Question: If I can dig up the rest, does anyone want this full story?
Was every part of the bike making some sort of noise?
The chain produced a constant metallic grinding. Was it ever oiled?
The brake handle made a dreadful whine when pulled. Would it be better to risk crashing?
The fenders clanked and creaked with every bump. This could not be worse!
Among the discordant metallic noises and whines was a particular foreign sound. The plastic of the bag hanging from one side of the handlebar whipped and flapped in the wind. The faster the bike went, the more turbulent the air. And that made the stupid bag obnoxiously loud, calling attention almost as if it were designed for that purpose alone.
Everyone had to be looking. Head down. Keep going.
Which was better? Making more noise and getting there faster, or less noise but taking forever.
Faster. Get this over with.
Is there any difference between when a heart races from anxiety or exertion? And what happens when there is both? Does it beat even faster in a sort of cumulative effect?
Is this what a heart attack feels like?
Whatever the answer, Pete’s heart was near max as he rounded the corner and his home came into view. And as it did, so too did his every sense heighten. All the risks he had taken were now stacked like weights, all pressing on this single moment that was now unavoidable.
With a clang, creak, whine and plastic flap, flap, flap the bike rolled onto the cobblestone driveway. Which, of course, immediately made every noise much louder. How was it even possible this thing could make more noise? Pete winced. Heart racing. Palms sweaty. Hands like vice grips on the handles. Doubt was at an excruciating level. Why did I do this? Why, why, why!
The plastic bag was not opaque, it wasn’t made to hide the contents. And the bike, quite obviously given its condition, had not been ridden in a long while. If anyone was home Pete was caught. For sure.
And with one last, prolonged whine and squeal of rubber on metal, the bike came to a stop next to the house.
His fingers were trembling from fear. And too perhaps, from how hard they had gripped the handlebar. Distractedly, he kept looking over his shoulder, to the street, while trying to press the finicky rubber numbers on the keypad. It took three tries to punch in the correct code. Finally, the garage door came to life, itself groaning and creaking. Was the world always this noisy? Pete almost passed out from the anxiety, nearly tumbling face first into the ground trying to peer under the opening door while still balancing on the bike.
Yes, yes, yes! No car! No one is home. Oh, thank god.
Before the door was fully open he was inside. The bike was half thrown, half rolled in a corner next to rakes, snow shovels, cobwebs and other not-oft used items that garages seemed to collect. Pete rushed into the house, opening the mudroom door with the plastic bag in one hand, slamming the button to close the garage door with the other.
If anyone had been in the house they would have been confused and maybe even a bit entertained by the manner in which Pete made his way through the house. It was a blur, mud room, kitchen, foyer, up the stairs two-at-a-time and, in no less of a rush then when he started, finally to the safety of his room.
The world’s noisiest and most translucent plastic bag lay tossed aside, the pharmacy branding crumpled and inside-out. Next to it, directly in front of the boy and the subject of his full attention, was another plastic bag. However, this one was shiny, and almost shrink wrapped tight. It was about the size of a small duffle bag, with a clear plastic strip on top for a handle.
Ta-thump, ta-thump, ta-thump, ta-thump, his heart still raced, but now from anticipation. And, maybe a bit of nervousness, but this time for very new reasons.
In bright blue, italicized letters on a white plastic background the new bag read: Attends
areudirty
jacobvanloon
kaledo-art
titsay
jbbartram-illu
ellievsbear
stormborns
yousharknotpass
tangentwithtanner
kianamaiart