BMX Vicki

I made the B honor roll on the last report card of seventh grade. I had been bugging my parents for months to buy me a BMX bike; the kind I knew we could not afford; any make, actually, that would make me an equal in the eyes of my contemporaries. When my father, a homicide detective, arrived home from his second job as night-shift security at the 7UP plant carrying the chrome and red Columbia Pro Am (a shameless Redline knockoff), I could not complain. I could, however, remove the chain guard, the decals, and any other evidence of the bike's exact cheapness before I took it out the following day.

The student population at St. Jane de Chantal Catholic Elementary School appeared to be divided into two groups: the kids of Chicago cops and others. I aimed to fit in with the ones whose fathers were in a nondescript form of employment, like Mikey Peroni's father, who was a garbage man, but on weekday mornings in the summer he could be seen reclining on a chaise lounge in his front yard waiting for the Sox game to start. He passed away when we were in sixth grade; it was on the news; he was shot, but the circumstances were unclear: it was an accident; he was at a landfill with some friends.

These kids always had the best toys, the greatest stories, and the sharpest wit, which they honed at my expense when they felt like reminding me that I went without more often than they did. On other days, they let me in as if I were one of them: albeit one who walked instead of biked.

I spent my fourth through sixth grade lunch periods listening to their adventures behind the factories on 51st Street or at the dirt track they built next to the Hostess Thrift Shop on 55th Street: tales of legendary BMX jumps off of makeshift ramps and devastating spills off the same shoddy constructions.

When I first showed up with my new bike, most of the group acted as if they hadn't noticed. In a rare display of good will, Al Spinelli (who rode a Mongoose) said, "Nice bike, Scully," while Joe Athos (Diamondback), Tim Anton (Haro) and the rest nodded their approval. For the rest of the week, no one addressed me further, like before. I was just happy that they didn't make fun of me.

A few weeks later, my status amongst the BMX group handled itself. In a recherch351 solo excursion with the public school population of the neighborhood, my Columbia was leaned against the swing set at the playground by Kennedy High School (upside down, the bars turned sideways to where the front wheel laid parallel to the sidewalk, like a broken bird) and made the target of repeated jumping side kicks. The frame was cracked right where the sissy bar met the fork tube, just below the handlebars.

I was truthful with my father about what happened, and asked him if there was please something he could do about it, either find those kids and dole out some of the grief he was giving me, or maybe fix the bike. He seemed more interested as to why I didn't do anything about it myself.

By the Saturday they lynched my bike, most of these public schoolers had already had sex, drank alcohol on a regular basis, and committed murder at least once, according to them. Systematically gang-beating a crappy Redline knockoff seemed like a step down, thrill wise, but who was I to question? My father further tortured me by letting me walk for at least two days before he finally offered a solution and took it to a guy who repaired the trucks at the 7UP plant. He brought it back to me four days later, the frame scarred but stable.

I returned to the group and explained, unasked of course, why I hadn't been around (the story changed, understandably, from my pussing out with the public school kids to attempting a difficult "table top" maneuver at the track by the Hostess Discount Store). Scott Reynolds (Redline) banged on the sissy bar with his fist. "Those truck welders know what they're doing, man. This frame is probably as strong as any of these now." He nodded at all the other bikes with his chin. "That neck is still a piece of shit, though. You gotta go with the Tuffneck." I agreed wholeheartedly, and with Al, Joe, and Tim's nods, I was in.

On the way down 51st street to the track we built near the train yard behind the factories, Scott mentioned that Vicki would be coming back to stay with her aunt. Cute Vicki, with the brown, feathered hair (think Courtney Cox circa Springsteen's "Dancin' in the Dark" video), and great tits, from what they said: What, Scully? You haven't noticed Vicki's tits? What are you, a fag? The verbalized answer was No! The answer I could never give them even if my balls were on the chopping block, Ginsu raised, ready to slam down, was Honestly, building dirt bike tracks out of wooden pallets and old semi tires is more my speed. Girls actually terrify me, especially the aggressive ones, and from what I've seen of this Vicki, she cusses like a truck driver and punches when provoked. No thanks.

What made Vicki such an object of affection within this group wasn't primarily her developing womanhood, but her love for everything BMX. Her eighteen year old brother, an accomplished burnout otherwise, built the greatest mutt bike ever out of the best parts on the market: Hutch frame, Powerlite fork, Tuffneck, Alex alloy wheels (because mag wheels looked cool, but spokes were lighter and obviously ensured better performance). Vicki knew everything about bikes, tracks all over the country, popular riders, even specific races! She was no poseur.

