known bits I

a. The bike stood there and had no business on the subway platform. Ten-speed blue Fuji with a lock clamped on the rat-trap for safe travel. Hands were on the bike and it was being pushed onto the Lenox Avenue express by a white man but there was no room for it, so it was not definitely being pushed onto the train. Gray-bearded man with an orange leather headband and black sweatshirt with the hood back pushing that definitely beautiful bike, the front (quick-release) wheel on the car, the remainder of the bike on the platform. Gray beard on platform holding the saddle and one handlebar. Georgie the owner of the other hands receiving the bike gladly onto the too-crowded train, Georgie smiling waiting to take delivery, while the graybeard jerk’s smiling on the platform but not because a bike’s got no place in the subway.

Other rush-hour people reached to get it onto the jammed car where there was no space, man in green beret holding other handlebar, girl in pink T-shirt with her hand next to his. And what Georgie definitely needed was a henchman on the platform end to distract the graybeard jerk-owner of bike so it could be taken from him onto the subway car in time for the doors, both operative, to shut, leaving the graybeard on the platform outside looking through the glass window at his ten-speed inside, not smiling any more then, unless he had been intending to make a donation of that bike to a world that was a good place. A bike to build on, though moving.

And Georgie in the army jacket and blue jaw-scar not seeing the one person here in the middle of the city from his block in Brooklyn, his neighborhood; but would never see—even on home block—the big big Jimmy jaw and wide eyes stupid-looking, almost never give a look to build on except once, Hey how’s Jimmy the retard? What’s happenin’?

Definites to build on. Even the biggest jaw per least words. Ten-speed Fuji, and a white guy taking it on the Harlem express but won’t go all the way, and looks like someone. Bike don’t change, space or no space.

Probable that people in the car would look after it and/or the motorman could take it to the Lost and Found at the end of the line. But would they do that with the Sony portable color TV in the carton there on the platform, possession of the beautiful blonde woman with the busted nose at that taking it home probably to her family? Probably it would not wind up in Lost and Found—any more than woman in white robe on her hands and knees by the exit stairs who stopped singing a religious song and started growling real loud and stopped. Probable is not definite, not known for sure, not fact; not a message to build on: though have now found out that it is possible to build even when in motion.

Georgie did not know he was being looked at by one of the freaks from his block far away in Brooklyn. All freaks to him. Often back in neighborhood he would not know he was being looked at, would look right through you, but no, not through, but, for a fact, just around you. On one side of bike now half or three-quarters into car was Puerto Rican or Cuban woman who was having a baby soon. Never saw Georgie away from the block before, someplace else in the city. Woman having the baby couldn’t move, and she was leaning on someone but someone invisible, the light overhead came down the pole and made her eyelids dark lamps for a fact. She didn’t have a seat to sit down. She could use a vacation out where it’s warm and quiet—where there’s space to turn around—turn around three times without pickpockets making friends before you know it and if she’s your sister you protect her if you have to against someone wants to make trouble for her, a sister it would be good to have sitting in the kitchen taking a breather, brushing her teeth in the bathroom in the morning with the radio going, a sister a little older, a little younger, that could be talked to, and let the mother go her own way for a while, a sister who would believe when told retard-brother learned all alone on broken bike in trashed lot months and months ago until they took lot away. A white messenger came by like a slow motor, had one smaller arm and a look in both eyes.

The next car not so crowded, there’s light between the people. It didn’t have all its doors functioning, either. Just the left half of the door or the right half would open; it’s the circuits unloading. Georgie a prick but no asshole; keeps mouth shut. Bike was being retracted from crowded car. But sometimes Georgie says, You retard, you retarded asshole, you jerk; you got yourself a job! But he didn’t see all the other messengers. Has big hands and a scar on jaw.

b. Some big manila envelopes heavy; some light. Some too big to hand-hold. Some stiff. Some bend. Some with art work inside; some with different important papers and cardboard moving around inside. Sometimes a long or small box to carry from one office to another.

