Fifty-Eight
Jeez, this is tougher than I thought. I’m exhausted. Thighs burning and gasping for breath, Ben pumped the pedals on his bike, just making it across the intersection of West 54th Street and Seventh Avenue before the traffic light switched to red. He stuck to the relative safety of the bike lane, avoiding cars parked by the curb on his left and the mid-Friday gridlock of honking taxis on his right, heading east toward Sixth Avenue.
Three deliveries down, two to go, then lunch!
Passing a car rental place, an SUV pulled out behind him a little too close for comfort, almost clipping his back wheel. Ben kept pedaling, increasing speed and creating distance, but his body was no longer used to that type of exertion. His butt ached and his back cracked. A side stitch had been pinching for the past fifteen blocks, reminding him that it had only been a short six weeks since his surgery.
Get to Sixth then take a rest at the fountains. Just a few minutes with some water should do it.
He stood up on his pedals and dug in, puffs of his warm breath hitting the cool October air as he pushed himself, but the strain he felt in his core, back, and hips forced him back in the saddle.
Then it came out of nowhere.
Ben didn’t see it.
A passenger-side car door flew open from the curb into the bike lane.
He didn’t stand a chance.
Smashing into the car, Ben was thrown into his handlebars and over the vehicle’s door, his momentum sending his messenger bag soaring from his shoulder. It landed under the wheels of a passing truck. Ben followed, tumbling into a crumpled heap on the asphalt, the air in his lungs knocked free. His bike didn’t fare much better, bending into a crude right angle.
A screechy “OH MY GOD!” from the car’s open door echoed across the street.
“FUCK!” Ben’s abs and hands felt like they were on fire. “You fucking twat!” He glanced down. Blood and dirt streaked his hands and patches of skin had been shorn off his palms, but worst of all, his right wrist was bent funny. Oh Jesus, I’m gonna be sick.
“Oh, I’m soooo sorry!” A nasal accent sailed over the still-open passenger door, but the man and his wife, departing guests from the hotel overlooking the scene, kept their distance.
“You all right?” A doorman crouched by Ben’s side. His hotel co-worker was on his phone, calling 911. Several pedestrians lingered, cars slowed to rubberneck, and two cyclists swerved to pass the bicycle lane roadkill.
“Yeah, I…” Ben shifted to sit up. His back ached and the burn in his stomach flared, stealing his breath.
“Don’t move, buddy.” The doorman raised his hand, afraid to touch him but also wanting Ben to stay put. “You might have a concussion or something. Can you feel everything? Your legs, hands?”
That’s just the problem—I’m feeling everything way too much. He lifted his throbbing right arm, slowly. “Yeah, but something’s wrong with—”
“Your wrist looks broken,” said the doorman with a distasteful gulp. “Stay right there. Ambulance will be here soon.”
A siren screamed from the direction of Seventh Avenue. Competing from somewhere… the sidewalk, underneath a parked car… was the intro to “Take On Me”.
Shit, my phone…where is it? With one hand, Ben tugged off his helmet and dropped it on the ground. I need to call Riley. His eyes lingered over his clothes: torn jeans, ripped hoodie…his bracelet, missing. His heart stuttered and began to race. I have to get out of here.
“The police are here.” The concierge from the hotel appeared with a bottle of water and a towel just as Ben crawled to the curb.
Two NYPD officers strolled over. “Second case of dooring today.” The female police officer shook her head at her male partner. She flipped open her notebook and turned to Ben. “Can I have your name, please?”
Do we really have to? My life is scattered across the road and my wrist—fuck! Hugging his stomach, Ben rocked back and forth on the curb, his gaze frantically searching the pavement for his bracelet and now-silent phone. I feel dizzy…“Benjamin Fagan.” Sweat began to soak his t-shirt.
“Can you tell me what happened, Benjamin?”
Ben recounted what he remembered along with the doorman and a few tourists who saw the incident unfold. The reckless car door opener, hyperventilating and fretting over what he thought was an impending heart attack, sat in his car talking to his lawyer on the phone, and was the last to give his side of the accident.
After a twenty-minute wait, paramedics arrived and took Ben’s medical history, his liver donation sparking tons of new questions. They inspected his chest, ribs, and abdomen for injuries, his L-shaped surgical scar still pink. They cleaned cuts on his face, hands, and knees, and placed his broken wrist in a sling that would have to do until he could be transported to a hospital. When they were done, the female officer returned to his side, asking questions about his background and employment.
Ben pawed at his hair. Say as little as possible.
“You’re from England? How long have you been in the States?”
“Since February.”
“So, over ninety days. Do you have a visa?”
