Feet, Don't Fail Me

Here is my submission for this week’s Stories from the Jukebox prompt, Back to Square One by Ian Thomas, chosen by Maple Mixtape 🇨🇦.

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“Man, I love a beer that can replace dinner.”

“You ready for another one?” he asked me. “You worked for it today.”

I nodded.

Three and a half miles.

Doesn’t sound like much, but two hours ago I was straddling a borrowed bike, toes barely touching the ground, for the first time in decades. I was back to square one, negotiating with my feet to even come up to the pedals. I hadn’t considered they might betray me today. They weren’t budging.

Until they finally did.

So we celebrated with some Good People Coffee Oatmeal Stout out by the pool. Picked it up at Irene’s on the corner. Locked our bikes outside, like real bikers. Wore our helmets in. He let me pick. I saw his face squirrel up, like I’d chosen cough syrup.

“You want a porter.”

“No big deal. I’ll get both.”

He strapped the beer to his bike and we headed back to our street.

The sun had dipped behind the trees. The solar lamp tipped over earlier and hadn’t gotten enough sunlight to charge. We got maybe 15 minutes of pitiful glow—then one last flicker before giving up.

We stayed.

We caught up—disembodied words floating in the darkness. The neighbor started their grill.

“They cook out every Saturday,” he whispered. “Rain or shine. Like clockwork.”

Then he reminded me about Spain. His lifelong dream: a bullfight. His favorite matador, who is a freaking rock star. Looks like a maniac in his promo shots. He only has one eye.

He finally got to go. He showed me a photo: him in his bow tie and seersucker suit, holding a specialty pre-fight wine and cheese. Dapper. He spoke with reverence.

Then he told me about his goddaughter Bellamy. She went to Dublin last year for New Year’s. Found a tiny pub. Nothing special. But everything. Rang in the new year with strangers.
“Now, she’s living her best twenty-eight-year-old life.
We’re going to Portugal this time.”

Portugal.

I’d heard Portugal’s name more than once lately. Like it had a plan.

I looked his way and spoke into the dark.
“You speak Portuguese?”

“Not a lick. Don’t matter, babydoll.”

“New Year’s, eh?”
My stomach did a half-flip. Square one again. Only this time, negotiating my feet over an ocean.

“Yeah. Nine days. Maybe more. Maybe less. We could leave on the 24^th.”

“We could?”

“Yes. No. Wait. You have to go to Midnight Mass.
Let’s leave on the 25^th—Airbnb. You ever stayed in one?”

“No. But listen. Don’t — are you serious? Don’t just be talking ideas here.”

I’ve known him forever. I know he doesn’t float ideas and call them blueprints. And he knows I start building. But still… I had to ask.

“Serious as a heart attack. Come on.”

The lamp was dead. The pool black glass behind him.
A small flicker by the neighbor’s fence.

I nodded.
He couldn’t see me.

He was booking rooms and flights.

Here’s the mixtape.

Back to Square One — Ian Thomas
Holiday in Spain — Counting Crows
Wherever I Go — Noah Rinker
Beautiful World — John Prine
Still Out There Running — Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats
Till Things Get Right — The Red Clay Strays
Keep Me Honest — Michael Marcagi
You Should Probably Leave — Chris Stapleton

Back to Square One