Brad Minnick: A MAN'S REACH SHOULD EXCEED HIS GRASP

J. Bradley Minnick
A MAN’S REACH SHOULD EXCEED HIS GRASP

My mother arranged for us to walk to school together. I didn’t want to go to school; and, I especially didn’t want to walk anywhere with Kate Wheeler.

Kate Wheeler was my next-door neighbor. She was as persistent as she was pretty, as forthright as she was forceful. She had no shame, and I had so much.

She appeared at my front door on the first day of 1st grade and rang the bell. No one ever came to the front door or rang the bell. My mother opened the door and Kate said, “It’s raining today, Mrs. Why. Does Jason have his umbrella, or should I run home and get one for him?”

I felt remarkably self-conscious as I hid behind my mother. As her palm pushed me through the doorway, she handed me my paper lunch bag full of all those sandwiches I could never stomach.

Kate, who was my age, actually had the audacity to grab my hand like she was leading a little boy who couldn’t possibly find his way without help. “Come with me, Jason!” Kate said in a very patient voice, showing off to my mother, who, caught in the grip of my agony, returned a condescending smile.

I really wouldn’t have minded so much if Kate hadn’t seemed so perfect to me at that moment with her straight, white teeth, her two older sisters (both beautiful), her father’s Corvette convertible parked on a paved driveway in front of her house, and her long backyard with the swimming pool.

And, I imagined what she must have thought of me with my father’s black Plymouth Valiant with holes in the floorboards, with our gravel driveway with the small stones that hurt your feet, and with my baby sister, only six months old, who could hardly be considered human yet.

And above and beyond all of her worldly possessions, Kate Wheeler had learned, in a matter of weeks, to ride her purple two-wheeler with the shiny chrome handlebars and the perfect banana seat.

Every evening at exactly 6:30, she would flit past my two-wheeler, a red Western Auto Flexible Flyer that had become, more or less, a permanent fixture leaning on its kickstand in our garage. Then, at precisely 6:35, she would zoom past my front door again, this time on the other side of the street, while big automobiles brushed past her creating unnatural breezes that kept Kate aloft on her perfect banana seat.

◊

My father’s motto, and sadly I must say it is not an original one, borrowed from Robert Browning, went like this: “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp or what’s a heaven for?” Father reworked the line into, “One might reach and never get a firm grasp.”

My father read Browning’s poetry to me every night in place of fairy tales: Robert Browning’s poetry raised my earthly existence, swooping me up in dizzy exhilaration, bypassing reality and climbing into my dreams.

◊

My father pulled the box marked “This Side Up” out of the back of the Plymouth Valiant. It wasn’t even my birthday, but he explained the bicycle was a birthday present in advance. Two hours later the assembled bike leaned on its kickstand in our garage, a bright, shiny victim of gravity.

“Let’s ride it,” Father said.

“That’s okay,” I said.

“Don’t you like it?”

“Sure, I like it. I love it, but, I just want to look at it for a while.”

“Here, let’s wheel it outside on the cement and I’ll give you a push.”

I wasn’t sure which word most prevented my willingness to reach out and grasp, cement or push.

“That’s okay,” I said.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s give it a try.”

◊

I hated every minute of that first day Kate and I walked to school, her cool hand clenched my sweaty one. We crossed the street and walked through a mysterious region I called the Netherlands where the sidewalk was dark and the tops of the trees blotted out the sun.

The houses in the Netherlands were much darker and seemed sad: sad houses that never smiled and cast oblong shadows on lawns too lush to walk on; stately affairs with drab trim, painted shutters and pillars. Houses in the Netherlands reminded me of disapproving adults who looked down from towering heights. As I passed each house, I made up names for each in my head: Mr. Honesty, Ms. Books, Mr. Bike, Ms. Western, Mr. Auto.

◊

My father wheeled my two-wheeler out of our garage. “Hop on,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Just get on,” he said. “The rest will take care of itself.”

“Like this?”

“Does it feel right?”

“I don’t know,” I said, straddling the heart-shaped seat.

