If Rock and Roll Were a Machine (19 page)

Angie held out his hand and they shook. Bert heard the cheers. He didn't want to look up, but he couldn't help himself. He looked down again right away.

The sound rang in his ears all the way home.

Lawler won the B league
and moved up to A. He was out of range for now, but Bert kept him in his sights. Lawler was good; Bert wasn't kidding himself about that. He had a couple of excellent lob serves and a pinch shot he hit from all over with his forehand or backhand. No, he didn't hit it from all over—that was the point. He only hit it from the receiving line or closer. Lawler's game was narrow. Bert believed that a player with a wider range of skills who could play the whole court—maybe even an inferior player, such as Bert himself—could get Lawler out of his game and beat him.

So Bert kept watch on Lawler. He continued to watch the best players in the club, too, but a lot of these guys didn't come around after the weather warmed up. They golfed, Scotty said, or fished or played softball or worked around the house.

The player Bert watched most often now was himself—thanks to Cheng Moua. It took the Hmongster three weeks to edit the video he shot at the Richland tournament. He walked into the journalism room on a Monday noon rolling a cart with a VCR and a monitor and wearing a confident smile. “Showtime!” he announced. “Championship racquetball. Bert Bowden versus
some old Italian guy. Admission is free.”

It was like a how-to film, and a how-not-to film as well. The Hmongster had split the screen and shown Bert hitting backhands on the left side and forehands on the right. This was intercut with the progress of the match and comments from the people watching. The concluding sequence was Bert's backhand kill, Camille Shepard yelling “Smokin' backhand!,” Bert and Angie shaking hands, and then Bert looking up for half a beat before he looked back down again. The final frame was Bert's lowered head with Zimster's voice-over. “He used to be a really good athlete when we were kids. I guess he's found his sport.”

It was a lot more than a racquetball lesson, really: It was a story about Bert.

Cheng gave Bert a copy, and Bert bought him a three-pack of tapes in return. Now Bert could watch himself play racquetball, and he did this often.

*  *  *

The focus of attention around Thompson High in the spring—and the reason Bert had the journalism room all to himself at lunch now—was Camille Shepard's band. This was also the subject of
The Explorer's biggest
story since the basketball team took second place in state. It was so big that Darby covered it herself. Every noon she was down in the band room watching rehearsals and auditions for the “show” part of the “dance and show” that Shepard had given his word would revolutionize the concept of senior proms.

When Darby had first mentioned
the story at a staff meeting, Schwartz instantly piped up. “Wait a minute. Shepard is going to learn to play an instrument and put together a band for a ‘dance and show' by May twenty-sixth? He's going to sandwich this in between genetic research and mediating ethnic disputes in the Balkans, I guess.”

Bert wanted to laugh. He was glad Schwartz had been the one to make the crack.

“He's been playing the piano since he was a little kid,” Darby replied. “He started guitar when he was twelve.” She turned to Bert. “How come you didn't get any music stuff in your story on him, Egg?”

“He didn't say a word about music.”

“The Shepster is a modest fellow,” Schwartz said.

Schwartz was being sarcastic, but Bert had to concede that Camille really was modest.

“You guys have to see him,” Darby said. “You won't believe it.”

“The boy can play, all right,” Cheng said.

This news sent Bert's envy meter to the red line, but it also intrigued him. How could a guy be a kick-ass guitar player and go for almost an entire school year without letting anybody know he played?

Bert knew that Scotty played in a band on Saturday nights, but Scotty had never said anything about Camille playing. Bert preferred not to think about Camille Shepard. He didn't like facing Shepard's illustration that so much was possible in one life. It
made him feel ashamed of how little he himself had accomplished and was accomplishing, and it made him envious of Shepard's gifts. Bert wanted to concentrate on using his own modest gifts to pursue his own modest goals, so this is where he focused his mental and physical energy.

And Bert's body responded. It had been responding all along at its own pace, in the way healthy bodies work when we set a task for them.

But Bert's body began doing weird things as well. It made him think of the phantom pains people suffer when they lose a limb. Except that this wasn't painful. It felt good.

