I pedaled by the woman on the porch laughing
and talking to the young mother pushing
the baby stroller down
the sidewalk.

Past the aggravated lady on the cruiser that
crashed into the chain link fence who was looking
down at her smashed wicker basket as it lay
sadly on the sidewalk in defeat.

Just beating the blind old man in
the muscle car past the driveway
before he could give me the
left hook for the 3rd time.

Alongside the big trucks pouring
the new concrete sidewalk that
borders the new asphalt in
the library parking lot.

Past the stooped over man taking
his oxygen tank out for a walk in
the morning shade of
the big trees.

Down the stairs to
the basement where
the adventure ends and
the uneventful routine begins.

On a rocky ledge

Above the Winter snow -

Winnemucca Lake in July

Last night I dreamt of the forest gypsy again. But as always, she slips into the copse beyond the brook before I can talk to her or even see her face.

Last days of school
One thousand voices speaking at once
Sand in my sandwich

I began to wonder if the walrus dreams in corduroy as it slides through the lush slippery meadows of Aunt Jean’s back 40. It got me to thinking that I carry around way too much dog hair in my wallet, as this tends to offend our friends in the southern regions of Scandinavia; hard workers though they are, they just will never master the precise art of hot, liquidy, and ubiquitous midwifery. I was thinking very clearly now, and goosestepped at a feverish pace all the way to city hall. I felt that I must speak on behalf of mollusks everywhere, “Don’t step on my gastropod dude!”

He paused on the sidewalk for what seemed an eternity. He fully trusted these people, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking into a trap. After all, what they had planned would be treasonous in most folks minds. How can he be sure nobody was monitoring them all these months? Could he really trust these people?

F* it, he thought, and entered the dark, musty smelling bricked hallway. With a shaky hand he gave the secret knock as instructed. The revolution was on…

Of course I let him in. Who doesn’t like clowns? I had a pot of SpaghettiOs simmering on the stove, so I asked him to stay for dinner. Afraid to interrupt, I poured Buckles the Clown glass after glass of cherry Kool-Aid as he talked incessantly about Seat Belt Safety with a level gesticulation that made me slightly nauseous. His lips grew redder and larger and wetter with each bite of the incandescent pasta and each slug of the crimson punch, and it wasn’t until he finally addressed me as Mr. Anderson that we both realized he was at the wrong address on the wrong street.

As he pedaled closer to town, he passed a run down, single-wide mobile home with tires on the roof. The yard was a mess! Among the agglomeration of scrap metal, old appliances, and rocks there were old cars sinking into the earth. It looked like they’d been sitting there since their end of service sometime in the early 70′s. “Why do people save this crap?”, Jack wondered. He was just about to look away when he caught a glimpse of an old man smoking in the window. His yellow leathery hands were holding the cigarette up to his lips, and blue smoke was wisping out of a tracheotomy hole below his sunken in chin. “Welcome to Creepsville, population 1″, Jack muttered. Jack prayed he wouldn’t have to come back here to ask for help.

Jack arrived in town, if you could call it that. Most of the businesses were long abandoned or appeared to be closed for the day. It was hard to tell the abandoned from the occupied from their ill state of repair. Jack didn’t see any signs that indicated which town he was in either…if this place was even considered a town. The only place that seemed to be open was a saloon of some sorts with a giant yellow sign above the door that read, “Doppelgangers”. Jack leaned his fully loaded Rivendell touring bike against the light post and looked at the entrance to Doppelgangers. Something didn’t feel right about this place, but what choice did he have? The sun was starting to set, and his options were running out. Jack wished very badly to be back in Walnut Creek, CA at this moment.

As Jack entered the saloon, he couldn’t really make out the scene. It smelled old, damp, and musty from years of burnt tobacco and stale booze. It was dark and smoky, and his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the low light levels yet. One thing that he could truly sense though was the scratchy sound of Achy Breaky Heart coming from an old 45 playing on the Wurlitzer Jukebox near the entrance. Apparently compact disc technology hadn’t made its way this far into Nevada yet…or good taste for that matter! Jack headed over to the bar to speak to the bartender, but was instead met with a blank stare. Jack thought the guy would at least show a little curiosity as to the strange traveler’s appearance in his remote part of the country.

Not feeling quite comfortable about asking for help at this point, Jack thought he’d order a drink to break the ice. There didn’t appear to be any beer available, just dusty, nondescript bottles of booze on the shelves behind the bar. Yikes. Jack didn’t like hard alcohol, but didn’t see what other option he had. “Whiskey, please”, Jack said not knowing what else to order. The bartender didn’t even look at him. Jack was about to repeat himself, but then the bartender grabbed a small glass from under the bar and reached for one of the dusty bottles on the shelves. The bartender placed the glass of whiskey in front of him, but instead of asking for money, walked off to go work on something else.