“You’re not supposed to,” he said, “but, you will know when you know.”

“I will?”

“Let’s go!” he said.

◊

School was a funny place filled with too much concrete and too many colors. Kids were everywhere. Some were holding their mother’s hands, others their legs, and the really shy ones, their behinds. Kate grabbed my hand tight and pulled me through the schoolyard. There was something about holding a mother’s hand that didn’t call attention to you. There was something about holding Kate Wheeler’s hand that wasn’t quite right.

“My father walked through this with me yesterday, so I know where we’re going.”

Kate had used Labor Day afternoon, no less, to walk around the school and find our 1st grade classroom with her father, who owned a Corvette convertible and for all I knew, the world.

Busses pulled up to painted curbs. It was the first time I had seen a school bus and I couldn’t imagine the skill and know-how it must have taken to ride one. The big yellow machines were filled with kids from great distances away.

Why shouldn’t Kate be in charge? She had learned to ride her bicycle the right-proper-way, one step at a time, while I had been thrown into the thick of grasping air, applying pushes to principles that exceeded my grasp.

◊

“You’ve got to push the pedals to make them work!” my father said.

“How do I do that?”

“Push down on them.”

“I can’t!”

“Don’t say you can’t, say you won’t!”

“I can’t, and when I push backwards, the pedals won’t work either.”

“No, if you push on the pedals backwards, you activate the brake.”

“Won’t I go backwards?”

“No, you’ll stop. Your problem is that your pedals are too far back and you can’t get proper leverage.”

“Don’t say can’t, say won’t,” I said.

“Push the pedals half-way round to go forward.”

“Show me!”

◊

I am told by my mother that Kate and I walked on separate sides of the street on the way home from school that first day. Our hand-holding days, it seemed, were over. Why? I’m not sure. My guess is that Kate had been too bossy.

◊

“You won’t know when I let you go, but whatever you do, don’t stop pedaling,” my father said.

I could feel him running beside me. The wheel of my Flexible Flyer hummed against the unevenness of an over-grown sidewalk.

“Don’t let me go,” I wailed into the air.

“I’ve got you!” he said. “Keep pedaling!”

“This is fun!” I said.

He said I wouldn’t know when he let me go, but somehow I knew, and I stopped pedaling.

◊

“Why don’t you carry a lunch bag to school?” I said to Kate the second day while we walked to school.

“Because I have money and buy my lunch at school along with a container of cold milk.” From the depths of a little purse made of colored beads and zippers, Kate extracted a dollar.

“I’m allergic to milk,” I said.

◊

“You’re supposed to fall down the first time,” my father said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Are you okay?”

“It’s like I’m drowning in a sidewalk sea.”

“Let’s try again.”

“I think I scratched the bike.”

◊

When I saw the dollar in Kate’s hand, that’s when I got the idea to sell lies.

“I know something you don’t,” I said.

“What?”

“I just do,” I said and left it at that for a while.

◊

“Hop on again,” Father said.

“I’m afraid I will fall again,” I said.

“Come on, give it a try,” he said.

“It’s full of falling,” I said.

“Okay,” he said, finally. “Let’s go polish this scratch.”

At that very instant, Kate Wheeler rode by on her bicycle and waved to me with one hand while I stood defeated on the pavement. Two little wheels trailed on each side of Kate’s back wheel; those little wheels kept her going; they kept her up; they kept that interminable smile on her face.

“Look!” I said, “Kate Wheeler has those extra wheels!”

“They’re called training wheels, Jason,” my father said, “and you don’t need them.”

“I don’t?”

So, I didn’t have training wheels either, just like we didn’t have a Corvette convertible for our driveway or a pool in our backyard.

◊

“I know what we’re getting for Christmas,” I said to Kate. I was about to sell my first lie.

“I just love Christmas!” Kate said.

“Our parents are going in together and buying the present for both of us, a special Christmas treat.”

“Tell me!” Kate said. “I love treats!”

“For a dollar,” I said.

“Okay,” she said and reached into her purse and forked-over the dollar.

