The Coyote's Bicycle Read Free Page B

deliverymen, his appreciation for youthful adventure was evident. His cheeks were deeply lined and he wore his graying hair in a short pompadour that shook as he worked and made his proclamations. And he always made proclamations when filling milk canisters and loading theminto the basket. In many ways, globalization was coming to rural Mexico. There were trade agreements and monetary reorganizations and food and currency crises like the Tequila Crisis and the Tortilla Crisis, the demand for imports increasing even as corn prices tumbled, all putting pressure on small farms and businesses like the milkman’s, and always with the same result: people left the village.
    The boys held the bicycle by the handlebars, and listened.
    â€œThere you go, men,” said the milkman finally, as he lifted the canisters into the basket. “That should be enough. Don’t worry about the Garcia house. They left yesterday.”
    Pablito made a low whistle, slipped a leg over the frame, and mounted the saddle.
    When the canisters were full, the bike was heavy. Pablito stood on the cranks and pushed with all he had. It was a matter of will to keep it righted at the slow revolutions he could muster. Solo jogged behind to give the occasional push. In this way, Pablito eventually gained momentum. Solo followed, and when the bike reached the proper speed, he hopped up onto the diablitos . The milkman waved them off.
    It wasn’t a small thing that the bicycle offered the sensation of balance without a foot or the hoof of an animal, without a single living part having to touch the earth in any way. The stability was in the movement, and the movement was like a trick. Nothing else in their experience offered such a sensation. When Pablito and Solo experienced flying, in some very real ways, it was. The falling was real too. The roads of their village weren’t much more than ox trails cut by rivulets and irrigation ditches. When they’d started this job, the milkman offered the usual tips of bicycle instruction: maintain your speed, steady your hands, keep your eye on the road. The bike will follow your gaze. Then the milkman simply walked off to tend to his cows. In truth, Pablito and Solo had taught each other to ride, one running alongside the other and spreading his hands as if tocatch a fall. This hadn’t been easy on the rutted roads and trails. The bike’s bent kickstand and brake lever were proof of the challenges. And yet, they were the only two kids in the village who knew how to ride at all.
    We know the delivery vehicle also provided something special that, maybe, another bike couldn’t—unquestioned entry into the lives of their neighbors. The boys rolled into the yards, barns, up to the homes of any villager. When Pablito or Solo gave a kick to a tire-chasing dog, no one scolded them. Permission was never required to open a gate or to cross a field. They absorbed the news, attitudes, and gripes of the families in wisps and snatches of conversation. They could appraise their neighbors’ crops and yields, and thus their futures.
    By the time the boys made their stop at Pablito’s house, if there was any news to share, his grandfather would be there to listen. The gate was always open and with Solo on the handlebars, Pablito bumped one wheel and then the other into and out of the dirt sluice that lined the property, steered between the gateposts, and rolled into the yard. A rooster and some hens peeled away. The bike came to a crisp stop and Solo popped off the bars, landing on his feet. Pablito attempted to use the kickstand out of habit, even though it was bent beyond repair, but finally laid the bike on its side.
    â€œ Dime ,” the old man said—tell me. He rested in a threadbare hammock tied between posts under the thatch porch. He was wide-shouldered, round, and powerful. His bright eyes peered from under a straw hat set askew and his hands were clasped over a bright T-shirt