiot horns and screaming at me to move the bike. Smile at them is all I do, real cool-like. As they pass by on the left, one by one they curse at me, even the little old ladies. I smile calmly, puffing on the smoke. I feel like Steve McQueen. After a couple of minutes, I salute the crowd and then flick the cigarette into the gasoline.

Oh, man! You should have seen those screaming idiots leaping out of their cars, like popcorn from a frying pan. I move away a few feet but the explosion is small, as I figured it would be; there was little gas left in the tank.

Well, let me tell you, I was starting to feel better right away. The fire was warming me on the outside and the sight of those crumbs running all over the place was taking care of my insides. And what the hell, I had insurance, right? For fire, no less.

Well, like' they say, all things must pass. The cops came to clear away the mess and traffic started to flow again and the only thing that was different was some charred highway and a lone motorcyclist nearby. Yeah, that’s right-me. See, I still didn’t know what it was that threw me. As far as I could recall, things were perfectly smooth right to the last. I didn’t see any oil or potholes or anything like that. All it was, see, was I was doing about seventy-five, oh, maybe eighty per when all of a sudden WHAMO! I’m kissing the ground.

So I start looking around for the cause, you know? And I’m starting to feel down again. It’s getting dark and cold and the cars and people are whizzing by so’s they can squeeze in another five minutes of indigestion in front of the idiot tube. And I’m starting to feel a little lonely again.

To cheer myself up, I get to thinking about what a yarn I got for the guys. Fellas, I’ll say, there I was pushing ninety-yeah, ninety-when the Hand of God Himself smacks me right off. Now, you guys can’t even begin to know....

I think I found it. Something lying on the side of the road; it looks like it’s been thrown there. I come a little closer and I see...a dog. A small mongrel, mostly hound I’d say, with a hound’s sad eyes. A nice looking dog in a way. It was nobody’s dog really, just a dog but nice looking. Except for the 3.50-19 tire treads running over its belly.

I’m really feeling low now. It’s been a hard day, so I try to ease up on myself. I tell myself, what the hell it’s only a dog, right? I mean, what the hell is a dog. Only a dog. What the hell. I think I was crying. [Ô]