Kid with fast hands standing beside the newspaper and sex-trash stand upstairs by turnstiles. Fast mouth: dumb mothe’-fuckin’ retard; asshole messenger; ugliest nigger messenger ever seen: they give you money to carry around? Hey boy you hear me?

Fast hands on a big manila envelope that’s already hard to hand-hold tight up under the arm. Tight’s better than fast—photographs and big ones inside envelope. Kid with fast hands fast mouth alongside approaching the stairway from turnstile level, he’s looking to take the big envelope for himself, but he don’t know lanes and he is not looking ahead and he’s in a lane just like everybody else in the city: ahead of him in his lane a transit cop’s wearing a stack of ribbons, and a collision is impending: cop pushes fast kid right down on his back and he don’t bounce up or roll over. He stays there, and lanes are where it’s at. Some days lanes blocked, some days lanes clear with elevator opening before the buzzer even gets pressed, and upstairs it’s two ladies with all their hair cut off waiting for delivery. Very important to them, like a telegram, and they take from the messenger even in motion, they’re big builders and they build on what they already got. The younger one goes and lies on her back on a blue mat with her legs and feet back over her head, toes touching the floor behind her head. ‘‘Brother, what would you like to have most in all the world?" the older one asked, and what almost comes out is Why?, but instead only W-w-w-w-w-wah—but a man with no clothes on and a scar right up his front came out of the hall with a glass of orange juice and said, "Leave that kid alone, Grace, you can’t convert everyone who comes in off the street." But she got her answer from messenger with a lot of b, and it was a bicycle, a bicycle was the answer to her question. "Abundance," she said, putting a hand on messenger’s wrist; "I know where one is," she said. The younger one on the floor said, "Do you get the minimum wage? Do you ever see any women messengers?" But the older one is ripping open the envelope and whipping out a poster with a picture of a naked woman with her legs spread open but it looks like outer space. "You ought to organize," the younger woman said. Both wearing their gray sweat pants. The older woman says, "Cliff, you’re going to turn orange at that rate"; then she turns and says, "When you stammer like that, that’s abundance speaking; it’s many voices in you." "Right," says the younger woman, her name is Maureen, and Grace, the older, says, "You’re an angel, Jimmy," but she didn’t know the messenger’s name, did she?—she definitely didn’t. "He’s what?" asks the guy with the orange juice. The young one is right—there are no woman messengers. Cliff says, "They know things we don’t know."

c. She didn’t sign for it because he forgot to tell her to. She was on the phone smiling and she was talking to someone called Amy but about someone else, a man. She had big and little pictures all over, photos and paintings and drawings like that looked like chalk. Some of Indians, one of an Indian kid with feathers watching a rocket take off like a white bullet, but it didn’t look like a rocket. And a photo of a bicycle racer with giant legs.

She got mad at the Amy she was talking to: she said she "loved him," whoever he was—and she was very definite and she looked around the room and then said thanks to Amy for giving her the name of the messenger service and picked up the Psychic Consultation card and stared at him and smiled and shook her head while the Amy at the other end of the line was still talking pretty fast—that was definite.

Back at the office his mother was phoning just as he returned, he could almost hear her voice but more than her voice in the air; and Goodie and Baddie went into the storefront window to fight each other because the old lady with the white hair and the dark mole on her cheek had come by, and Mr. Turnstein who had almost no jaw-chin but giant hair growth like extra head said he was sorry the mother-on-the-phone’s son had these problems, but his work was O.K. But he agreed there were sometimes dangers on city streets, traffic, muggers, and such, especially in light of the mental level— he caught sight of him coming in the door and didn’t finish: but obviously he had been talking to the mother and it was Jimmy they were discussing, and all he could think to do was attract Turnstein’s attention and wave at him very hard (like I can’t talk to her), until Senora Wing sitting at the table with the magic lamp but not giving any psychic consultation said What’s the matter, did he get back from a job?

