The morning sounds of small-town Macomb waking up had long passed.  Neighbors going to work, driving the kids to school; the garbage truck; a distant train whistle; barking dogs and, on some mornings, a calling barred owl.  Retired from a chemical engineering career for almost a year, Vince Tomczyk stared out the living room window as the woman from down the street returned from walking her dog at Compton Park.  The “business of living,” he called it, feeling excluded.  Maybe, Vince thought, he should have attended those pre-retirement seminars that were supposed to help retirees ease into their new lives.  But those were for folks with no interests outside of work.  The workaholics.
	Annie came in from the kitchen, shook her head when she saw Vince, and quietly walked over to put a hand on his shoulder.  “What are you thinking?” she said.
	“Nothing,” Vince replied, without looking away from the window.
	“You know, Vince, now would be a good time to paint the garage, as you’ve been saying you’d do for four years.”
	“Now?  It’s going to be ninety degrees today.  We should wait until October or even November.”
	“Then November passes,” replied Annie, “and you say we should wait until April.”
	Vince looked down and said, “You know what?  I’m going for a bike ride before it gets too hot.”
	“Finally!” said Annie.  “I was beginning to think you’d never use it.  Go.  You need the exercise.”
	“Okay, I’m going.  Do you need anything from the convenient store while I’m out?”
	“I could use a liter of diet soda.  But I’ll get it, since I’m going out later to pick up some things at the park district.  How would you even carry a liter bottle anyway?”
	“Luggage rack.  I’ll get the soda for you so you won’t have to make an extra stop.”
	“Okay.  But be careful.  I worry about you.”
	“I’m a grown man.”
	“I know sweetheart, but sometimes you don’t pay attention.”
	“Bye,” said Vince as he headed toward the back door.
	“I love you,” Annie offered, but he was already out the door.

Vince followed a route without a plan that took him through an unfamiliar section of town far off the main traffic roads.  He remembered how much he had once enjoyed riding a bicycle; the feeling of being free and unencumbered, almost like flying, especially on downhill slopes.  He was a little unsteady at first, not having ridden a bicycle for a few decades.  But the old skills easily returned.
        He was nearing home, on an uphill street, when he remembered Annie’s soda.  Heading back to the convenient store was an easy glide downhill.  And he soon left the store carrying a liter bottle, a dozen eggs in a plastic bag, and a twelve-pack of beer in a sturdy cardboard container.
	After securing the soda bottle with bungee cords, he wrapped the plastic bag with the eggs around his left wrist, then picked up the container of beer with his left hand, grabbed the handlebars with his right hand, and positioned the bicycle’s pedals in such a way that in one swift move he could move his right leg over the bike while pushing on the pedals with his left foot.  He had mastered this maneuver during his long-gone graduate school days before he could afford a car, when grocery shopping involved his bicycle and a frame backpack.
        So, it was one…two…three, shove off, and he was moving forward, unsteady for a few feet, then steady, and then the bike jerked into a rapid turn and quickly went down, with Vince letting go of the beer so he could break his fall with the eggs.  When it was all said and done, he lay on his back, unhurt, except for his seventy-year-old ego.  The container of beer remained intact a few feet away, the soda bottle remained strapped to the bike, but not one egg made it through alive.  Since no one was around to witness his shame, no one, least of all Annie, would have to know what happened; in fact, she was on a “need-to-know” basis regarding similar incidents that tended to happen from time to time.  More in recent years.
	The ride home was uneventful, even the uphill climb after the convenient store, as Vince struggled to maintain enough forward motion to remain upright.  One hand on the handlebars and the other holding the beer added a unique type of dynamic balance to the whole operation.
         When Vince was near home, he started the bicycle on a specific trajectory that would give him just enough momentum to cross the street, glide up the slight incline of his driveway, and then come to a gentle stop just before the garage.  Then with a harried sideways glance, he noticed a car about ten feet behind him matching his pace.  He wanted to wave the car forward so that it would pass him, but he couldn’t do that with both arms occupied.  So he motioned with his head, from side to side, meaning, Go around me.  But the car kept its steady distance following behind him.  When he was almost across from his house and close to passing it by, he slowed down to a crawl, which made the bicycle that much more unsteady.  At once, he had no choice but to make his move, crossing the street in front of the slow-moving vehicle, which followed him up the driveway.  Vince shook his head with consternation when he finally recognized his own vehicle driven by Annie. 
	As her driver’s side door opened, Vince nearly shouted, “What were you doing?  Why didn’t you pass me when I gave you the signal?”
	“Moving your head from side to side like you’re having a seizure was asking me to pass you?  And the way the bike was twitching this way and that, you looked like you’d be falling over any second.”
	“It was all under precise control.  I’ve been riding bicycles all my life, you know.”
	“I can almost see the headline now:  ‘Wife Runs Over Husband on Bicycle.’  Is that a twelve-pack of beer?  Oh, my God.  Do me a favor.  Don’t go on any more beer runs on your bicycle.  It doesn’t look good.  I don’t want our neighbors to think my husband has a DUI.”
	“Hmm,” Vince replied.
	“What are those smudges on the back of your pants and on your elbow?  Is that eggshell?”
	“Oh, hmm.”  Vince held out the liter bottle.  ”Here’s your soda.”
	“Thank you.”
	“Sure.  Oh, and you might want to be careful opening up that bottle.”

Chandler Park, Macomb, Illinois.