Up until then, I only knew Vicki from the pedestrian standpoint, and that position came with no privileges. My own obsession with BMX was never realized by anyone, especially Vicki, because I did not have a bike. Now I had one, and it dawned on me that I may be called on to speak with her, to possibly engage her in casual banter about racing. Would she expect me to look at her tits?

Al said, "Don't tell anybody this, but, one time I fingered Vicki by the railroad tracks behind the factories." Some of the others laughed. Tim said, "I figured you guys did something. No one could find you all afternoon."

Scott said, "I fingered her in Yvonne Petruski's pool. She bled, man." Everyone laughed and said gross!

Nobody refuted Scott even though we all knew he was talking smack and just trying to outdo Al, who may have been divulging his own bathroom fantasy: twelve-year-old boys are known to forgo truth in stories about interesting subjects like sex and death (i.e. things they know absolutely nothing about), but will quibble to the exact digit over a summer batting average. I rode in silence for a block or so, but couldn't hold it in any longer. I was astonished. I wasn't in a position to verbally disbelieve Al or Scott, but I needed to know more details.

"How did that happen?" I asked, and knew as the words entered the vulnerable space that there would be considerable fallout.

Al skidded to a halt, and everyone followed, setting themselves up in a line like dominoes in the street. "Holy shit! You don't know how it works?!"

"Man, read a book!" condescended Patrick O'Callahan, and continued riding. I don't know where he came off, though; that punk rode a Huffy.

"I know how it works!" I retorted, and I wasn't lying. I knew about sex, at least in theory. My father made me watch The Miracle of Life earlier that summer, and even in 1983 it was dated. I knew sex involved lying down on the grass (fully clothed) in the park, smiling into the woman's eyes while Frisbees and dogs orbit around your blanket. Then, jumpcut to the penis penetrating the vagina and blasting what looked like a cloud of bleach into shadows. But I only knew how that looked on the inside. What the exact configuration of the rest of the participants' bodies was, I hadn't the faintest idea, nor did I know the duration of the act, nor did I know what the two people said to each other during this whole sex thing. I had a hard enough time talking to a girl in the daytime, standing up, fingers and penis worlds away from her genitalia.

And besides, this wasn't sex we were talking about here. This was fingering, and I wanted to know what course of events takes place leading up to a twelve year old inserting his fingers into an older girl (Vicki was 13). I asked Did they talk about it first and agree that, possibly after sharing a Blue Raspberry Slurpee, Al would finger her? What did they say to each other when the fingering was occurring? Once his fingers were fingering, what happened next? How did they know when said fingering had come to fruition? Where were Vicki's fingers when all this was going on?

"Jim! You are sexually retarded!" said Patrick from the seat of his abomination. I shut up, and the topic was dropped from conversation as quickly as it was put into play.

Three days later, Vicki quietly appeared within the group. I turned around and there she was riding next to Joe discussing the new cranks and racing pedals his father bought for him. I was once again ignored, which is what I feared, but I soon learned that this status was advantageous because it gave me an opportunity to study Vicki's tits unnoticed (I still didn't know what the big deal was), and most importantly, to observe how the guys acted, which could be described as pathetic. Al S. and Scott W. were the worst: talking about how great her bike was, complimenting her on easy jumps (jumps that I cleared the day before 226 to complete indifference from everyone!), asking her stupid questions like Don't you think Mike Dominguez is the best rider ever to get on a bike? Duh!

They sure didn't act like two people who had been intimate with Vicki. They barely talked to her, but my experience with intimacy came strictly from observing Jason Rucinski and Julia Riley: the only couple I knew of who were definitely having sex on a regular basis. Jason chauffeured Julia around the neighborhood on the handlebars of his ten-speed bike and shared a bottle of coke with her behind Gas City on Archer Avenue, leaning against the wall with his hand in the back pocket of her cutoff jean shorts. There was nothing like that with these three. Vicki smiled at everyone in the group, even me. Either she wanted to keep her experiences with Al and Scott as much a secret as they did, or she had no idea what they were saying behind her back.

When I went home that night, I was angry and hurt, and I promised myself I wouldn't hang with any of them again, at least until Vicki left. They all acted like a bunch of assholes because of her.

