Looking For Stolen Bikes, Episode Three: The Oracle Speaks

(Continued from Episode Two: Our seekers have been sent across the river to the portal of the great tunnel in search of the red bicycle. We resume where we left them at the end of Episode Two, the entry to the underworld.)

His eyes met mine for an instant of question and piercing appraisal before going blank with disconnection.  His look said "nothing to do with me," beneath the thick jacket he wore over his head as a kind of helmet or hood. He looked like Obi Wan Kenobi without his staff and an old Carhartt jacket instead of a robe. 

He kept coming toward us but tacked off to the side to avoid direct intersection. He meant to go around us rather than through us.

The incline from the tunnel to the street was not steep, but neither was it easy. It was littered with the debris of storms and the detritus of apathy. His jacket was off his head now, and I could see an abrasion on his scalp, likely from hitting it on the low ceiling of the tunnel.

He was gray and stooped, with hair that sprouted like uncut grass on his scalp and the sides of his head. He looked strong still and had a confident stride, not much older than I, if older at all.  He kept us in view in his peripheral vision as he climbed up to street grade and took the circuitous route toward the convenience store.

"Mind if I ask you a question?" I asked.

He stopped, looked right through me, and answered, "Nope. What can I do for you?"

He carried himself with a calm humility and alertness. Clearly not a predator, but more like a deer, he moved along the wall of the Quik Trip. But there was something else too, an air of poison, like a brightly colored tree frog, a color that says mess with me at your peril. I could see he was a long time survivor of the streets.

He carried some of the filth that goes with living in a storm tunnel, but he could have passed for a working man on a construction crew. I could see lesions on his skin in addition to the deep scrape on the top of his head. This was not someone who spent time in doctor's offices or dermatology appointments. He had, however, a mouthful of teeth, unlike many older homeless I meet, and a wry smile. OK he seemed to say, what's this all about? 

"We're looking for a couple of stolen bikes. One's my wife's bike and we're trying to get it back. We wondered if maybe you've seen it down there." I pointed toward the tunnel.

"It's a red mountain bike with a white fork," I added.

"What brand?" he asked.

"Gary Fisher."

"Seems like I have seen a bike like that. Is it a double suspension?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, I think I've seen it down there, but I can't say when exactly. People come and go all the time. Some are regulars, you know. But some just pass through. Leave stuff like bikes down there all the time."

He kept looking around me, never directly at me.

"They put stuff in these cavities," he said. That was his word, "cavities." It sounded odd to me, and I pictured holes in the walls, like decay in dentition. "There are these smaller caves, kind of like storage areas, in case they come back or need to hide something. Gotta be careful about other peoples' stuff tho."

"I could go take a look if you want," he said. "It's not too far to the first cavity. Guys leave stuff there all the time. I might have seen it there."

"I'd appreciate it if you would look. I'll give you twenty dollars if you find the bike and bring it back out," I said.

He perked up a little at that, but not so much that it made that much of a difference. He would do this money or not.

The three of us watched him walk back down the spillway into the tunnel.

"You think he'll come back?" asked Sean.

"I'll give him half an hour," said Aaron.

"I think the money might make it worth coming back," I said.

We milled around the parking lot as a County Sheriff cruiser checked us out -- three guys in a tight group, one looking like CIA operative, another like an ad for Patagonia outdoor wear, and a third looking like he should be grading papers.

I waved and the sheriff nodded, apparently deciding we were harmless enough.

The sun was warm, early summer warm. I could feel the change of season coming. I wondered about the people living down there in the tunnel and what they would do when the weather went from hot and dry of Sonoran First Summer to anvil-headed giants of Second Summer and the monsoons that would surely scour that tunnel of anything not welded in place. What was it like to live in darkness under the Quik Trip, the traffic of River Road, and the commerce of Sam's Club?

Absolute darkness, concrete walls and floor, one way up and another down, people coming through your space at any hour for any reason, carrying what they carried to survive and to move. Movement is life. Bikes help you move. Bikes were gold, dragon's gold, worth hiding away, deep in the the lair.

The Oracle emerged as promised but with no bike.

"It wasn't there," he said. "But if you give me your phone number, I can call you if I see it. I can set it aside in one of them cavities. He took it deeper into the tunnel; that tunnel goes almost a mile, maybe more than a mile. There are parts I don't even know, caves and cavities so deep you think you're never going to get out."

The dragon was going to keep all his gold this time. His lair was too deep and we were not ready to penetrate the dark sufficiently to meet him.

Sometimes the dragon wins and the Oracle can only take you so far. 

"No, I don't think so. But thanks anyway."

"You know... I could leave it in the bushes over there.  That way, if you come by to check, you might find it. Nobody would look in there."

"If I come by this way, I might do that," I said. "We'll have to keep looking too."

"Yes, that's right. You have to keep looking. You never know when you might see that bike or the other one. You said there were two. Well I might see the other one too. You never know."

His eyes told me more than his words. It was up to us, but he might cross our path and play some role if the stars lined up. He was willing if we were.

He had his own business to attend to and we had ours.

He offered his hand, and, again, I had to refuse.

"You know. The coronavirus," I said.

He nodded. Another "Whatever."

"Well good luck," he said.

"You too," I answered.

We're all just looking for some space to live our lives and few things to make that life easier and more enjoyable.

The three of us returned to Zappo, drove back across the running river, the exit of the big tunnel, and the bridge, said our good byes and went our separate ways: home, food, and work, still hoping to regain what had been taken, what had been lost.

The search goes on.