He needed another in a hurry, to get out of there, and Turnstein, who was still on the phone but then didn’t know Jimmy knew it was his mother again telling everyone he was not able to work, just pointed to the counter where the order was written out with the going from and the going to, and he took it and went out again and didn’t get his carfare but had tokens, he had tokens. But Senora Wing was on the sidewalk in her shawl and her giant fat arms yelling that he didn’t know how to get there. He turned and staggered and said sure he knew and Senora went back in the storefront while Goodie and Baddie who you couldn’t tell if they were male or female and Senora Wing had said they were once Siamese twins but were separated, went on like crazy in the window punching and pummeling and the old lady laughed but not the old skinny guy she was with and she was saying, Why it’s just like Baddie and What’s-his-name, Baddie and what’s-his-name.

The address was Twenty-fourth Street and he could see the block right away and must have known before even laying hands on the order where he was going, he knew that much even if he didn’t know what was in the envelope or the box he carried from one place to another. He had a long walk but above ground and if his mother talked him out of the job he was going to get another because in the city they always needed messengers.

It said a theater. He knew what he was doing. He was building, and he was going to advance himself and have a bicycle. Some messengers were not retarded but were very old and had leather bags.

d. Don’t tell anyone; they won’t like you. They think you know something they don’t know. Feel their jaws near your own very big one. So big the kids laugh, so you hear them say what they say; but you know your job and you are working on this thing outside while you still have to ride the subways. But don’t tell anyone what you know: which is,

First: that in some cars only one of the two doors opens;

Second: that when you know which one opens, you don’t stand in front of the other one;

Third, that it’s lanes the city runs on, and if a vehicle or person is coming up behind you in parallel lane and you got a roadblock ahead of you they won’t let you change lanes unless you plan ahead the way you plan for a back-up job if your mother makes this one fall through or buy some pears on your way home to keep on her good side, which is the outside as long as she doesn’t tell the social worker you can’t work when you got work and you’re getting places;

Fourth, told another messenger on subway who had a smaller jaw but eyes so far apart they left his forehead giant all by itself and he had dark soft fuzz all over his face and was a messenger anyone could tell—that this was how things ran, no matter who your mother or father was, no matter at street level where a messenger may find himself limping if no bike, or below the street where he will find himself sitting or standing: keep the track open and look out for places ahead in your track or lane already occupied; and allow for the possibility of the left-side door suddenly opening at the next stop when it was the right-side door that opened at this one;

Fifth, and more to come, to build on—including telling others what you know because you are safer if they know what you know and can help themselves, even to the point of telling about lanes and subway doors to Grace, who the next time she needed a messenger made a special request for Jimmy Banks and when Turnstein tried to give her Goodie because the messenger she requested was out on a job, she said she would wait—which is client loyalty even to those who cannot speak a lot of the time, or not well. Because you build on what you know. One door at a time.

Told this to messenger on subway; told him we should organize; asked if he looked in envelopes at what messages he was carrying. He had good speech powers but all he said was "Never."

Tried to tell him we should all meet, build an organization, a union; didn’t get it out. He said, "Whatcha mean ‘w-w-w-w-we’?" but he was making fun. Started to ask him if he knew the almost blind cabdriver who go back and forth just along Cathedral Parkway, no one know why he never had an accident except sometimes he has his little girl in front seat with him; he’s got to build on what he learns. White messenger with smaller jaw said he didn’t want to hear about it. But he had speech power he wasn’t using.

Tried to say Mountain has to come to Mahomet if Mahomet don’t come to Mountain, but couldn’t; but when he turned his giant envelope over so it showed where it was going to, the white messenger got up and said that very thing himself. Train pulled into station and he’s a very big messenger in a big coat and big heavy shoes and he don’t know but he is standing in front of the door that don’t open because it’s the left-side door that opens, and when it does a few black women come barging through that left-side door and the white messenger can’t get out and he tries to get into the space but they push him back and in comes a Puerto Rican woman wheeling a baby in a little push car with shopping bags on top of the baby and a man with a saxophone behind her getting ready to play and by the time she gets in the door starts closing on the saxophone but the man gets in and the door closes and the white messenger gets his hand in the door but he’s weak and a black guy in a white robe and white round flat cap at the other end of the car is giving a speech about education and the messenger lost his seat.

