MOTORCYCLE + it was bright harley orange, like the 883 but bobbed. Had taken a beating. Certainly wasnt new but it shown like a dream in the morning light. I couldnt stop walking round it, anticipating its first words. I had called Austin and he showed up to check it out, wearing that concerned look of a doctor about to tell a patient some bad news. I rode it up n down the street fer a minute, explaining over the patter of the motor that the throttle was rich, that she had plenty of gas but was runnin dirty and weak. He had had plenty experience with these things, and as soon as the tools were out she was sounding better. I shut her down, tried to prop her up on the stand, n it seemed she wanted to tip easily. O.T. explained that she was the only bike of her kind that had to be propped up backwards, turning the wheel the other way round. We examined the forks, which were somehow disconnected from the handle bars, would have been a bad way to go. Austin snapped it back in place but that made the alignment all jankey. Some adjustments were in order, so i took the time to replace the scratched up plastic bug screen with a metal mesh, that would protect from nothing, but would have better served to hem in a chicken. At last she was ready, and i returned to the backyard to shoo away the guests that had filtered in from the party at the zoo, mostly people i didnt really know, but seemed to recognize. Inside were more of the same, more reluctant to leave than there outdoor comrades, but my father, lounging in the back room, assured me that he would hold down the fort while i was out. I got dressed. Leather jacket was buried under a pile of drum parts, gloves were in the silverware. Now the helmet. I could not find it. Id had it only a moment ago, in my hand, my salvation. Now it was lost. I dashed about frantic, lost in the anticipation of the ride, of the drama, the romance, the fate. Caution thrown to the wind, i could not wait to be on that bike again. But the helmet. I knew it was close. Back outside near the bike? Over by the pool? In the music room? Shit. Wait there it is, deep in the dark green bushes by the door. Wouldnt you know it. But now a new problem. A short in the helmet light, a short in the mic, tiny low voltage sparks flying and the dull tinge of current in my fingers. I tried to put it on anyway, but was only more frustrated. The sky was dark now. The guests had all gone back to the zoo, and somewhere inside my father was taking a nap. I couldnt see the wires clearly, for the lining of the helmet, the darkness i was standing in, the sparks flying freely into my eyes. I grew impatient, and began to tear away at the makings of the helment. Peices of it were all around me on the ground, in my hands, still sparks. Id abandoned logic, abandoned the light, even of the porch, and in my frustration had rent the helmet to peices leaving only the hard brightly colored shell in my hands. Shall i ride without it? Keep tearing at it till my fingers are bleeding? Sweat was rolling down my arms under the covers. My feet were tied in a knot. My brain, awash in the liquids of fear, in the land of dreams, had been so lonely without my heart there to put everything at ease. My head on a plate would have no less been ravaged by the beast of death than in life by my own foolishness, brightness be damned.