By two o'clock the following day, I found myself meandering on my bike through the neighborhood, half looking for the group. I turned down 51st street heading towards the factories and my heart stuttered. There, unavoidable and cute, was Vicki, heading straight for me.

"Hey, Vicki"

"Hey. Do you know where Al and them went?"

"Nope. I'm looking for them, too. Think they're behind the factories?"

"I just looked. Ride with me to Hostess?"

"Sure."

I wanted to take off and hide in my room. I wanted to ride with her and ask her everything about what Al Spinelli and Scott Reynolds bragged about, but I didn't know how to even begin to approach it. I pedaled after her.

She asked me my name and what kind of bike I had. I told her the truth about it being cheap, but added the story about the welding.

"Oh. You're the guy with the welded bike!"

She had heard of me, and possibly thought of me, maybe wondered about me without even knowing who I was, which made me want to coax her into the bushes somewhere and kiss her, or at least touch her hair - maybe her face.

We got to Hostess and a group of local losers were gathered in the middle of the track drinking beer. Vicki looked at me for a long time and said, "Wanna come by my house and wait for them there?" (I couldn't hold her gaze, but in the few times I glanced up at her, I noticed her eyes were brown, like mine)

I swallowed hard and said, "OK."

When we got to her aunt's house, we dropped our bikes on the grass in the backyard and sat on the edge of the patio. The screen door slammed and we turned to find her brother: Iron Maiden T-shirt and blue bandana tied Karate Kid style around his head. "This your boyfriend?" He said to Vicki but staring at me.

"Shut up, Randy!" Said Vicki, and turned back to me. "Don't listen to him."

"He looks like a retard." Randy said, and laughed.

"Go back inside!" Vicki shouted. "You're the retard!"

"Yeah. OK. You gotta come in and help with dinner."

I turned and looked, and he was still locked on me. He was drinking a Coke, and I almost expected him to spit a warm mouthful into my hair.

Something about Randy made me uneasy. It wasn't the heavy metal or the pseudo beard. I had known burnouts and assholes before. He looked from me to Vicki, and I then realized that he would probably derive pleasure from spitting that soda into her hair rather than mine. I turned away from him.

"I'll be in inna minute," said Vicki. "Just go away."

I heard the screen door again and tried to find an excuse to get far away from that scene. "You have to go in. I'll go find the guys, and we'll come back for you."

"Why haven't you ever talked to me?" Vicki asked. She was smiling and looking at me. I was sure she could read my mind and was ashamed. My fingers twitched.

"I don't know. It seemed like everyone else was talking to you." I couldn't look at her any longer, and I had to look down into the grass. "Plus, you never talked to me either."

I looked up and met her gaze and was surprised at how badly I wanted to hear her response. "I'm talking to you now, ain't I?"

Perfect.

The situation that Al and Scott described seemed impossible from where I was right there in that moment. How could they have manipulated this girl the way they described when I could barely answer her questions? Did she look at them the way she was looking at me at that moment? She needed more than they claimed they gave her, and I wanted to go and buy a ten-speed that afternoon.

I only laughed. It was awkward and giddy, but it seemed to adequately convey what we both felt at that moment, which was something neither of us knew how to navigate. With a bolt of confidence I looked at her, into her eyes, and she continued to smile. I knew I could kiss her then. I knew she wanted me to, and all my worries about how the first one would go down seemed so wrong and ridiculous.

"You know what?" she whispered.

I leaned in close to hear what, Vicki's breath forever redefining grape Bubble Yum for me.

The screen door opened again and Randy spoke, "Listen you little bitch, if I have to come out there, I'm gonna drag you into the house by your hair in front of your retarded boyfriend. Now, get in here and help start dinner!"

Vicki shook her head and got up. She ran into the house, "Leave me alone, asshole!"

There was what sounded like a door slamming, then glass breaking. I heard Vicki scream. I heard Randy yell something, but his voice sounded far away, maybe from the basement. I heard some other voices, an older woman and a young child crying.

I stood for what seemed to be a long time in the middle of this backyard, trying to see through the screen door. I fantasized Vicki running away and me harboring her in the tree house behind the factories, hiding her from her brother, from Al Spinelli and Scott Reynolds and their fingers, from Tim Anton's laughing and everyone's fake courtesy and interest. I stood for what might have been the duration of a make-out session, and then a woman appeared in the doorway and told me that Vicki would not be out again tonight and that she would be going back home in the morning.

I picked up my bike and rode home, not even going out of my way to check the track at Hostess, at least not for the rest of that day.