Part 3 (1/2)
'Stanley, Stanley, here is my answer true.
I can't cycle, or I'll get black and blue.
It won't be a pleasant ending, With all my bones a' mending, 'Cuz I'll get pitched and land in the ditch, on a bicycle built for two.'
That little ditty-my personalized version-played in my head like an annoying sing-along song from a Broadway musical you can't stop humming. (Last week I couldn't get the 'he had it coming' song from Chicago out of my head.) I'd made arrangements to meet Drew Van Vleet on the courthouse grounds at four P.M. sharp. Neutral territory. Plus, I didn't want to drive the eight miles to New Holland on my dime.
I spotted Van Vleet near the big cedar bandstand that's a magnet for graffiti. I've lost track of how many paint jobs the structure has had over the years.
”You're late,” Van Vleet barked.
”Saw-ree. I didn't know I was on a time clock. I'll try to be more punctual in future,” I said.
”See that you do, Witchiepoo.”
”So, Drew, how are things in New Holland? Break into any residences lately? Violate anyone's privacy?” I inquired, a reference to Drew Van Vleet's abrasive, intrusive, borderline-criminal style of journalism. ”That turned out so well for you the last time.”
”Whoa. Idle back on the pa.s.sive aggressive hostility, would you? Surely you can't still have that warty nose out of joint over my little Halloween spread,” he said.
Van Vleet's Halloween devilry had unleashed a not-so-nostalgic blast from the past-and kick-started a reputation I'd struggled to distance myself from.
Hmm. Warty nose out of joint? Let's just say if I possessed the powers of witchcraft, Mr. Van Vleet would be resting on a lily pad on a quaint little farm pond somewhere going ”Ribb-it, Ribb-it” and trying to catch flies with his gi-normous tongue. Thhwop!
”Drew. Please. How could I be so petty? You know, especially considering how humiliating it must have been for you to be scooped so thoroughly by the compet.i.tion, and with me getting all those accolades-” I hesitated for effect. ”Well, I figure, under the circ.u.mstances and all, it would be mean-spirited of me to, well, hold a grudge.”
Van Vleet's jaw tightened. I could almost hear the grinding of his teeth. Sometimes I wonder how many guys I've known had to seek dental reconstruction due to chronic and long-term teeth grinding.
”That's awfully big of you,” Van Vleet said.
I shrugged. ”What can I say? I'm a sensitive, caring kind of gal-as well as a consummate professional.”
”Oh, G.o.d, I need to sit down.” Van Vleet said, dropping onto a nearby park bench. ”I take it you've heard about this fiasco they're sending us on.”
”What? You couldn't tell by my cheery disposition?”
”Hey, blondie. I don't like the idea any better than you. But after you screwed me over on that Courtney-Howard story, I've got to go along to get along. So if that means I have to bike across Iowa with a ditzy blonde Barbara WaWa wannabe who stumbles onto stiffs on a semi-regular basis, I say, bring it on.”
”Bring it on?” I made a sourpuss face. Bring it on? Drew Van Vleet made it sound like he was about to embark on some super-sensitive, ultra-perilous undertaking. ”Uh, dude, we're not parachuting into a secret compound in Pakistan in the middle of the night or partic.i.p.ating in a high-risk, overseas mission imbedded with a deployed military unit. It's a bike ride across Iowa. Hardly what you could cla.s.sify as hazardous duty.”
”That remains to be seen...Calamity,” he said with one of those smirks you itch to obliterate with a well-placed jab. Or two. ”You've got a history that would make a mercenary think twice about signing on.”
I crossed my arms. ”Why, Drew. It sounds like you have reservations. Maybe you should reconsider taking this a.s.signment.”
Van Vleet shook his head. ”No way, Toots. I've got to redeem myself with my employer. Thanks to you, I have the credibility of...” He paused for a second. ”Well...you!” He finished with a what-can-I-say lift of shoulders.
His insult landed a glancing blow to my ego. Fortunately for Van Vleet, my recent string of journalistic coups had made me less sensitive on the subject of past job performances.
”At least your boss was scoop-savvy enough to organize your little ride along with me. It seems the fact that I have a nose for news hasn't gone unnoticed by the publisher of the New Holland News,” I said.
Van Vleet made a noisy-and insultingly prolonged-raspberry sound.
”Nose for news? Right. I hate to burst your self-delusional bubble, but it wasn't my boss who planned this road trip from h.e.l.l. It was yours.”
I blinked.
”What? Wait a minute. What are you talking about?”
”It was Stan Rodgers' idea. He approached my boss with an olive branch-along with, I understand, a bit of a wager.”
I frowned. ”Wager?”
”On who will land the best story of the week,” he said. The News or the Gazette. I understand there's also a little side bet on who c.r.a.ps out first. I've got to tell you, Turner. So far, those odds are way in my favor.”
Odds? Wagers? Bets! Olive branch my soon-to-be sore a.s.s.
”Of all the slimy, underhanded, unethical-”
”So, how much experience have you had on a tandem?” Van Vleet cut me off in mid-tirade.
My expression must've betrayed my inexperience.
”You have ridden a tandem before, right?” he added.
I tried to wipe my face clear of emotion-unsuccessfully, apparently, as Van Vleet's forehead suddenly had enough deep furrows to plant a respectable crop.
”You've ridden a bicycle before,” Van Vleet asked.
I snorted. ”Of course I've ridden a bicycle.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. ”Ookay. When was the last time you were on a bicycle?” he pressed.
”I live in the country. Gravel roads. Washboard surfaces. Not exactly your ideal bike trails.” I responded. I chewed my lip. How long had it been since I rode a bike? Let's see. It had to be when we lived in town before we moved to the country. I was around seven then. I grimaced. Good G.o.d. I hadn't ridden a bicycle in...seventeen years!
My non-existent poker face betrayed me. Again.
”Oh, G.o.d. How long has it been, Turner?”
I looked down at my hands. ”I think I was about...uh...seven-years-old the last time I rode a bike,” I mumbled.
”Seven-years-old! You haven't been on a bicycle since you were seven! Holy s.h.i.+t!” Van Vleet exclaimed.
”Okay. So, what part of 'I live in the country' did you miss? Forgive me if I prefer a four-legged horse to a two-wheeled velocipede,” I said.
”h.e.l.l. We'd better get together ASAP to practice,” Van Vleet said. ”I don't want to look like an idiot in front of Keelie Keller and company.”
I sat up in my chair. ”Keelie Keller? Reality star bimbo of the moment? Uh, Drew, sorry to burst your bubble, scoop, but like ten thousand plus people ride in TribRide. How do you figure you're gonna get close enough to Keelie Keller and entourage for her to notice you and your dubious tandem talent?”