“A tent for us to play in.”

Kate looked skeptical. “A big one,” I spread my hands wide, “that we can set up in the front yard and play in.”

“How do you know?”

“I overheard my mom talking to your mom on the phone.”

“Really? Wow!”

“And we can play all kinds of games.”

“Like house,” Kate said.

“I guess.”

“And you can be the mommy and I’ll be the daddy.”

“I want to be the daddy,” I said.

“Oh, I’ve always wanted a house,” she said. “With dishes and plates and you’ll go off to work.”

“Wait a minute,” I said.

I am going to Hell for sure, I thought that night.

◊

“I know something you don’t know,” I said on our walk to school.

“What?”

“For a dollar.”

Kate reached into her beaded purse and gingerly handed me a dollar.

“My father’s going to buy a new car,” I said.

“What kind?” Kate said.

“You’ve seen it,” I said. “It’s the Manleys’ rag top Cadillac.”

“Then, it’s not new,” Kate said.

“No,” I said. “It’s not new.”

“And that wasn’t worth a dollar, Jason. Give it back!”

There was no selling the truth.

◊

Kate continued to zip by my front door on her bike every evening at exactly 6:30. She had also taken to riding in the street. She had replaced the large training wheels with a set of smaller ones that only touched down occasionally.

My Flexible Flyer leaned against its kickstand in the middle of our gravel drive for the better part of a month. My father never pushed me to ride it again.

◊

“I know what we’re starting next week,” I said.

“What?”

“For a dollar.”

She had it ready before I even asked, pressing it into my palm.

“Ballet lessons!”

“Really?”

“Yes, you and me and some other kids are going to start taking them next week.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it’s supposed to help me with coordination, for sports, you know?”

“Coordination?”

“Yes, and Janice is going to give them.”

“The cheerleader?”

“Yes.”

“With the red car and the long hair and the beads around her neck?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“You won’t believe it!” I said.

“I don’t believe it,” Kate said. “Give me back the dollar.”

“It’s the honest to God’s truth,” I lied.

“Now I can get pink ballet slippers and fly through the air. You can throw me.”

“What?”

“And I can do pirouettes in toe shoes like I’m gliding on clouds. You can catch me.”

“Wait a minute.”

“I can’t wait! And, I need that dollar to buy the slippers.”

“Don’t let your mom know you know. It’s supposed to be a surprise. And maybe afterward we can swim in your pool, like a party?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “My dad can’t get the chlorine right.”

◊

Like clockwork, Kate cruised by my front door that night. Her legs worked the pedals, and her dress swirled behind her caught by the breeze. I blinked my eyes when she raced past, her wheels jumping a curb and spinning onto the street.

A big car breezed by her. A family rode in the front seat oblivious to the outside world, speaking in hands. An old lady sat in the back seat watching Kate. I made up a name for her out of my head; I called her Mrs. Wings. Mrs. Wings watched Kate from the back window and clapped her hands. Mrs. Wings clapped because Kate was riding her purple bicycle with the shiny handlebars and the perfect banana seat without any training wheels at all.

◊

I had to find a way to stop the purple nightmares. In them, I would push my bike to the top of the winding hill in the Netherlands. I would sit proudly on the seat and gaze down upon the steep sidewalk lined with the sad houses. I wouldn’t want to, but halfway down I would stop pedaling, and fall out of the sky. Blood would pour forth from my skin. It would be purple.

◊

The day that I made up my mind that I was going to learn to ride my Western Auto Flexible Flyer bicycle was the same day that I sold the big lie.

“I can do something you can’t!” I said.

“What?” Kate Wheeler said.

“I’ll teach you how if you want.”

Kate dropped my hand she still held once in a while and surrendered a dollar.

“This better be good.”

“It’s the best one yet.”

“Well, what?” she said.

“I promise you won’t regret it.”

“I’ll just bet!”

“Completely and utterly true.”

“Just say it.”

“As God is my witnesses,” I said.

“And start praying that I care enough not to smack you.”

“And mother’s back on a sidewalk crack.”

