Januariad

The side wall of Kevin’s shop is covered with twenty years of confusingly warm memories. Decent pencil sketches of the shop’s chaotic floor are tacked up next to yellowing ‘zines with his name on the cover and tiny bicycles folded out of aluminium drinking cans. Letters of thanks and letters of praise. Ancient Christmas cards. Hand-made posters espousing cycling.

Kevin speaks barely at all. His mumbled responses come after a delay of ten or sometimes fifteen seconds. He stands silently, snapped brake assembly held in one greasy fist, while his unfocused eyes flit through a mental inventory. Typically he turns abruptly, climbing backwards through the frame-and-wheel-strung narrow workshop until he disappears, leaving the customer with indefinite opportunity to examine the implausible show of love fixed over the counter.

The clues come over time. He returns from his expeditions with a precious nut, a rare bolt, a curative spoke clutched between his trembling, knotted fingers. Experiences are clean, cumulative, free of the animation of deception. Pilgrims stand shivering in the unheated basement, supporting their lame bikes with one hand, blowing warmth into the other. Unsure that Kevin understood them, unsure where he’s gone, unsure when he might be back.

They cycle home ten minutes later, having paid out of the spare change in their pockets. Kevin is impossible to chat with. He nods at jokes, shrugs at questions. He listens to long elaborations without response or reassurance. Then you cycle home.