it open. The sleigh bells fixed to it chimed. The interior of the store—contents included—looked the same as it did when I was kid, only now I noticed an irrelevance that must have always been there. I overcame an urge to not go in.
“So, what is it I can do you for?”
I lied right to his face. “It’s kind of silly, but I bought one of those goatskin wineskins here about twenty years ago—” He snapped his fingers and made a beeline to the correct shelf. “This what you’re looking for?”
“That’s it exactly.” It came in a cellophane sleeve that was brittle and yellow around the edges. The staple that sealed the package was rusted. Mr. Donnelly Jr. took it from my hand and brought it up to the counter. We both knew my buying it was a forgone conclusion.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“How many of those little Jameson’s nips you got back there?”
“Let’s see. One, two, three, four. Four.”
“I’ll take all of them.”
It was a few days before Halloween. Mr. Donnelly Jr. looked at me like he’d just rung up my bag of apples, and I’d asked him to toss in a pack of razors.
I GOT BACK onto Route 28. People who had jobs were driving to their lunch spots. I stayed on the thin strip of right-unjustified pavement that separated the white line from a sand-and-scrub-brush shoulder. A couple times I had to stop to avoid veering off the road or into traffic. I wore the wineskin like a shoulder holster against my skin, concealed beneath my hooded sweatshirt and denim jacket.
I could see the Bourne Bridge in the distance. It was an arc of gray discipline rising from, then dipping back into, the mayhem of trees. It seemed out of place and was as arresting as the sudden appearance of a second, larger moon.
As I passed a dirt fire road on my right, the speed-trap cop parked in it gave me a choked-off blast of his siren. I stopped. He waved me over to his window. He was shaking his head like he was witnessing a weekend inventor about to test a prototype flying suit.
“What are you thinking?” he said. He was wearing a baseball type of cop hat and one of those black marksman’s sweaters with the leather rifle-butt shoulder patches. The visible portion of his close-cropped blond hair screamed honorable discharge. He looked like the young leader of a Mormon paramilitary group.
“Nothing.”
“Affirmative.” The admitted purposelessness of what I was up to did not improve his opinion of me. I was guilty as fuck of being stupid. He looked at the bike and the four-day growth on my face and clothes. If I had been wearing the wineskin outside my jacket he would have run my license.
My license. I felt a jolt of raw nerve panic. I was sure I’d left it on the writing table at the Gramercy Park Hotel. I folded my arms across my chest to flatten any suspicious bulges.
“Didn’t you read the signs? No Pedestrians includes bicycles.”
I turned on the respect, but not too heavy. “No, sir, I must have missed them.”
He was still seated too low and comfortably for me to go into full panic mode. He did some police work. “Where do you live?”
“Amherst.”
“Massachusetts?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m on vacation,” I said, careful not to sound flip.
“And you’re what, just out sightseeing?” I nodded. “On that bike?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where were you planning on going?”
“I thought I might make it to the bridge.”
“That bridge?”
I nodded.
“Well, that’s not going to happen.” He grew six inches. “Where are you staying?”
“At my sister’s in East Falmouth. Opal Cove Road.”
“And you took Twenty-eight? The whole way?”
I nodded again. He sighed and opened his door without warning. He got out of the cruiser. Turns out he wasn’t much taller than me.
“I really didn’t know it was illegal,” I said.
“You haven’t been drinking, have you?”
“No.”
“Because it’s not warm out, and you’re sweating pretty
“So, what is it I can do you for?”
I lied right to his face. “It’s kind of silly, but I bought one of those goatskin wineskins here about twenty years ago—” He snapped his fingers and made a beeline to the correct shelf. “This what you’re looking for?”
“That’s it exactly.” It came in a cellophane sleeve that was brittle and yellow around the edges. The staple that sealed the package was rusted. Mr. Donnelly Jr. took it from my hand and brought it up to the counter. We both knew my buying it was a forgone conclusion.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“How many of those little Jameson’s nips you got back there?”
“Let’s see. One, two, three, four. Four.”
“I’ll take all of them.”
It was a few days before Halloween. Mr. Donnelly Jr. looked at me like he’d just rung up my bag of apples, and I’d asked him to toss in a pack of razors.
I GOT BACK onto Route 28. People who had jobs were driving to their lunch spots. I stayed on the thin strip of right-unjustified pavement that separated the white line from a sand-and-scrub-brush shoulder. A couple times I had to stop to avoid veering off the road or into traffic. I wore the wineskin like a shoulder holster against my skin, concealed beneath my hooded sweatshirt and denim jacket.
I could see the Bourne Bridge in the distance. It was an arc of gray discipline rising from, then dipping back into, the mayhem of trees. It seemed out of place and was as arresting as the sudden appearance of a second, larger moon.
As I passed a dirt fire road on my right, the speed-trap cop parked in it gave me a choked-off blast of his siren. I stopped. He waved me over to his window. He was shaking his head like he was witnessing a weekend inventor about to test a prototype flying suit.
“What are you thinking?” he said. He was wearing a baseball type of cop hat and one of those black marksman’s sweaters with the leather rifle-butt shoulder patches. The visible portion of his close-cropped blond hair screamed honorable discharge. He looked like the young leader of a Mormon paramilitary group.
“Nothing.”
“Affirmative.” The admitted purposelessness of what I was up to did not improve his opinion of me. I was guilty as fuck of being stupid. He looked at the bike and the four-day growth on my face and clothes. If I had been wearing the wineskin outside my jacket he would have run my license.
My license. I felt a jolt of raw nerve panic. I was sure I’d left it on the writing table at the Gramercy Park Hotel. I folded my arms across my chest to flatten any suspicious bulges.
“Didn’t you read the signs? No Pedestrians includes bicycles.”
I turned on the respect, but not too heavy. “No, sir, I must have missed them.”
He was still seated too low and comfortably for me to go into full panic mode. He did some police work. “Where do you live?”
“Amherst.”
“Massachusetts?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m on vacation,” I said, careful not to sound flip.
“And you’re what, just out sightseeing?” I nodded. “On that bike?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where were you planning on going?”
“I thought I might make it to the bridge.”
“That bridge?”
I nodded.
“Well, that’s not going to happen.” He grew six inches. “Where are you staying?”
“At my sister’s in East Falmouth. Opal Cove Road.”
“And you took Twenty-eight? The whole way?”
I nodded again. He sighed and opened his door without warning. He got out of the cruiser. Turns out he wasn’t much taller than me.
“I really didn’t know it was illegal,” I said.
“You haven’t been drinking, have you?”
“No.”
“Because it’s not warm out, and you’re sweating pretty
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