A sudden wave of nausea swept over Jack as he watched the bartender walk in front of the mirror on the back of the bar. He couldn’t figure it out at first, but then he quickly realized that there was no reflection from the bartender! Either the poor lighting or Jack’s fatigue from too many miles on the bike were causing Jack’s eyes to play tricks on him. Maybe the whiskey would be a good idea after all. He needed to loosen up, and quick. Jack raised the glass and examined it.  Although it was somewhat dirty, complaining seemed like a bad course of action.  Down the hatch!

There was a brief woody, smoky taste, followed by a hot burn that went all the way down to his stomach. Another swell of nausea hit him again, and Jack felt like he was going to vomit. Now that his eyes were adjusted to the dimness, Jack could see what looked to be the restrooms in the back of the room. He hoped he could make it back there in time! Another song started on the Jukebox, but this time the volume seemed much louder. Johnny Paycheck began belting out his story of misery and woe.

“Five Dollars worth of Regular, Three Dollars worth of wine
Just hand me a road map, show me the state line
I got the blues on my bumper, Lord, I gotta leave ‘em behind
Yeah, I’m gonna drink and drive that woman right off of my mind”

Almost to the restrooms, Jack looked at the figure sitting in the dark, back corner. Goose flesh rose up all over Jack’s body as he saw that it was the smoking man from the mobile home outside of town. But it couldn’t be him, could it? He would have noticed the guy come in, and besides, that guy didn’t look like he did anything quickly. There’s no way he could have gotten here in that short amount of time. Then again, how many people in a town this size had a tracheotomy? The old man just stared at him as smoke drifted from the yawning hole in his throat like a dying campfire.

Jack pushed open the restroom door and started throwing up in a toilet that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a decade. Luckily, he hadn’t eaten for a while and there wasn’t much to come up. Only that nasty stuff that may have or may have not been whiskey. Jack went to the sink to wash up, but it was equally as nasty as the toilet.  Jack thought he saw someone pass behind him out of the corner of his eye. He turned around quickly, but there was nobody there. Fear, panic, and thoughts of impending doom were taking over Jack’s body. He was going to get the hell out of there and take his chances on the side of the road somewhere. He could probably make it back to Belmont if he retraced his path. Certainly not the route he wanted to take, but anywhere was better than here at this moment. Jack cautiously left the restroom and went into the bar where Johnny Paycheck was continuing his lament.

” Breaker, Breaker, this is Heartache, now hear me loud and clear
I got a memory on my tailgate, Hey-hey, and old smokey’s on my rear
I’m gonna chase my headlights till I can drink me blind
I’m gonna be drinkin’ and drivin’ that woman right off of my mind”

Jack started to feel sick again, but he’d take his chances outside. The motor on the jukebox seemed to be going out, as the music seemed to randomly speed up and slow down. Not even worrying about paying for the whiskey, Jack fled into the evening air. He went to grab his bike from the lamp post, but it wasn’t there! Thinking it may have been a different light post, Jack looked around frantically, but there was only one light post on this side of the street.  From across the street  came the sound of skinny, high pressure tires, rolling across sandy pavement. Jack knew that sound well. He had listened to it for the last 400 miles…his bike! He jumped forward and started pursuit of whoever had stolen his bike, his one and only way out of this hell hole.  “Hey!  Come back here!”, Jack screamed.

Jack was stopped dead in his tracks though as the bike thief turned to look at him. The person on his bike was…him! Not himself that he just saw in the restroom mirror only moments ago, but a sickly looking corpse version of himself. Jack felt faint, and his knees went weak. It felt like someone very large was sitting on his chest. He fell to the ground and crawled towards the nearby tree. Jack only made it a few feet and slumped to the ground as unconsciousness crept in. A muffled Merle Haggard began to sing sadly from the bar.

“Memories and drinks don’t mix too well
And jukebox records don’t play those wedding bells
Looking at the world through the bottom of a glass
All I see is a man who’s fadin’ fast…”

The night lights on the Doppelgangers sign went on, and the sound of rolling bike tires faded into the distance down the road towards Belmont.

Tonight was wrestin’ night down at The Speedway. That pay-per-view stuff was somthin’ else. Tonight the Iron Crank was gonna give Larry Lugnuts a beatin’! Before he could get off work though, Gus wanted him to paint the Kerosen tank. Apparently the delivery guy had a hard time finding it last week. Johnny Crawfish was on the job! Old Gus would’ve been impressed at how fast he painted that tank. He even stuck some nipples in the “R” and the “O”. That ought to help that no good delivery guy find it!