Читать книгу Vignettes - Life's Tales Book One - William Baker - Страница 5

The year is 1939. I am thirteen and almost fourteen. Gus, Bert and I are in the vacant lot next door to Gus’s house on 50th Avenue where Gus has finished working on his Indian motorcycle built from junk yard scraps. He hops on it, stands tall on the starter and slams his weight down. The Indian roars to life in an ear splitting roar. Gus releases the clutch and the Indian rears up on its back wheel and darts forward. On the sidewalk is grease from Gus’s efforts and as the motorcycle charges through the grease the rear tire slips, spins, and Gus looses control of the machine.

Gus tries desperately to recover, but the centrifugal force is too much and the Indian motorcycle launches itself into the air, makes a sharp right turn and, still air borne, sails down the steep driveway crashing through the window paneled garage doors and landing on the basement floor. Gus, who has been ejected uninjured from the bike, scrambles to his feet and charges for the garage as Bert and me, race after Gus. The shattered garage doors hang limply from their mounts. Coming from inside the garage is the roar of the motorcycle’s engine and a lot of crashing and banging

sounds. We moved inside the garage and there, the motorcycle, at full throttle, lay on it’s side spinning in a circle. First, it would slam into the back wall and then with the gear engaged the rear wheel would hit the cement foundation sending the cycle crashing again into the back wall. Around and around the motorcycle went, each time slamming into the back wall. On the other side of the wall were several shelves laden with Gus’ Mom’s preserves. With each slam of the motorcycle into the wall we could hear the jars of preserves crashing onto the cement floor. Gus frantically tried to reach the spinning motorcycle but with each of Gus’s efforts the motorcycle bounced off of the cement foundation and into the back wall. The preserves went flying!.

After several attempts, Gus successfully shut-off the motorcycle and his mother stepped into the basement. She took stock of the scene, stood motionless, then in a strong controlled voice said, “Clean it up”.

END