Bert would be sitting in class reading, his hands holding the book, his shoulders square. And then he would feel himself turn sideways, his leading shoulder dip, his arm pull the racquet back high, his front foot stride into the ball. He would even feel the contact. The vibrations would run up his arm.

Bert sat still as a stone while some dimension of him played racquetball. His shoulders dipped into forehands and backhands, his wrist snapped at contact, his legs took that one long cross-step to get him to the ball. It was weird, but it was neat, too.

The pain began when Bert felt his arms reach wide for the handlebars of a motorcycle. When he felt the vibration of the engine go up his thighs and into his throttle hand. When he felt the wind in his face. This wasn't a physical pain; but it was a pain of loss.
He wasn't a Harley guy, but he must be a motorcycle guy of some kind. His body wanted to ride.

Not long after these feelings began, Bert's body actually started moving with them. As he slept his hips would rotate, his shoulders roll, his feet move to setup, his hand close around a racquet handle, around the throttle of a motorcycle.

Daylight saving time had kicked
in and Bert was still without a motorcycle to save daylight for. He began suffering serious withdrawal by the end of April. Bikes were everywhere. The Japanese crotchrockets zipped by like angry bees, and the Harleys roared like artillery shells. Bert spread his hands wide on the steering wheel, twisting his right hand as though he held a throttle. He made motor sounds with his lips. He leaned his head out the window to feel the rushing air and the sharp kiss of winged insects.

Bert didn't care if motorcycles weren't on the official list of human needs. He needed a bike, and he was going to buy one. He had twelve hundred bucks left from the sale of the Sportster. If Scotty couldn't find a cheap classic bike soon, he'd buy a restored one. If he couldn't afford something that nice, he'd go Japanese. This was Bert's emotional state as he walked across Highway 2 from the parking lot of Rosauers Foods on the morning of the first Saturday in May.

The first thing Scotty said was “Got something to show ya.”

They walked through the shop and out the back door to the van. Scotty extended his arm toward the open cargo door.
There sat a Norton Commando rolling chassis with engine and transmission bolted down. “The rest of it's in the crates.”

Behind the bike sat four milk crates. One held a yellow Commando gas tank.

“A 1973 Norton Commando,” Scotty said. “This is the deal we've been looking for. I rebuilt this engine and did the Isolastics the first year we were in Spokane. The guy was going to do the rest, but he never got to it. Now he's headed back for California. He was happy to get five hundred bucks. Just for fun I dug up the work order. It cost him almost a grand then. The bill would be twice that now.”

“And I can buy this motorcycle?” Bert asked.

“You must buy this motorcycle,” Scotty replied. “This bike is you. I suspected all along you might be a Norton guy, and now I know. That Sportster was just a transitional ride.”

Bert took the Norton home to Gram's in the shop van. In its dismantled condition it was easy to unload alone. He yearned to piece through the crates, but Scotty needed him back at the shop.

Throughout his workday, his weight circuit, and his drills on the court Bert thought of the Norton and the crates full of parts. He'd been tempted to skip workout and dive right into bike work, but he was afraid to cheat on his routine. He was afraid that if he skipped a day, he wouldn't deserve to keep making progress. As much as Bert loved bikes, he loved who he was becoming more. He tried to lose himself in the physical exertion,
but he couldn't.

When Bert got back home he lost himself in Norton parts. He found a factory shop manual and a Commando parts list in one of the crates, and he checked each piece against the list and set it out on Gramp's workbench. He made notes on his clipboard.

Most of the stuff was there. He was missing the drive chain, battery, muffler brackets, exhaust lock-rings, a rear brake cable, and a stop lamp-switch. Nothing big.

Among the treasures Bert found in the milk crates was an original Norton tool kit, including the little Lucas feeler gauge-screwdriver, and a 750 Commando rider's manual. The cover was greasy and a few of the pages had come unglued, but it was in pretty good condition for its age. Which, Bert realized, was seventeen years, the same age as his own.