Pointed to him and his envelope that was hoping to get to the same place—"Foundation"—where the girl Amy sent the big envelope to the woman Jean with the picture of the Indian watching blast-off and tried to say, We got to organize, you see? but didn’t get it all out, and white messenger said, "Whatcha mean ‘w-w-w-w-we’?" and said he didn’t want to hear. Looked in window and saw a donkey’s jaw. It can be built on.

e. He felt sometimes their jaws near his own very large one, their heads and hands unknowing near the subway door that he knew he knew. Which was two doors, not so hard to open as three cards shifting back and forth on the box on street where always pick the card it couldn’t be but still it’s not building on definites, like knowing from experience which door would open and standing in front of that one seeing insane people on the platform lining up in front of the other side door except there’s two kinds, this kind and the other, the long-haired earring guy who looked at him one day he was getting off at Twenty-third Street to take message of art work from the big boomer and his young boyfriend who live in the same building as Miss Kimball, and this guy on the other side on the platform waiting for the train looked him right in the eyes knowing he knew which door would open and was on a lane-track although granted it was jogged thirty blocks north where it continued when he got off and jogged one right or one left when an obstacle stopped or slow-moving appeared in lane ahead and he one day built on other definites to see that double parking wasn’t only law breaking like leaving your laundry in the laundromat top-loader beyond-cycle which was a problem for his mother who waited ten minutes by her watch before unloading the machine or machines —double parking was also occupying space till someone said get off it. Which he explained to Grace Kimball who asked especially for him, Jimmy Banks, and understood what he meant, it was a law that was in the abstract she said and she believed all motor vehicles should be compacter’d and evacuated from the city because most of the trucks carried either furniture, sugar-derivative and/or dairy products, sex-negative clothing, or machinery that didn’t satisfy your needs and sometimes did not work, and she said Jimmy, you know things we don’t know, and her friend Cliff standing naked beside the stereo inquired what the opera singer Mr. North was doing with a little theater on Twenty-fourth Street which it would have been violating the rule about not cross-involving clients with each other to explain to Grace Kimball that the opera singer in her building had seen him in the elevator coming from Kimball and had employed him, not knowing that the man who knew him at the Twenty-third Street station as someone who had figured out the doors and the lane-basics of the city knew Grace through a mutual friend and was interested in employing Jimmy, who himself didn’t know the further connection with this man but it made sense when he ran into him the second time. But then he saw that, like building another level on what he already had, if clients were in contact with each other through one messenger, messenger might build his own business even including people who just happened to be present like the man in the long hair and fringe jacket first seen in subway, later at door of theater signing for envelope from Mr. North’s boyfriend and asking if Madame Somebody the South American singer had not sent something along in the same envelope (which the messenger, cool and professional, had no comment on—the answer to question being No, but also by coincidence messenger in question did know lady in question) upon which the fringe-jacketed (no doubt) actor originally encountered on Twenty-third Street platform asked if he’d do a special job for him if needed—name, Ray Santee—Ray Santee would contact him if he would give Ray Santee his card (a new building block for independent business operation and messenger said N-n-no cards yet and Ray said, Well, whenever) and when Jimmy Banks tried to get out that Mr. S. should call, and failed, Mr. S. picked up the idea and said he should go on his own now and break away from the outfit he was with. Wrote down home number, tried to get out that Mr. Santee not deal with his mother but him only, because she was against him working let alone riding a bike, but he nodded fast, Santee, very fast, and really did understand without the words, when he took out Turnstein’s Messenger Service/Psychic Consultation ballpoint and wrote "Hope to get a Bicycle, Open my own Business"—and when Ray Santee said he would help ol’ Jim Banks, ol’ Jim got out the name Grace Kimball, but not the information that she was going to procure a second-hand bike to expedite transport of messages and building of self-confidence and clientele. And couldn’t get out, either, the info re: having hassle with Turnstein due to receipt not signed—when Ray Santee said, "Always want to get those receipts signed —you know, like from the opera singer lady." But shook head: Opera singer man. Had to write it down, but no time: doors opening, left side, right side alternating, mind over matter, supposed to be cutting down on power but this is doubling usage probably.

