A Day at the Races

My friend Matt was visiting from Wisconsin, and we had decided to make "a trip into town" to see what the West Virginia State Folk Festival, held for the the past 53 years in Glenville, would be like.

Just as we were walking down the stairs to leave my apartment, there was a loud banging on the door, followed by the ranting of an obvious maniac.

"If I have to bust down this door! I will also bust! Your head wide open! When I finally get inside!" the lunatic screamed.

Matt looked puzzled. "What the—" he started.

"It's just Jim," I said. "We better let him in and run up the stairs as fast as we can."

There was no time to hide, so Matt and I just stood in the middle of the living room as Jim shot up the stairs three at a time.

"I heard that! 'It's JUST JIM'! Ha! Damn straight, and I'm JUST GONNA BUST YOUR HEAD OPEN WITH A BRICK if you don't tell me who you have here THIS WEEK!" Jim screamed.

Matt rolled his eyes. "Sounds like someone's got a little complex," he said, then tittered into his palm, turning red through the cheeks.

"I suppose that's your crappy YAMAHA parked out front there?" Jim said, moving closer toward us.

"Why yes, yes it is," Matt said. "Would you like a ride around the block?"

Jim started laughing so hard, I thought he would fall over between us.

"What's so funny?" I said, starting to laugh myself, for I love Jim more than anything in the world, and always feel happy when he's happy.

"Hahahahahaha! HE'S askin' ME if I want a ride on HIS stupid motorbike?" Jim said. He stopped laughing and glared at Matt. "Ha! I got a bike 56 times better parked right out there next to yours! So save your ride for Chicken Sheets!"

Matt looked at me and shrugged.

I shrugged.

Then Jim got FURIOUS!

"Yeah. Well. I guess I'll go so I don't ruin any more of your FUN!" Jim yelled at me, and turned to leave.

Matt cleared his throat. "You wanna race? On our bikes?"

Jim turned around quickly, squinting at Matt. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll RACE YA!"

We went outside, and I was scared to death Matt would piss his pants laughing at Jim's "bike," but Matt just put on his helmet and got on his own motorcycle, revving the engine so loudly the windows in my apartment rattled.

Jim got on his machine and put on his "helmet," a rusty, dented metal colander, making sure the red yarn attached to either side was tight against his chin. He adjusted his goggles and started his bike, which, when Jim "gunned" the engine, sounded a lot like Mister Meme passing gas.

I was in charge of starting the race, so I grabbed Jim's gun from the holster on his belt.

"On your mark! Get SET!" I shouted, then fired Jim's pistol high above my head.

Matt took off in a cloud of smoke and noise, while Jim just sat there.

"What are you looking at?" he yelled at me.

"Why didn't you GO! when I fired the gun?"

"Ah, hell, Stimpy, I knew I couldn't beat him," Jim sulked. "I just thought I'd buy a few seconds alone with you if he took off up the road. I've been missing you something awful!"

My heart swelled nearly to bursting. "Oh, Jim! Really?"

Jim thought for a moment. "HELL NO! Now give me that gun!" he said. "I have a long ride back to Fairhope, you heartless bitch."

Then he took off, moving the bike along with his feet until he started down the hill toward town. Eventually, I'm sure the engine caught, and he probably made it home in a week or so.

But Matt never returned. I got an e-mail from him a few days later that said, "I'm at an Internet cafe in Hutchinson, Kansas. I must've lost Jim somewhere along the way, because I haven't seen him since that gun went off..."

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