J.T. Townley
Ensō
Or maybe go for a spin in the spring sunshine, no destination in mind, just pump up the tires, lube the chain, nothing to it, and set out, slowly at first, threading through pedestrians with extra-large soy chai lattes and labradoodles on retractable leashes, then picking up speed, pulse quickening, sweat beading on my forehead and darkening my lower back as I dart beneath the overpass that a woman drove her Mercedes off last month, careening a hundred feet to the parking lot below, yet limping away with only a few scratches and a black eye, then pedal past blooming magnolias, dogwoods, and cherry trees, a splash of pale pink in the Zen sunlight, pollen thick and cloying, sticking in my throat and making me hack so a young woman in a wool winter peacoat (though it must be 70 degrees outside) studies me with such concern that I wave and nod to reassure her I’m alright, then I ride on, feet pushing pedals that turn cranks that spin the chainring that pulls the chain that spins the cog that turns the hub that spins the wheel and propels me forward—meaning a circle is also a line, when you think about it, like an ensō in Japanese calligraphy, that single-brushstroke circle of enlightenment; now I chase squirrels and sparrows past pubs, trattorias, and coffee shops, chuckling at the line stretching around the block at the ice cream place, weaving through backed-up traffic—drivers glare, more from jealousy, I suspect, than annoyance, since who’d want to be trapped in a two-ton coffin on a day like this?—before making a hard left against the light, pressing my luck, as if I’m a gnarly bike messenger from another time, one of those grungy guys with sleeve tattoos and homemade haircuts, splattered with road grime, the ones who could drink espresso and eat pizza slices while pedaling, then dash through downtown traffic with a cigarette dangling from their lips and a jocular snarl in their eyes, doling out contracts and blueprints with equal doses of quick wit and hipster scorn, when in fact the only so-called couriers I ever see any more are mounted on granny bikes and toting takeout to lazy Millennials who treat yoga classes like singles bars, so as I clear the intersection, horns blaring, fists waving, I lament the loss of fixed-gear bikes, ratty shoulder bags, and the cult of human power—but not for long, as a Ram pickup with a huge lift and giant tires nearly sideswipes me, though I’m hugging the curb in the bike lane, but rather than cuss her up and down or shoot her the finger, I consider yin and yang and plumb the depths of karma, only to find myself distracted by a guy grooving to Motown music blasting from an unseen speaker that might be built into his cane, and it’s his rhythm that sends me sprinting after a pair of Spandex-clad cyclists on bikes that cost more than many people’s cars, laughing at them and myself and this beautiful day when I can’t even begin to keep up, no surprise given my own bike has only one gear (for ease of maintenance and repair), so I slow down, wheezing until I catch my breath and watching soccer fans streaming into the stadium, then I’m across the tracks and over the bridge, no hands on the downhill, hitting every light on green as if it’s my birthday, a model of peace and tranquility like some bicycling Buddha, which makes more sense than it might seem, as there’s a Buddha in every one of us, or so it’s been said, and someone once suggested it’s possible to meditate doing anything (cooking, chopping wood), so why not here and now, on a bike on a gorgeous spring afternoon—though all at once, as I head south up the hill past the library, the sky darkens and drizzle begins to moisten my mood and test my equanimity, not unlike the woman on the e-bike, a cargo model, the compartment up front filled with two kids and a vizsla puppy, blowing by me on the uphill as if I’m rolling backwards, so I push harder, spin a little faster, thinking about my legs moving in circles rather than piston-pumping lines, ratcheting up my heart rate and stoking the fires in my quads, until I hit campus, students skipping class to lounge on benches, chatting, arguing, or strumming guitars, or else to kick a hacky sack around as if it’s the most important thing in the world, none of them paying any attention to the middle-aged man running a metal detector over a small patch of grass beneath towering Douglas firs, immersed in the small sweeping motion, listening into his headphones for the slightest bleep or blurp, then I coast down past the food trucks, burritos and gyros and banh mi, picking up speed on my way to the river like a breathless sentence tumbling toward the foot of the page, mallards and ducks, geese and seagulls milling in the grass until I swerve away from the path and cause an explosion of squawks and shrieks and feathery flapping, so I have to dodge their splats as if I’m on a slalom course, and as the drizzle thickens to light rain, the breeze off the river stinks of rot and nostalgia (perhaps the same thing), so I veer back up into the city, pedaling circles that paint my line past court buildings and soulless offices and sandwich shops that reek of scorched coffee, shimmying away from cement trucks, panel vans, and Uber drivers who believe hazard lights are a park-anywhere pass, then waving and grinning at a blonde coasting a new blue single-speed, a couple pedaling a tandem, and an unwashed guy balancing bags from the handlebars of his rusted beater bike, before getting caught at the light across from the City of Books, where I balance in a track stand, showing off, though nobody’s watching, as the sprinkles slick up the road but do nothing to dampen the bucket drummer’s syncopated enthusiasm or slow the swagger of a bearded guy with a backpack and two-foot bong; the light glows green, but before I’ve spun a full revolution, an old Volvo (or is it a VW?) approaches pushing 60 mph, and I wonder if the driver’s aiming for me, but there’s no time to speculate since the wet air fills with a rubber-on-asphalt screech and a cloud of acrid smoke as the car fishtails toward me, and all I can think as the world slides into slow-motion is, Don’t get broadsided, and I crank for all I’m worth to get as much of my body out of the way as possible since even without a crystal ball, I can see the future—bumper, windshield, asphalt, then a pile of bloody meat and broken bones that paramedics will have to scrape off the street—so I heave and hustle until I feel that hatchback kiss my rear wheel, though I never even topple over as the VW (or Volvo), spewing exhaust and flaking matte gray paint, stutters to a stop in the middle of the street and stunned sighs leak from onlookers, then the shriek of the timing belt and screech of tires as the driver races away, and though I squint, I can’t make out the state, much less the numbers, on the grease-smudged license plate; as I dismount to assess the damage and marvel at this near-miss (which seems like a misnomer since that would mean a hit, right?), for an instant, everyone at the scene, all these potential witnesses, looks like a stick figure, with a circle for a head and a body made of five short lines, only then it’s me I see in all of them, drumming buckets, lugging historical novels, sipping iced coffee on the corner, though soon what I take for me is the Buddha, not the wandering ascetic, but the fat, jolly one, and while I inspect my bike—my back wheel is tacoed—no one asks if I’m okay or volunteers eye-witness details, and it’s no wonder, since my laughter is loud and uncontrollable, and I can’t stifle my amusement because for some reason, the whole thing seems hilarious, and while I’d rather ride, since my wheel won’t roll, I have to hoof it two miles back home, and while I traipse along, cackling past gourmet donut shops, artisinal stationers, and wine bars, the Goth girl with the rubber octopus hat and the dreadlocked woman carrying a bouquet of flowers in an upside down umbrella and the bickering stumblebums in the park study me in silence, but even their stern gazes come no closer to quelling this weird elation, so as the clouds lift and I’m soaked anew in warm sunlight, my laughter overwhelms me to the point that I become my laughter and my laughter fills the world and I am the world, laughing.
J. T. Townley has published in Harvard Review, Kenyon Review, The Threepenny Review, and many other magazines and journals. His stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize four times. He teaches fiction writing at Pacific Northwest College of Art | Willamette University. To learn more, visit jttownley.com.