In evening, white messenger phoned home, smaller-jawed but with fuzz all over face: mother tried to deal with him herself hand on hip, had trouble understanding him, he gets his tongue out around his mouth looking for words left there. She definitely must yield phone to ("He can’t hardly talk to you") supposedly crazy son-retard-messenger to hear that Gustave got number through man met at foundation; Gustave felt Jim Banks was onto something with lanes and alternate subway doors, and Gustave would consider organizing. Meet at corner near Turnstein’s.

Where would bicycle be stored nights? Bicycle not yet definite.

"Jimmy, you have to accept that you can’t live like other people do," his mother said next to him at the phone when he hung up (like, look at other people’s ways and doings but don’t touch). "I’m an old-fashioned girl," she said. "Social worker said you retarded know things we don’t know, but I don’t believe it, sugar.

f. Higher required building wider, until a full messenger-service specialization minus the psychic consultation . . . build on two white/black messengers, three, four, and a bike to make the boss smile.

Two women noticing Jimmy Banks limping past the cafe smiled through the shining plate-glass window when he stopped to see them. They they turned back to each other but weren’t speaking, and they slipped out of their white coffee cups in the window which flipped into mirror-mode when a bus passed and Jimmy saw his jaw and the Afro he had just started growing that morning, and hastened on to Turnstein’s corner.

Gustave waited there like a tree, and knew two other messengers who would organize, but Gustave with all the fuzz on his face and after all a good-size jaw, was happy where he was but didn’t understand that Jimmy was a-a-a-a-asking if Gustave would come into Jimmy’s independent messenger service and Jimmy did not press it but settled for the organizing of all city messengers with retardation or physical problems by end of 1977, which gave them several months to work it out, and reported that a white guy named Ray Santee would help them organize and a client was procuring a vehicle for Jimmy Banks. Gustave had heard that name—at least knew a woman named Ray.

Gustave asked further re: lanes and grinned half the fuzz to either side of his face when Jimmy reported that the city was not about to make lanes the only legal routes, and so you had to be looking always ahead and always behind for double-parked trucks and oncoming others, but since the problem was underground for them so far pretty much, the lane you’re in could not be put on a map because you went uptown and downtown by subway and might be moving from a doorway to a turnstile, but your real lane was what began when you picked up your job at the office and in your head and you had to hold it there, but even more so, it was vital to see that if someone’s in your way you can shift the whole lane, if you know how, which was good because the former owner of vehicle Jim Banks was aiming to buy could move diagonal in NYC.

"A-a-ahh," Gustave shook his finger like Jim’s mother, smiling at him, and Jim realized he had not been stammering just now.

Senora Wing came out of Turnstein’s storefront and yelled at Jimmy Banks.

When Jimmy went into the office, Turnstein kept his back to him and wanted to know where the receipt was for the other day. The client Grace Kimball had asked for him back. But how about receipt? The boy-girl brother-sister combo they never did much work that you could see and were relations of Turnstein though he never said much to them and they were used by Senora Wing sometimes in psychic consultations, never laughed at Jimmy; they came and hugged him first one then the other, then went off and wrestled and fought and Turnstein hardly told them to stop probably because he didn’t know which was male and which female.

Senora Wing asked Jimmy did he know something she didn’t?—Well he gave an envelope to the wrong person, at the warehouse theater the other day on Twenty-fourth Street, he’s just too trusting but it’s O.K. and he could just bring some clients in for readings to make up for it, he was making friends all over the yard so how ‘bout he gets them in for psychic consultations. Turnstein not saying anything but writing with his ballpoint on a piece of paper, got a job and Jimmy’s going off to a lady who’s sending a script to a radio station but the light is cracking up in his head and turning into more business than even two, three messengers can handle. Senora calls on his way out, "Like the guy at the theater who took delivery, bring him in for a reading"—and Jimmy stammers as much as he could and stepping out on the sidewalk sees Gustave looking like a stupid old tree at the corner where he was before, and Jim knows he didn’t have to stammer to Senora just then.

g. Did not ask Grace Kimball if bike-to-come was hot. Did not know where to leave it nights, but did not tell her. Did not accept carrots from all the crates in hallway, did not accept mug of carrot juice because never had carrot juice. Did not know why stammer was gone.

