Not quite half a block from the busy intersection, Moser saw the light turn green and, crouching over the handlebars of his road bike, he began to pedal as hard as he could.  Wobbling from side to side, sweat streaming down his face, he was determined to make it through the intersection before the light turned red.  And he did, just barely, cruising through with his hands in the air.

“Sweet,” he sighed as he paused alongside a fire hydrant to massage his sore left calf muscle.

 It was the first light he had made all afternoon.

 “I didn’t think you were going to make it, son,” an elderly man, waiting to cross the street, said with a wink.

Moser smiled.  “I had my doubts myself.  That’s for sure.”

“You have to be on your guard around here.  Cars are always running through the red light.  I’ve come close to getting hit a couple of times.”

 “Everyone is in such a hurry these days.”

 “You can say that again.  So you be careful now.”

Nodding, he tightened the straps of the thermal bag strapped across his back then looked at his watch.  He had less than five minutes to make his delivery and immediately began to pedal as hard as ever.  As a food courier, he was unlikely to get much of a tip, if any, if he was late with a delivery.  Five days a week, from two to three hours, he delivered for Ming’s Kitchen, a small takeout restaurant in the heart of Chinatown.  More sporadically, in the evening, he made deliveries for various food apps, especially a local one called “Lickety-Split.”

The Wiltshire House was an apartment building in the north end of town where, for the past five Thursdays, Moser had delivered takeout to a tenant who resided on the top floor.  Mr. Driggers he was told was a financial analyst who, after his wife passed away last spring, began to work out of his apartment.  Always he had the same order:  two fried spring rolls, stir-fried pork noodles, and steamed purple rice.  Occasionally he also requested a cup of sweetened herbal tea but not today.

The doorman at the Wiltshire was a young woman, Alicia, who always greeted Moser with an infectious smile that he suspected was every bit as required as the crimson blazer she wore but still she made him feel as welcome as a resident there.

“You can go right up, Craig,” she told him.  “Mr. Driggers is expecting you.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

As he rode the creaking open-air elevator to the top floor, he thought again about asking Alicia to have dinner with him.  She was definitely the most attractive girl he had met since he became a food courier.  But he was pretty sure she would decline his invitation because she wanted to be involved with someone whose prospects seemed a lot brighter than someone who delivered meals on a bicycle.

Firmly he knocked on the apartment door and, almost at once, Mr. Driggers opened it.  A short man with dark shadows under his dark green eyes, he always looked as if he had just got out of bed.

“Hello,” he said as he removed the takeout items from his thermal bag.  “Your order, sir.”

“Thank you, Craig.  I don’t know why but I’m really hungry this afternoon.”

“I hope you enjoy.”

“I always do.”

He started to step back from the doorway when Mr. Driggers raised his right hand. 

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“There is?”

“Have you ever ridden your bike in the Coast Trek?”

He arched his eyebrows.  “The Coast Trek?”

“I gather you haven’t then.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a bike ride to the beach that’s held the first Saturday of the start of the summer.”

“So, it’s a race.”

“Not at all.  It’s just an opportunity for a bunch of riders to get together and celebrate the start of summer.  My nephew’s participated in it a few times and he’s been after me to join him this summer.”

“Are you going to?”

“I’m seriously thinking about it.”

“I wish you luck.”

“I don’t know, though,” he admitted.  “I just might continue to bet with my nephew that he can’t finish the trek under four hours.  Who knows, right?”

“Right.”

“You’re young and strong, Craig.  You should enter the Trek.”

Moser frowned.  “All I do is ride through town.  I’ve never ridden a long distance.  The farthest I’ve ever gone at one stretch is probably three miles.”

“You ought to give it some thought.  My nephew insists it’s an experience you’ll never forget.”

As walked back to the elevator, he could not imagine riding a bicycle some ninety miles to the beach.  That was a feat that would take weeks to prepare for and he had neither the time or the interest.

*

His next delivery was uptown, three and a half blocks shy of the ancient water tower that overlooked the city, which Moser dreaded because of all the steep streets on the route.  When he first began to deliver food, he sometimes got off his bike and walked alongside it up some of the steepest streets.  Not anymore, though.  He had become a strong enough rider that he was able to handle them but they still made him breathe as hard and loud as a steam engine.

Briefly he rose out of his saddle as he struggled to make it up one of the longest streets.  As he swayed from side to side, he felt the strain in his calf muscles and prayed that he didn’t pull one as he did the other week.  Before he started out this afternoon, he rubbed his legs with plenty of Ben-Gay in the hope of avoiding any cramps and, consequently, he smelled like a medicine cabinet.

