elise chaDWicK

uPhill

When I pass the barren cornfield newly plowed, where bell bottomed butternut squash rest sideways scattered like corpses on a battlefield, I pump and steer and pump some more ignoring my wobbly knees, panting lungs, and fingertips gone numb from a too tight grip on the handlebars.

Nowadays it takes mostly nerve, faith in equilibrium, and confidence that the truck, so near I can feel the breath of his engine, will brake when I steer clear of potholes, broken glass and lumps of roadkill fragrant and swarming with flies, smeared across both lanes of the country road.

But it wasn’t always like this.

When the training wheels came off and I mastered backwards footbrakes the world pulsed with possibility. I could ride alone to the schoolyard where packs of big kids smoked cigarettes and threw rocks at rumbling trolley cars and educate myself on how to be cool. Or I could ride by myself to the square park my bike in the metal rack and wander the aisles of the pharmacy before stopping in at Bob’s for a roll of Lifesavers to stash in my pocket for safe keeping during the pedal home.

Though it’s never safe to look back to check that the deep whistle trailing behind is only the wind, at this late hour, I steady my eye on rolling terrain ahead comforted still in knowing how to downshift for that last climb home.

Alter Ego

Where was she planning to go— the fraudster who stole my credit card— and did she have to abort her road trip when the card was declined by Hertz? Or did she nod with nonchalance and pull another plastic square from her back pocket ready to swipe, ripe for processing and theft.

I study my credit card statement, teeming with fraudulent charges and conjure the life of hipster luxury my fake self has been enjoying— starting at the organic bakery coop hoodie up, earbuds in, where I sip a soy latte, nibble neatly on a parmesan rosemary scone and save a couple of gluten free cowgirl cookies to share later with a fraudster friend. Next, I browse the Kings Boutique, select a pair of silver cascading drop earrings, look in the mirror to admire them against my olive skin and natural waves, before finding respite for my weary feet in a pair of silver and rhinestone espadrilles.

What a chill life of indulgence my fake self leads

there on the West Coast among the laid-back palm trees and Zen masters.

It doesn’t take the phone representative long to untangle the fake from the real: recurrent co-pays to the on-line pharmacy, monthly donation to public radio, weekly purchases at Shoprite a big box grocer that stocks cooking oil in jars big enough for bathing and tubs of peanut butter sure to last through the apocalypse. A case file is opened and the representative assures meif foundthe fraudster will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

When I travel to the West Coast to visit her in jail

I will bring a bag of brioche knots from the coop bakery that we love.