Did not want to receive phone calls at home, first three more new messengers, then social worker saying report from Turnstein’s was good except for fucked-up receipt (later made good) and delivery to wrong guy but no harm done—and this information passed to waiting mother who took phone right away. Did not know if Santee was running maybe his own messenger service; did not tell him anything re: potential retarded-messenger union, but he’s not saying he can get a bike any more, only that he has access to safe place, he is a photo-journalist he says, so will definitely need messenger service.

Senora asked for business—said she was expecting some to be brought in from contacts referred to before; said it was expected; said she was going to call mother. Did not know what to do now except trust others: Grace for bike; Santee for storage; Maureen, the younger friend at Kimball’s, for plans for union organization and getting women retarded messengers; Gustave for taking phone calls at his room; and social worker for trust—but, no good, wrong lane—building requires next step first: social worker would tell mother and Senora what’s going on.

Saw a man go crazy on subway platform when the half-door on his side didn’t work; busted his hand banging glass; taken away by transit cop.

Senora Wing said Grace would meet a handsome gray-haired man.

Santee asked if a new messenger service would include marginal operations for him. And said, "You’re not breathing."

Mother listened in on three-in-morning dream, came back with cocoa: "What you doing flying around the Empire State Building? Planes don’t got brakes. Maybe that man’s right you know something we don’t know."

h. Saw jerk with gray beard and orange leather headband sail past on another bike, still smiling, a body builder in black leather T-shirt. Though white man, looked like father probably. Father so long dead now he no longer would describe family, son, wife, cousins, uncle: because after death the slow forgetting starts and the lanes no longer parallel but crossed and spread-out but don’t matter because the dead person is forgetting the living persons after about two years and later he couldn’t remember them if he tried. But why? Is it that lanes shifting so much makes roadblocks and dead person doesn’t need to go around them any more but without body goes through but is erased of memory data?

Felt other person coming through handlebars of new life. Grace had brakes tuned up, axles oiled; bought tool kit in real black leather case and when told she didn’t have to fix bike, new owner would fix bike, she said kit was his: thought of stammering but didn’t. Grace kissed me and Maureen got up from her exercises and kissed me; and Cliff, with jeans on, kissed me and first hugged me so I thought that was all there would be to it.

Santee was next on the schedule but not quite. Bike banged elevator walls with writing on them, but did not nick paint. Wheeled bike many blocks to park. Losing job being absent while Turnstein phones mother probably, mother phones social worker, Senora Wing phones unknown people she always talking about. Dogs watching in park. Bike seat feels too small, bike so light; world a bad place, can’t think about falling off, it’s counter-indicated. Pigeons got out of the way, no retards there. Missed bottle in brown paper bag rolling around on pavement like a rat was inside. Jolted by brakes, front brake, rear brake, tire dark from puddle; stud selling grass get out of the way, grinning, frowning; muttering to rider, Good stuff. Didn’t know rider had a limp, a mother, a social worker, didn’t know rider also has a way to shift from one mode right over to another but no word for it except the flow coming from handlebar grips.

But traffic is a hassle and the bike has had enough work with new owner so can be walked to Twenty-fourth Street base, sidewalk clearly laned, so, like right door and left door alternating along sidewalk, but lane faithful lane faithful, checking other bikes for sign of police registration, but no registration probable.

Santee gave key to small office near theater on Twenty-fourth Street: access; bike safety; offered to buy lock but refused; also phone! (Asked Santee if Turnstein’s very busy and what was the crazy people doing in window and who was the old couple that came by that storefront, did they know Senora Wing?) Therefore, did not tell Santee to go in for a reading. But stammers came into the mind, into the dreams and thoughts. Phone went, Santee answered, and in wastebasket was calling card with something penciled on it and, printed, the name Ray Spence just as he said, "Spence" into phone. He said, "Well I hear they know something we don’t," hung up and asked how long Turnstein job had gone on: said got idea soon after father died. Well, how long was that? Died almost two years ago.