Bert was thrilled with all of this right down to the nuts and washers he dug out of the folds of the newspapers in the bottoms of the crates. He couldn't stand still. He felt like calling the company when he saw their number printed on the first page of the rider's manual.
NORTON VILLIERS LTD.
, it said.
MARSTON RAOD, WOLVERHAMPTON, WV2 4NW, ENGLAND. TEL. 22399.

They went out of business a few years after they made this motorcycle, Bert thought, and that's a long time ago. What if I called this number? Maybe I'd get some old Brit biker in the Twilight Zone.

It was after midnight when Bert turned out the light and locked the garage. Tomorrow
night he'd start putting his Norton together.

He peed in the grass, then washed his hands, face, and neck with water from the spigot. He grabbed the towel he kept in his room, then stepped back outside to dry himself. It was a beautiful night. Sleeping would be tough. He was too excited.

Bert loved riding his Norton.
He loved the sound, which was softer than the Sportster but hard enough. He loved the way the suspension allowed the bike to rise with increased throttle like a living thing breathing deeper as it ran. And he loved knowing he'd put a lot of it together himself. He loved it too much to ride it to school. He didn't want to know what other kids thought of it. What he thought of it was most important.

He rode the Norton to the shop on Tuesday, and when work was over he rolled it up on a workstand. He fit the mercury gauge to the carburetors and saw that they weren't in sync. Scotty observed from over his shoulder. Bert adjusted the throttle stop screws and then the pilot air screws in each carb. When the levels of mercury in the two tubes were even, Scotty gave Bert's shoulder a tap. “You've got it,” he said. “Can't dial 'er in any closer than that.”

All the Norton needed now was a luggage rack, and after Bert lowered the stand he walked into the showroom, pulled one off the wall, and put the money in the cash register. Scotty walked with him as he pushed the Norton out into the alley.

“I saw the final league standings,” Scotty said.

“It's a weak league in spring,”
Bert said. He'd won B by a few points.

“It's not that weak.”

“I'm starting to hit it by people is all,” Bert said. “Nobody looks for cross-court stuff. They stand up on the service line and think it's gonna bounce right to 'em.”

“I think you should move up to A in June,” Scotty said. “Those guys look for everything. And you need to start playing guys who hit the ball.”

Bert made a doubtful face. “I s'pose,” he replied.

*  *  *

Bert rode to the club with his workout bag and the luggage rack strapped to the back of the seat with bungee cords. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sky was a little lighter blue than a racquetball. Every cloud in the southern sky was tapered on its leading end, and this quality made them appear to have a shared destination. The clouds made Bert think of a herd of animals grazing. They looked like big, contented animals up there.

Bert felt light as a cloud, which was funny because he also felt full. He was full of good feelings. He was on his way to play the winner of C league. The winner of this match played the winner of A league for the club championship. Everyone knew it wasn't the real club championship because spring leagues were so weak, but still it was something.

Bert wasn't as nervous as usual. Part of it was that he'd been playing well and knew
he could probably win this match with his serve alone, and part of it was simply that he was happy. Bert didn't think that even beating Lawler—in spite of the many nights he dreamed it point by point—would make him feel any better than he felt right now.

*  *  *

The playoff matches were two games to fifteen and a tie breaker, but Bert's didn't get that far. He hit drive serves and played strategically in the first game and won it 15–6. He won the second serving a variety of lobs, which worked better than his drives had the first game, and practicing the overhand shots and splat shots he'd been working on with Scotty.

He also practiced staying loose, having fun. Weird to think a guy would have to practice that, but Bert did. When he was loose, when he was absolutely out of himself and into the game—when he was playing
unconscious
—was when he came closest to getting it right. And sometimes he actually got it right.

Bert put in his time on the abdominal machine and was home before dark. It was his responsibility to call Lawler because he was the one challenging upward. He'd taken the number from the A sheet a long time ago. It was the first note he put by his phone when he installed it. And now he was going to dial that number. Hard to believe. Incredible. Amazing. Astonishing. This was the dream of the last five years of his life, and he hadn't even known it until a
few months ago. And then he'd committed himself to make it happen. And he did it. I did it, Bert thought as he touched the numbers. I fucking did it.