Shadow of her third name

CHAPTER 1. That's My Party

After Dark X Sweater Weather

"All I am is a man,
I want the world in my hands,
I hate the beach, but
I stand in California
with my toes in the sand."

Odie

My whole life is a race. Toward those little lights on the horizon, way off in the distance. Something inside me screams every day, calling me toward them. Come on, Odie. Faster. Chase the feeling — flying downhill with nothing to hold you, no net, no brakes, and you still just know you're not going to fall. You won't fall. Not as long as you don't stop to ask yourself why you're riding. Give the wind all of you. Then it's the lamp, the desk. Forget the keyboard. Like Times New Roman or Calibri could ever touch what's underneath me. Crack open the mystery of why I was born? No chance. Only a notebook and a black gel pen get that close.

The cigarette smolders like it's gone mad between my fingers. While I'm not writing — no, I'm ripping the page apart with lines. I want to write like the Beats. Those goddamn drunks who burned themselves down to nothing and cranked out masterpieces, sending structure straight to hell. Henry Miller, Kerouac, Burroughs, Snyder. Torn wide open. Down to the raw, unbending truth.

I got born in the wrong century. Everywhere you look it's rap, tolerance, synthetics. Everyone keeps pretending they're fearless, when really they're praying under every stranger's stare, just so this once they won't be the first to look away. None of them get it — not my generation, not the ones older than me either. It all comes down to being scared of dying. Look death dead in the face, accept your life is just a game, and you'll burn bright at your own funeral.

That's why I stay true to my Yamaha. Traded her for my house — my mother's mansion. That stupid, stupid woman said: "Get out. Why would I want a daughter who could be a corpse by tomorrow?" Stupid, stupid Beatrice. Any one of us could turn into a corpse this exact second. That's exactly why I treasure every single day and thank God for it.

Today's March 27, 2017. I step out of my little place in Queens. Dead quiet, a thousand stars overhead, wind working through the sycamores. Their lazy rustle sounds like it's trying to tell me something. Too bad I don't speak the language.

My Yamaha's waiting for me in the garage, calling me to saddle up. She's racked up plenty of wins. She knows tonight we're beating death again too.

I'm basically the apocalypse walking, as far as Queens is concerned. Engine roars, gearing up to haul me out to the arena. My girl rolls smooth onto the road — narrow, lined with oaks and houses ripped straight out of some goddamn Desperate Housewives set. Yeah, everyone thinks it's quiet around here when they move in. Then they end up hating me. Even though I'm the one saving their lives from dying of boredom.

The leather jacket digs its studs into me, then lifts again, stealing the wind's strength and passing it straight to me. I disappear. I'm not here anymore. I'm a force — and once you've felt it, you'd trade your good deeds for my sins in a heartbeat. I'm Odie O'Shiller, goddammit, and pretty soon America's going to lose its mind over me. Honestly? I don't even know why I need that.

The sleepy neighborhood drops away behind me. Road widens out. Stakes go up, because now the trucks are barreling past just feet away, headlights hunting for my silhouette in the dark. Mine and my Yamaha's. But it's all a bluff. Same as life. Lots of light, lots of noise, wind slamming in off oncoming traffic — but all you actually need is to hold your line. So that back at the garage on the highway, nobody's left with any doubts about who wins. Again. The one who's already made peace with dying.

Pulling up, I already spot Austin's bulky frame, that leather vest of his with the skull and the ink. Jack towers over him, wrapping everybody in a pale cloud off his goddamn vape. What's it smell like this time? Banana bangs or cherry bangs? I want to rib him with the usual joke out of habit, pull out my unfiltered American Spirits to a round of laughs from the guys. None of it's serious, though. I love every one of them like brothers. Around them, everything's easy, fun. Not like the writing world, where they'll probably brand me some uncouth savage. Tell me straight to my face: no, you're not worthy to create, not worthy to pick up the banner out of Hemingway's hands, out of London's.