Asked Santee not to tell re: bike park. He agreed. Thought he had one earring, but now two but in one ear. He asked if father ever seen after death? Said I had seen someone looked like him on a bike but white.

Told Gustave this on phone. Had weird way of laughing, not good for business. Union meeting with ten to fifteen possibles for next week in Maureen’s apartment. Possibles. Not definites.

Senora Wing did not phone mother. Did not speak of anything re: coming changes.

i. Dream come true but don’t blow it; build by consolidating operations within same lane. New canvas bag can be carried no-hands on back. Pay call to bicycle headquarters revealed first independent job waiting. Therefore, on trip for Turnstein-Wing to Compu-Grafics to pick up posters for manager of all-girls rock band office, taxied fast to C-G, then on foot above ground by good luck only one-and-one-half blocks to HQ of new independent messenger service coming into being with still something wrong in head but not clear, received from Santee envelope to go by hand to woman with same name as mother, Luisa, leave with doorman: cruised parallel to cab, cab tried to edge messenger away at corner and driver looked like Georgie—but, obeying bike law at light, halted while cab ran light and was arrested by brown-uniformed woman officer: biked in noise, in struggle with angel of death, down Park Avenue and around station to manager of all-girls rock band who was the smiling graybeard in sweatshirt with three bikes in big studio, stopped smiling before signing for posters; did not know messenger, asked where messenger’s bike had come from, had seen it before, and never forgot a bike, smiled again, dreamt of bikes; was beginning to lift posters out of envelope as departed.

What was wrong? No lock for bike, no time to return to HQ, flowed downtown to Turnstein-Wing’s block: old couple outside watching Goodie and Baddie fighting. Asked Chinese vegetable woman to watch bike, she said No.

Let Wing-Turnstein see bike? Not this messenger.

Light took over with its speed. Turnstein said, "You oiled your gears, what’s the rush?" Light flashed clear through brick walls of close buildings from beautiful spokes of new bike up against wall alone!

Senora Wing and her ongoing psychic consultation with tiny woman in trenchcoat with long yellow sack-type robe under it, nothing under robe, who looked at incoming messenger so eyes seemed to have looked at some same things as messenger. ("You have traveled to the Orient. You have worked there. You are tired of words. You will take off your clothes. You will change your career to some manual pursuits. Your first name is the last name of someone or something famous—which means you are building and going ahead, not waiting on the past.")

Twins by now on bunk bed half asleep panting watching each other. Light is spoking through building walls off bicycle outside, but probably bike still safe, though must see, though must see Turnstein and must go to bathroom. Something wrong staying in head but not clear; how can own business premises be own unless rented, while Santee is owner, isn’t he? Need for bathroom, need for pay phone; bicycle not for Gustave, if bicycle still outside where it could be taken, though if seen by those inside, can also be taken. Turnstein’s eyes watering, absorbing rays from Wing quarter; outgoing address-pickup held and held in Turnstein’s hand while he weeps only from eyes, no motion in face, except light from bike outside unbeknownst to Turnstein, twins, and Wing, light flooding Turnstein’s face from spokes, spokes moving by light.

"You’re impatient; maybe it’s too late for you to go on this job," said Turnstein. "Goodie or Baddie could take it possibly."

Felt bike move, like jaw shifting, and Wing’s client said, "Are those twins real? I mean are they male or female?" This small psychic client said, "You can improve your posture if you imagine a yellow light right here in your chest and you make sure it’s out front and you follow it." She was speaking to me.

Took order form from Turnstein and let it go. Felt bike being stolen and jaw getting bigger and bigger like stone that stayed. Go, said Turnstein, good riddance. (Went to bathroom in mind only.) You crazy, get out of here, said Turnstein quite silently. Yet heard Senora Wing’s words of threat, though with threat following upstream on rays of light from outside: "Bring in the business, or you’re through." As if she can’t see future unless through clientele. And heard other words recalled later, for now fell—fell out through door down hard onto pavement, holding order form. Old skinny weirdo helped this messenger up who shook off his hand and saw the old lady with the white hair and the mole on her cheek and talk talk talk crazies over by the wall with her hands on handlebar and saddle of bike, keeping bike safe, looking like she remembered nothing, but keeping bike safe.

