FICTION
Old Man on a Tricycle
by Bob Brill
An old man lies in a hospital bed. In his wrist an IV drip ... drip ... drip, counting the seconds that are left. Twin plastic tubes penetrate his nostrils. He opens his eyes and is surprised to see he has a visitor.
"Who are you?" he says.
"I'm 5."
"5? That's your name?"
"No, silly, that's how old I am."
The little five-year-old climbs onto the bed, comes face to face with the old man. "I get on my tricycle. See? Mommy lets me ride it after dark long as I stay on the sidewalk. Know what I mean? Don't cross the street or nuthin. So I ride along in front of the house. Then I pass the empty lot. There's the moon, big round moon, riding along with me. I pass in front of Jimmy's house. The moon goes behind. I come out between the houses and there's the moon keeping up with me. I stop. The moon stops. I go backwards. The moon goes back too. Whatever I do the moon does it too. See? That old moon is playing with me. It's special, you see? I go all the way to the corner, those old houses just stay there, but the moon comes along with me. That moon, I make it go where I go. Special, you see?"
The old man's eyes fill with tears. Yes, he can see it. Hadn't visited that memory in ages, but he can see so clearly the old stucco house. The hollyhocks by the side door taller than his head. The slap of the screen door when he let it close. In winter when his mother brought in the milk, the frozen cream would have burst through the cap and be standing up tall.
A nurse enters the room. The boy and the images vanish. She takes his pulse. The old man feels her fingers in contact with his flesh, but there is no comfort in it. It only gives rise to a yearning for the touch of a loved one. "I'm going to put a sedative in your IV," says the nurse, "so you can get some sleep. You've been restless all evening." No choice, he thinks. They do what they want with me now. As the sedative courses through his bloodstream he slips into dream.
Listening to the women gossip as they play Mah Jongg. Mother and her three friends. He's a child again sitting under the dining room table, surrounded by their stockinged legs, their skirts hanging down, hearing them call out the tiles. 3 Crack, 6 Bam, East Wind. Clacking of tiles, smell of perfume, feminine mystery fused with oriental strangeness. Women's voices like cockatoos at dawn crying out behind bamboo curtains.
Then in his old man's body he stands on a beach at night, a starry moon-drenched night, listening to the incessant sibilant murmur of the ocean, so restless in its bed. He sees his brother rising from the waves, walking toward him, looking just as young as on the day he died, his beautiful blond hair blowing in the breeze.
Linking arms, they walk the boardwalk together. "Why haven't you come home? Why haven't you written?" Even as he speaks, he detects the querulous tone in his voice. Beneath the thrill of seeing his brother again, fifty years of grief masking an undertone of anger.
"I had no choice."
"But couldn't you at least have sent a postcard to let us know you were alive?"
"Alive? I never said I was alive. Let's get a bite, I'm starving."
Somewhere along the boardwalk they enter a magic eatery with dazzling white walls made from giant Mah Jongg tiles. They order thick, juicy, rare hamburgers with a slice of Bermuda onion, just the way his brother used to like them. Pickle relish, ketchup, fries, the works. When the old man looks up from his plate, he's alone, brooding in a greasy fish and chips joint, the susurrus of the sea still ringing in his ears.
This turns into the persistent ringing of a telephone. He picks up the receiver.
A long silence filled with crackling static. Then a faint voice that seems to come from the other end of the galaxy.
"Is that you, son?"
"Mother!?"
"Are you okay, son? It's been so long."
"But Mother, how could you be calling me? Aren't you ... ? I mean, I went to your funeral, so many years ago."
"I have something important to tell you."
"Go ahead, Mother. I'm listening."
"I can't remember."
"Can you speak louder?"
"Give me a minute to remember."
"For God's sake, Mother. What is it?"
Another static-filled silence, then the connection is broken.
The old man wakes up in a sweat. It's the middle of the night. The room is steeped in darkness. A few telltales are winking on the hospital equipment, tiny red and green lights that keep their vigil through the night. On the monitor a green line is hiccuping along from left to right, mimicking his heartbeat. The IV is still dripping, still marking time.
"Where's that little tricycle rider?"
5 steps out of the shadows, climbs onto the bed and curls up with the old man. "Let's go for a ride on the tricycle, okay, little 5?" The moon is full. They race down the sidewalk, dragging the moon with them. They stop, turn around, make that old moon do tricks. Then they're off again down the street. When they reach the corner they decide that for once it would be okay to cross the street and keep going. Away they go, farther than they've ever been before, just riding on and on with no thought of ever returning, that big full moon still sailing along with them as they disappear down the road.
Bob Brill is a retired computer programmer who is now devoting his energies to writing fiction and poetry. He has had a novella published in Nuvein and has had a flash fiction story accepted for the upcoming Spring issue of A Flasher's Dozen. He is now at work on a novel.