Shit. Not a visa that allows me to work as a bike courier. I can’t lie my way out of this one. “It’s an H-2B…I was acting in an indie film but found work in a restaurant and they renewed it.”
“So, you’re an actor and also a waiter?”
Ben nodded, his eyes spotting his broken leather bracelet lying in the bike lane. I need to get that!
The cop eyed a large envelope of legal documents and a flattened box poking out of Ben’s messenger bag in the road. “And a bike courier…?”
Pain seared through Ben’s stomach causing him to reply through gritted teeth. “No, just today. I’m helping a friend.” A sour taste rose in his throat. Ugh. I might throw up.
“Hey, Viv.” The cop’s partner called over from Ben’s broken bike. “Come ’ere.”
She stood up and left Ben’s side.
Can I reach it? Bracing himself on his good hand, Ben stretched his left leg, trying to use his shoe to pull the bracelet closer, but his stomach muscles weren’t happy. He grimaced through the pain and dizziness but kept trying. Fuck it, I gotta crawl over.
“You want that?” The female officer stooped down and picked up the bracelet, handing it to Ben.
“Thanks.” He tucked it safely in his hoodie pocket and glanced away. The sidewalk gawkers had moved on, and the doorman was welcoming high-tipping hotel guests again.
“So.” The male officer returned. “Your bike’s missing its registration decal. I ran its serial number in the system and it’s been reported stolen.”
“Stolen? No, my bike was—” Fuck. Loaned out to another bloke. Ben’s face fell. This isn’t my bike. It’s that random one Hunter built from spare parts…
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fagan, but you’re in possession of stolen property. We’re gonna have to arrest you and take you to the station.”
“But I…I didn’t steal anything! And my wrist—”
“We’ll take you to the hospital first, get that looked at.” He opened up his handcuffs.
That’s gonna hurt like a… Ben’s eyes grew wide.
“Chuck, he’s already in a sling.” The female officer shook her head. “He won’t be trouble.”
Be trouble? No. IN trouble? Definitely. Ben groaned as the cops helped him up to his feet.
• • •
Holding Ben’s police-issued ‘personal belongings’ plastic bag, Hunter followed his friend out of the police station. Sunlight was long gone, replaced by empty office buildings alight in the dark sky. “I feel like I’m in a movie, being your ‘one phone call’ guy.” Hunter’s warm breath trailed away, riding the chilly October breeze.
His gait slow and stiff, Ben winced, threading his plaster cast through the right arm of his torn hoodie. “I couldn’t call Riley and get her upset. It was her last day at Sephora.” Hand free, he wriggled his fingers and sucked in a sharp breath. “Owwwff!” Docs said to move my fingers, keep the blood flowing, but the pain is sharp as fuck. “She’s going to be so pissed. I told her I was working in your office.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“I lied to her, Hunter.”
“Yeah, well…I’m sure she’ll calm down when she hears what happened. You’re lucky, man. The charge was dropped, and more importantly, you’re alive! Could’ve been much worse, bro.”
Wrong. It can’t get much worse. Ben wearily looked at his left hand, dirty with ink from being fingerprinted.
Hunter peeked at Ben’s stuff, his helmet, messenger bag—all the broken remnants of the crash. “I nearly shit myself waiting to see if the cops believed me. I mean, how was I supposed to know the frame came from a stolen bike? We’re both innocent. Thank fuck they didn’t press charges. I tell ya, that’s the last time I go to the dump for parts.”
“Thanks for telling the police today was a one-off.”
“Well, it wasn’t a lie.” Hunter nodded at Ben’s cast. “You won’t be riding for a good month with that thing. If you want, I can still put a call in to my buddy this weekend, but you’re not gonna look great in the interview, if you know what I mean…”
Shoulders stooped and eyes glued to the ground, Ben gnawed his bottom lip. Worry creased his brow, making him look even more tired and racked with pain.
Hunter frowned. “Cheer up, though, dude. You escaped jail—that’s a good thing.”
Ben looked up and stared into the darkness. “Could you text Riley for me? My phone’s dead.”
“Uh, sure.” Hunter wrestled his phone out of the front pocket of his jeans, the time 11:16 P.M. “Don’t be mad, bro, but she texted earlier and I didn’t reply. I didn’t know what to say.”
Fuck, Hunter! You could’ve just said I was busy. She’s going to be out of her mind with worry.
Hunter grimaced, taking in Ben’s frown. “What should I say now?”
“Just…say my phone died and we’re out—not having drinks! I still can’t drink. Just say we’re grabbing a bite, discussing work shit, and I’ll be there soon.” Ben gasped in discomfort and held his stomach, dreading what was to come.