Thanked her and put finger to mouth. And she replied, "Our secret," and she understood. "Are you my son, black boy?" she said—"because I felt my son’s hands in the handlebars or someone I could swear."

Flowed across manhole lids, around potholes, uptown, uptown. Spring-levered into higher gear, remembering answer to old lady. Just missed death when triple-parked car opened outside door—by truck double-parked by two motorcycles angled at meter. Was respected by nobody, shifted gears, remembering last words of Wing to traveler-woman, shifted gears remembering to pedal while doing so, as instructed by naked man drinking carrot juice. Remembered answer to old lady, passing through green light while sensors projected ahead to when red warned of oncoming vehicle and when light behind red was only the flow that cures limp, streamlines jaw, speeds recovery, but from what?

The need to think things through; to build not on gap of what was wrong—and what was that? Found no daylight between two cabs gridlocked and experimented with cement ramp onto sidewalk—for wheelchair cases— and found space between trees at the curb and half-crippled young guy with silver walker, and space between him and kid on roller skates playing her harmonica two hands for beginners, so had space to think, to flow, to build on.

Gustave has brought foundation account into independent messenger service and does not wish to use bicycle. Compu-Grafics are thinking about moving from Turnstein. Felt watched, but not by Santee, who waits on phone in headquarters and again says, "Spence," after long pause. Sehora Wing’s words still in mind—no envelope needed. Answer to old lady still in mind— she was kind. ‘This is your key," said Santee, with speckled wrists; "will you lock up?" He’s going around to the theater and then out of town overnight. "You understand?" he says. It came to me, it came to me, and was more than messages, even messages that I as sole proprietor of business might have to intercept in case they were dangerous to me. It came to me that I saw Santee by the light of my skin, and I could do this wherever I turned, and could bend around obstacle in lane. When the double-parked truck is ahead in lane, vehicle in next lane speeds up so you can’t move out of lane to avoid truck. Could not explain this to Gustave, who could use it even with subway doors, but may explain it at meeting of union of retarded messengers organized by Kimball’s friend Maureen. Santee’s feet suddenly not heard no more, like he stopped on the first flight down and waited.

Senora Wing’s words hold: "You know somebody who is going to Chile under cover of darkness, the land of Chile in South America, someone who has been a prisoner." Spoken to tiny woman with yellow light.

Desk drawer open showing manila envelope. What’s wrong is not something missing but something present in the way. Place belongs to Santee, but business belongs not to Santee, but he thinks so.

The business belonged to me. I found a double-lock on door and turned it. I opened desk drawer further and took out manila envelope. It was addressed to "Ray Spence" and inside it was two photographs: one was of two guys in green shirts and pants standing with a tall, bald man in a white suit, and they were all smiling; the other was an old picture of a young woman in a big hat standing beside an African pigmy, the picture was all yellow.

Santee was really Spence. Something was going on at the theater, and the opera singer Luisa was involved. I was afraid to use the phone. I had said to the old lady, "Yes, I am." I pushed the desk drawer back to what it was. I went over and touched the bicycle. Some people remove their fenders. I turned and fell down. If I had a few teeth out, my jaw would get permanently smaller. The sound of Spence’s voice was unknown, like. The need to think things through.

Instead of using the phone, I left the office and took the subway home. I met my mother at the supermarket. She called to me across the street. I crossed. She give me a kiss and a hug. Georgie there handing a joint to a white girl. "Where’s you bike, man?" Georgie asks. Mother says, "He can’t ride no bike." "Where you keepin’ it, Jimmy?" Georgie asks. I opened my mouth and tried to speak, and light was in my mouth and I saw I could speak if I wanted but I decided not to. I kind of stammered. The girl laughed friendly. "He’s ridin’ up and down Park Avenue on his bike," said Georgie. Mother laughed and took my hand.