He was nearly halfway up the long street when a pale green pickup truck pulled up alongside of him.  The lone passenger, a freckled guy with long, bushy sideburns, leaned out the window.  “You need a lift, fella?”

“Nah.”

“You look like you need one.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ve seen old ladies ride bikes faster than you,” he snickered.

Moser didn’t reply and continued to pedal, used by now to hearing such wisecracks from others while he was making a delivery.

Slowly the truck crept ahead of him then, all of a sudden, the passenger tossed a firecracker out the window that exploded right next to Moser’s front tire.  Stunned, he weaved abruptly to the left, banging into the curb, and fell off his bike and skinned the palm of his outstretched left hand.  A spasm of laughter erupted from inside the truck as another firecracker was thrown out the window.  He started to get up but didn’t feel he had the strength and remained on the ground and looked at his left hand than at his right.  Both trembled as if it were freezing outside but it was nearly sixty degrees.

“Damn it,” he groaned.

A delivery van rumbled by him, beeping its horn, but he didn’t budge.

“God … God … God … Damn it,” he sputtered, his voice rising.

Sometimes, not often, but sometimes when he heard an explosion, even one as minor as a firecracker, he felt as if he were back in Afghanistan.  It was a sensation that made him feel as if he were spun around and around until he came undone and was exposed to the worst instincts of others.  All he wanted to do then was huddle in some dark corner where he could be safe for a while at least.

*

After he graduated from high school, Moser worked at a supermarket where, when he was not stocking shelves, he kept busy collecting the grocery carts customers left scattered around the parking lot.  He enjoyed being out of the store so, unlike any of the other stock boys, he didn’t mind pushing the carts into their designated corrals.  However, he didn’t see much of a future in the job so, after a year and a half, he enlisted in the Army.  A favorite uncle of his, who had served as a medical corpsman in the service, suggested he enlist because he could learn a trade that he could pursue later after he got out.  Besides, it had to be more interesting than working in a supermarket, and as it turned out it was a lot more interesting and demanding.

In the last year of his three-year commitment he was deployed to Afghanistan where he spent most of his tour at a combat outpost in the Hindu Kush.  Situated in a valley surrounded by three mountains, it was known as the “Duck Pond” because the soldiers stationed there were sitting ducks for Taliban snipers in the higher ground.  They were so vulnerable they had to put on flak jackets whenever they ventured out of their quarters to use the latrine.  Three to four times a week they were subjected to mortar attacks as well as machine gun fire.

Even though he was a communications specialist, he fired his rifle nearly as often as anyone else at the outpost.  He had never been so scared in his life and seldom got any sleep he was such a bundle of nerves.  Any moment of any day he was certain he would be struck by enemy fire.  It was only a matter of time.  But, surprisingly, he never suffered so much as a scratch unlike Carson, one of his few close friends, who died just a few feet in front of him one afternoon.  A rocket-propelled grenade struck an oil barrel which burst into flames that quickly enveloped Carson who was squatting behind the barrel for cover.  His screams were so fierce that they could clearly be heard above all the gunfire.  For a second, maybe two or three, he staggered around the barrel, waving his arms above his helmet, until he collapsed to the ground.  He was dead.  Moser knew he was but he could still hear his screams and would continue to hear them almost every night when he tried to go to sleep.

Some two months after Carson was killed, the Duck Pond was closed because it was so vulnerable to attack and the troops stationed there were assigned to other more secure outposts in the country.  Moser continued to be as agitated as ever and eventually was diagnosed as suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.  During the medical examination he was required to undergo before he was discharged, one of the physicians advised him to seek counselling for PTSD after he left the Army.

“It is quite normal for a soldier to be in a state of shock after serving in a combat situation,” the physician observed, “but after the fighting is over your nervous system settles down your body as a rule and you return to a normal state of balance.  But for some soldiers this isn’t the case, and even though the danger has passed they feel snared in that same state of shock.  Their nervous system is not able to return to its normal balance.  So what you must do is find a way to transition out of the emotional war zone you’re still in.”

“And how in the world do I do that, Doc?”

“Well, as I said, you should seek some counselling at your local VA hospital.”

“But what do you think would be helpful?”

The physician thought a moment, sliding his hornrim glasses back across the bridge of his nose.  “This may sound kind of obvious but, by all means, keep active,” he said as his glasses again slipped down his nose.  “I don’t mean you have to climb mountains or run marathons but develop an exercise routine that you do at least half an hour every day.  That way, instead of brooding on the past, you begin to focus on how your body feels right now and this will help your nervous system return to its proper state.”

