Page 2 of Devil Inside
“Oh, no, trust me—you were crystal fucking clear.” Jenn grabs my pants off the floor and tosses them at me. My shirt is next. “I’m just another joyride.”
“I’m still down to hang out...”
“Hang out,”she repeats, then laughs to herself. All air. “For free food?”
“That’s not what I meant...”
“Don’t worry,” Jenn said, turning toward the door, “You can tell yourbike buddiesI’ll still be their coffee hookup.”
That was that. Last words between us.
Nobody wants to date a gearhead. Notreally. We’re fun for some shits and giggles... but most civvies can’t deal with us. All the scraped elbows. Busted knees. The axle grease smudging our skin. The bruised thunderclouds along our bodies, all black and blue. Did that bruise come from clipping the Audi’s side mirror on Broad Street? Or was it from bumping into the broadside of that bus on Main? Or maybe it was the douchebag in the Porsche who ran the red light at Belvedere? I dunno... All of the above, maybe? There’s just no telling now.
The bruises blend together after a while.
My body is a raised relief road map of scars and scabs. Pretty appealing to peel off these clothes and take a gander, let me tell you. The cartography of contusions always changes. There are fresh abrasions every day, lakes of black and blue rising up from below.
Who wouldn’t want to wake up next to that?
And let’s not mention the rando hours. The abysmally low pay. The lack of a 401(k). The grinding lifestyle. But here’s the real deal-breaker—zero car. No wheels beyond these two, baby. Sorry, but them’s the brakes. When it comes to getting around this city, you’re better off just meeting me there. Unless you’ve got your own bike. Then we ride together.
Freel rolls up to Betsy’s right after me and Deak, third place. “What up, early bird?”
“Another day, another dollar.”
“Let me know if you find one.” The day doesn’t officially start until that first call. This moment of tranquility, the calm before the concrete storm, helps me get my head in gear.
Lys skids in last, scraping pavement. She’s got the longest commute, living in Oregon Hill. We’re always giving her shit over it. It’ll be hailing bagels before long. This is the closest thing to a watercooler we’ve got. Sitting on the curb, gabbing together over coffee. Rocking our scars.
Freel’s got a fresh black eye this morning. A strawberry’s scraped over his left cheek.
“The fuck happened to your face?” I ask.
“Kissed pavement,” he answers back, tilting his head back and forth to show off his bruise like he’s some kind of JG Ballard supermodel. “A bus bumped me out of my lane.”
“Rough. You bump them back?”
“Damn straight.”
It’s been four days and counting since my last on-the-job injury. That’s a new record. I need one of those digital counters that clicks down the days between scrapes. Get one tattooed to my chest, the numbers inked and scratched through with each new day, until I get in a dustup with a Hummer and I have to return to zero, tattooed all the way at the top. I don’t want to jinx it, but I’m getting a little antsy. A day without a new bruise is unheard-of.
I don’t like it.
Chalk it up to superstition, but you get used to the bruised routine. The longer you go without an injury, the more that tension gathers in the air. An electricity of bad juju.
I’ve been a bike courier for two—make that three—years. Had to pay for undergrad somehow. Whatever financial aid I had to RCU barely covered one semester my freshman year. Heaven knows that student loan was a noose around my neck, cinching itself tight.
So here comes couriering.
The turnover of this gig is so swift. The bike messenger biz literally chews through its workforce and spits them out. I got hired without even filling out an application. Quick and easy work for those who can survive it. I had a bike already, fixed gear, so I started working that very same day, no questions asked. No insurance, either. More meat for the grinder.
It’s the streets that get you hooked. The adrenaline taking over your body. Once you start feeling that rush, there’s nothing—and I mean nothing—that surpasses it.
I feel the need... the need for speed.
More like the need to bleed.
There’s a reason why most messengers are heavy drinkers. You’ll hear stories of overdoses now and then. That’s because these couriers are all chasing the fix of their fixed gear. If they’re not riding, their heart gives out. They need the rush, all the time, so they swap bikes for booze. Or worse.
