Sharon says she can’t leave the Barbies hanging from the front stoop rail, or from the trees in the back yard. Georgie doesn’t understand the concern about the neighbours, or about how to present ourselves to the public. She doesn’t concern herself past what’s in front of her now and though I’m with Sharon on the public image thing, I know Georgie. So now she rides with Barbie lynched and dangling from the handlebars. When she walks around the house, or outside, Barbie drags and bumps along behind her, abused and dust-covered like that American soldier in Somalia.
It’s nearing the end of the Summer heat as we pedal along. I suggest a destination – a playground, or the garden market – but Georgie says, “Just ride, Daddy. Just ride.” So we keep to residential streets and the occasional back alley. The crickets are out too. They dot and skitter hop across the streets.
“What are they?” says Georgie.
“Crickets,” I say. You know that chirping sound you hear at night?”
“Yeah Daddy. They make me awake all night sometimes.”
“Well, not all night.”
“Yes Daddy. All night. I can’t sleep. It makes me cranky. Mommy says so.”
“Well if mommy says it …”
“It’s true,” she says. “and I’m going to kill these crickets. For keeping me awake.” She veers left, then right, back and forth, with little success.”
“Careful,” I say, anticipating an over-the-handlebars-accident in the middle of the street.
“Daddy! Just watch!” she says swerving and bearing down, head low over the front bars, focussing on the prey.
It happens. It always does. It’s only after the fact that you analyze it with silly observations like: without warning, or sooner than you think, or in the blink of an eye. Ridiculous. We know these things happen, yet we take some seeming pride in suggesting that we were surprised. That we couldn’t have imagined it. That the world has somehow caught us off guard. Like we’re blithe idiots swerving to and fro on the street looking for crickets to eradicate. Then the front wheel t-bones and we feel ourselves lifted head first over the bars, hands thrown forward to minimize the damage.
Georgie picks herself up without crying. That’s the most worrisome part really. Palms scraped, embedded with road grit, knees scudded too, and she stands up without a tear or a sob and berates the crickets for evading her, and causing this discomfort. She jumps after one that is running along the curb. She picks up the Barbie by the string and flails at it. Without success she picks up her white-wheeled, pink and tassled bike and gets back on. “Stupid crickets, “ she says. “Stupid, stupid crickets. If you didn’t live my life would be okay. I hate you.” She rides off without waiting for me, as though I’m not even there.
I am though. Right then I am no place else but with her in that stomping rage. In that sullen attention to constructing a world and then destroying it. Right at that moment I am in her head nodding my understanding and wincing with approval. I know her. I know myself. I don’t know the way out.
Rode 57 ks (the Rosetown loop). Wind was negligible. Averaged 31 kph.
Stopped to talk a former student riding his bicycle toward Plum Coulee, on the 201.
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