*

Following his discharge, Moser considered returning to the supermarket where he had stocked shelves because he had left on good terms and was sure he would be rehired and thought someday, if he stayed long enough, he might become one of the assistant managers.  But in his heart he knew that wasn’t possible.  After all the time he spent cooped up at the Duck Pond, he realized he could not work inside a confined space for eight hours a day.  He had to keep active, preferably outdoors, as the Army physician suggested.  He had to have elbow room whatever he did for a living, lots and lots of elbow room.  But he had no idea what to do until one Sunday morning, while walking in a park near his apartment, he saw a swarm of bicycle riders breeze through the park.

Of course, he thought to himself.  That’s something I can do.

He hadn’t ridden a bike since he was a kid but he was sure it wasn’t something he would forget so the next day he went to an outdoor store to purchase a bike.  To his surprise, some bikes cost thousands of dollars but he bought one of the more economical models.  A fourteen speed Giordano, it had a lightweight aluminum frame that the salesman said was a smart choice for beginner to intermediate riders.  He figured it would provide him with more than enough exercise and it did as he began to ride a few minutes every day.  Before long, he was riding as much as an hour a day, roaming through neighborhoods he had never visited before and down streets that were so narrow he was surprised his elbows didn’t scrape the sides of the parked cars.  The Army physician was right.  On the bike all he thought about was safely making his way through traffic.  Thoughts of the Duck Pond never crossed his mind unless he heard some kind of explosion then he was right back at the dreadful place.

One afternoon, angrily chasing a motorbike that cut him off, Moser came upon a bicyclist stretched out on the sidewalk and stopped at once.

“Hey, are you all right?” he asked out of concern.

The guy leaned up on his elbows and smiled.  “Yeah, I’m just taking a break.”

“Oh, I thought maybe you were injured.”

The rider shook his head and explained he was a food courier and had a few minutes to kill before his next delivery.

“I thought only cars and vans made deliveries these days.”

“They do but it’s cheaper for small restaurants to hire bicyclists.”

The thought of getting paid to ride a bike interested Moser and he asked the rider if there were many opportunities for such work.

Nodding, he said, “Go down to Chinatown and you’ll see signs in the windows of lots of restaurants looking for delivery riders.”

“Is that so?”

“The pay isn’t that great but sometimes the tips can be pretty decent.”

The next day, around four o’clock, Moser rode his bike to Chinatown, and after a couple of rejections was hired by Gus, the owner of Ming’s Kitchen, and made his first delivery later that day.  As the other courier said, the pay wasn’t much but he relished the freedom of being out on his bike without anyone looking over his shoulder and couldn’t think of a better job for him at this point in his life.

*

“Hello there, son,” Mr. Driggers said as Moser handed him his order.

“Hello.”

As usual, he paid with a crisp twenty-dollar bill then, just as Moser started to step out of the doorway, he handed him a blue business envelope.

“Please give this to Gus, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Driggers seldom ever tipped him but he wondered if the envelope might contain a tip but he didn’t dare open it because it was sealed shut with Scotch tape.

“So how are you doing today?” Alicia asked as she held open the door for him.

“Always better when I see you.”

“Aren’t you sweet.”

“Also, I think Mr. Driggers may have actually given me a tip today.”

“That’d be a change.”

Nodding, he held up the business envelope.  “He gave me this to give to my boss so I think there’s a good chance I’m going to get something extra for my services.”

“You deserve it, Craig.”

He smiled, remembering something he heard a clerk in a convenience store say to a customer the other day.  “Say, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t lose the key.”

“Key to what?”

“My heart.”

Shaking her long straw-colored hair, she groaned in amusement.  “I’ll try not to.”

“See you.”

“Not before I see you first.”

On the way back to the restaurant, half a block from a Yield sign, a car door flew open in front of him and, fortunately, he was able to swerve out of the way otherwise he would have been knocked to the ground.  Twice he had been struck by drivers opening their car doors and both times he was knocked off his bike.  The first time he sprained a wrist, the second time he skinned a knee.  Because he wasn’t struck this time he regarded it as a sign that something good would happen when he delivered the envelope.

As soon as he returned to the restaurant, he locked up his bike and went inside to hand the envelope to Gus.  “Mr. Driggers asked me to give you this.”

“He did, did he?”

He nodded.

“It’s been a while,” he muttered, squeezing the envelope between his sausage-sized fingers.

