He
climbs on, switches on the ignition, kicks the starter: once, twice,
three, four, five times. . . Nothing. He tries a dozen more
times. It won't go. He checks the gas tank. Got
gas. He switches the key off and on, tries again. It still
won't go. He climbs off the bike and squats down to look at the
engine. Check the carburetor, check the wires. . . Seems
okay. He takes a wrench from his jacket pocket and removes the
spark plug. He examines it, blows on it, wipes it on his jeans,
replaces the plug, climbs back on the bike and tries again.
Nothing. Now he is getting really angry. There is
absolutely no reason why this thing shouldn't start. He gets off
the bike and stands and stares at it. He gets back on and kicks
the starter really hard half-a-dozen times. Now he is
furious. He gets off and throws the wrench he is still holding as
far as he can. It bounces on the gravel down the road and skids
into the weeds in the ditch. Then he turns and kicks the
son-of-a-bitch motorcycle over on its side and walks away. After
a short distance he thinks better of it and returns to the
motorcycle. It isn't sobbing quietly. It doesn't say "I
don't want to play with you any more," or "I don't love you any more,"
or "I have my own life to live," or "I have the children to think
of." It only lies there leaking oil and gas. He rights the
motorcycle and carefully wipes off the dust, carefully mounts and once
more tries the starter. Even now it won't go. He gets down
and sits in the dirt beside the broken motorcycle.
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