one of the spokes so it resonates like a guitar string. Then he does it to another one. I sit up straight. “Hey! They sound the same.”
“You want to check the other ones?”
“Sure.” I hop off the bench and squeeze in beside him. When I get close to him, this scent, this whiff of cigarettes and bicycle grease and orange rinds, catches me by surprise. It’s fleeting and intense and almost too personal, like walking past someone’s window and catching them changing. I wonder if that’s why he keeps his door closed: Otherwise the whole world would smell him and come sniffing around for more.
I strum the spokes one by one.
“That one’s a little off.”
“Do it again?”
I strum the spoke again, then try the spoke above it. They sound slightly different.
“Good ear,” says Skunk. He hands me the tool. “Go for it.”
We slowly work our way around the wheel, spinning and adjusting and spinning again. It’s oddly addictive once you get started, like working the knots out of your hair when it’s really tangly. Every time we push the wheel it spins straighter, until eventually it passes through the brake pads without scraping them at any point during its revolution. When we’re finished with the back wheel, we flip the bike around and do the front. Every time Skunk moves, I catch that scent again, peeling paint and citrus. He smells like an old ladder left out in the sun.
When both wheels are done, Skunk lifts the bike down from the workbench and checks it over. He reaches out a tattooed arm and squeezes the brake levers one more time. I feel a surge of my initial defensiveness rising up just in case, but Skunk doesn’t say anything. As he runs his fingers along the titanium posts, I suddenly feel acutely conscious of the coolness of the air against my skin. For some reason, I think about Lukas, who never wrote back to the texts I sent him trying to make light of the sex-dome incident last night. I gaze around the little shed, searching for something to distract myself. I straighten up with a jolt when I notice the shiny green electric bass that’s leaning in the corner with a greasy rag hanging off its neck.
“What’s that doing in the shed?”
Skunk’s face is tipped down and I can’t see his eyes, just his hands moving carefully around my bicycle. “I think your shifters need some WD-40.”
He reaches for the blue can on the bench and gives the gears a one-second spray. I peer at the bass. It’s beautiful. Sleek. Curvy. Like an exotic fruit. I want to eat a slice of it.
“Skunk?”
“Hm?”
He picks up a screwdriver and twiddles with a screw. He takes it out, wipes it off, and starts screwing it back in.
“Please explain to me why am I seeing a vintage Fender Mustang bass on the floor of this shed.”
He looks to where I’m looking and his brown eyes widen slightly, as if he never noticed the seven-hundred-dollar instrument that just happens to be lurking under his grease-rag collection.
“Oh. Yeah. I’m trying to sell it. I was going to put it on craigslist.”
“You’re putting a vintage Fender on craigslist?”
Skunk spins the screwdriver around in his hand.
“Is that illegal or something?”
“It should be.”
“Why are you selling it?”
“I’m not in a band anymore.”
“So start another one.”
He shakes his head. “I’m more into bikes right now.”
“They’re not exactly mutually exclusive.”
“There’s only so much time in the day.”
“Are you expecting me to believe you just woke up one morning and decided you’d rather spend all day lurking in some crusty shed than playing that fabulous instrument?”
“Pretty much.”
I chew on this while Skunk raises my bike seat by another half inch and clamps the lever down.
“I find this answer highly dubious.”
Skunk gives me a look.
“I find this bicycle highly dubious.”
“Promise me you will not sell that gorgeous instrument.”
“Do you play? I’ll give it to you.”
The offer is so tantalizing, my blood momentarily freezes over with greed. I grip the edge of the workbench.
“I play keys. Not bass.”
“You could learn.”
“Keep it. You’re going to play it again.”
Skunk shakes his head. I keep at him. “Yes, you will. I know you will. At least put it in the house. If you leave it out here, it’ll get warped when the temperature changes.”
Sigh. Now I’m the one being all fussy about someone else’s stuff. But I can’t help it: Nobody owns a bass like that unless they’re either rich as balls or they really mean