A while for what? Moser wondered, waiting for Gus to give him the tip he assumed was inside the envelope, but Gus slipped the envelope into the side pocket of his sport jacket and waddled back to the bar where he spent most of his time at the restaurant.

Disappointed, he watched him sit down and pour himself a cup of tea and share something with the bartender who burst into laughter.  Then he went outside and waited beside his bike for another delivery order.

*

A week later, after delivering a meal to Mr. Driggers, he was handed another envelope for Gus.  He was tempted to ask what was inside it but figured Mr. Driggers would say it was none of his business.  But it was of concern to him because he had become the intermediary between the two men.  The go-between whether he liked it or not.  He wondered if other couriers were asked by customers to make deliveries for them.  So one afternoon, while waiting for an assignment in a coffee shop down the street from Ming’s Kitchen, he asked another courier who was also waiting there.

Aaron smiled.  “Once this gal asked me to leave something on the doorstep of a former boyfriend.”

“You know what it was?”

His smile broadened.  “A dead fish, a mackerel as I recall.”

“You’re kidding?”

He shook his head.  “I guess she’d seen one too many mobster films and wanted him to know, as far as she was concerned, he was dead to her.”

“That doesn’t leave any room for doubt, does it?”

“Absolutely not,” Aaron said, after taking another sip of coffee.  “So why did you ask about making deliveries for customers?”

He then told him about the envelopes Mr. Driggers asked him to deliver to his boss.

“You know what’s in the envelopes?”

“I don’t.”

He thought a moment, circling a finger around the rim of his mug.  “You know Chinatown is full of bookies.  Maybe your customer is placing bets with your boss.”

“Damn.  I never thought of that.”

“If I were you, Craig, I’d look into one of the envelopes to see if they contain betting slips because if they do you could be in a world of trouble if you’re ever caught with them.”

The possibility of spending even a single night inside a jail cell made him cringe in apprehension.  It would be much like what it was like at the Duck Pond, he suspected, and, uncontrollably, his hands began to tremble.

“You feeling all right, Craig?” Aaron asked.

“I’m just coming down with a cold,” he lied, stuffing his hands inside the pockets of his windbreaker.

*

The next time Mr. Driggers gave him an envelope to deliver he went straight back to his apartment and boiled a pan of water.  Then, after removing the small strip of tape from the envelope, he poured the boiling water into a coffee mug then set a butter knife into the mug.  He took it out after a few seconds, dried it on his sleeve, and inserted the blade of the knife under a corner of the flap.  Carefully, then, he slid the blade under the rest of the flap until the envelope was open.  At once, he turned it upside down and four slips fell across the counter.  They listed several college basketball games with various numbers printed beside each game.  His heart sank to his stomach.  Clearly they were betting slips for games this weekend.  He wanted to tear them up but, instead, he put them back into the envelope and resealed it with a dab of Elmer’s glue.

Why? he wondered, staring at the blue envelope.  Why did this have to happen to me?

For several minutes, he sat in his kitchen, as though he didn’t have the strength to get out of his chair.  He felt so foolish and used, so absolutely depleted, but wasn’t sure what he should do with the envelope.  Suddenly, a car door slammed shut in the parking lot, and jolted out of his daze he got up and put the envelope in his pocket.  Without a sliver of hesitation, he strapped on his helmet and wheeled his bike out of the apartment building and rode to Chinatown to give the envelope to Gus.

“This’ll be it for me,” he said as he handed him the envelope.

“Sorry?”

“I’m through.”

“You quitting?”

He nodded.

“You a good deliveryman.  You should stay.”

“I can’t.”

“You sure?”

Again, he nodded and stepped past the rack of roasting chickens and left the restaurant.  Immediately he got back on his bike and rode to the end of the block and out of Chinatown.  He didn’t have any idea where he was going, just pedaled as hard as he could, rising out of his saddle at times.  Then, weaving around a stalled van, he saw the old water tower ahead of him.  It was at the crest of one of the steepest streets in the city.

Smiling, he charged up it, the bicycle swaying from side to side, the spokes whirring in his ears.  He had gone up it a couple of times but never at this pace so when he reached the top he stopped and bent over his handlebars in exhaustion.  No one else was up there, no one ever was because nothing was up there but the crumbling old black tower.

Moments later, after he caught his breath, he looked down at the winding street then, almost before he realized it, started his descent.  Soon he was flying down the street, and when he reached the end of the first block he became airborne, with both wheels of his bike leaving the ground.  He landed with such a jar he almost lost his balance.  He didn’t care, though, and left the ground again at the end of the next block.  “Catching air,” other riders called it, and he was determined to catch as much air as he could.