“I’m hungry all of the time now.”

“I can fly,” I said.

“Oh, you cannot, Jason! Give me back my dollar!” she said.

I held her dollar out to the air.

“Just like Superman.”

“The milk used to be so cold.”

“Just like a bird,” I said.

“And the lunch raviolis were the best.”

“I promise to show you how after school, Kate.”

“No fair! Give me back my lunch money.”

“It might take a little practice, but once I show you, it’ll be all you’ll need!”

“If this doesn’t work, Jason. I’m telling my father.”

“It’ll work.”

“And, he’ll tell your, father.”

“I know.”

“And, you’ll never be able to sit down again.”

“I know.”

“Much less fly.”

“I know.”

“Or, tell lies.”

◊

That afternoon, Kate and I were sitting aslant on our bikes on top of the hill in the Netherlands. It was just like in the purple nightmares, but I was really here this time.

The sad houses were below us, and looking at us: Mr. Honesty, Ms. Books, Ms. Western, Mr. Auto, Mr. Bike. I stared at the sun until I couldn’t see anything but the black outlines of the tall trees.

“Teach me how to fly, Jason.”

“Okay, but it’s sort of complicated.”

“Yeah, right, just like I thought,” Kate said, “Give me back my dollar.”

“First, you have to stand up on the seat.”

“You’re crazy.”

“No, Kate, that’s the first thing. I swear to God on my mother’s headstone. Like this.”

I pushed the pedal around so I would get the proper leverage, stood on the back pedal and balanced one foot on my heart-shaped seat.

“Now, you try.”

“This is dangerous, Jason.”

“Come on, don’t be a fraidy cat.”

“Don’t call me a fraidy cat.”

“Then, try.”

Kate kicked down the kickstand, leveled her pedals with her hand, and used the back pedal to step up with one foot on the perfect banana seat.

“Now what?”

“Now we have to say the magic words.”

“What words?”

“The special magic ones.”

“I can’t stand up here forever.”

“I will say them first and then you repeat after me.”

“Hurry.”

“Roses are red.”

“Budweiser’s my brew.”

“What does that mean?”

“My dad drinks Budweiser. Just say it.”

“Budweiser’s my brew.”

“It won’t work unless you mean it.”

“BREW!”

“Now for the tricky part.”

“No, I’m just telling you that the next part is tricky. Now go, first.”

“Go first?”

“Yes, go first.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Sure you do. And it’s guaranteed to work.”

“Guaranteed?”

“Right. Now repeat after me.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll ride down the road.”

“And fly after you.”

“After you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, I’ll be right behind you.”

“Promise?”

“I swear on my father’s head.”

Then, without hesitation, Kate started her journey down into the Netherlands, standing with one perfect foot on top of her perfect banana-shaped seat, hovering over the darkened sidewalk, breezing through the tall trees, and flying past each sad house as a real person took its place: Ms. Books, Mr. Honesty, Ms. Western, Mr. Auto, Mr. Bike and even Mrs. Wings stood there on otherwise barren lawns smiling and clapping at Kate Wheeler’s perfect flying form. When she safely reached the bottom of the hill, she sat down with a plop, popped a wheelie, started her slow climb back up the hill toward me, and said as perfectly as you please, “You didn’t follow, Jason. You promised you’d be right behind. Are you a fraidy cat? You owe me a dollar. I’ll watch you fly this time. Ride down the road. And I’ll fly after you.”

J. Bradley Minnick is a writer, public radio host and producer, and a Professor of English at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock. He has written, edited, and produced the one-minute spot “Facts About Fiction,” and Arts & Letters Radio, a show celebrating modern humanities with a concentration on Arkansas cultural and intellectual work that can be found at artsandlettersradio.org. He has published numerous journal articles and fiction in Toad Suck Review, Burningword Literary Journal, Literally Stories, Inklette Magazine, and Potato Soup Journal, Potato Soup Journal’s ‘Best of 2022’ anthology, The GroundUP, and forthcoming in Southwest Review.

Read more from Cleaver Magazine’s Issue #44.