On His Way to Epley's Bike Shop Charley Meets a Girl with Twelve Dogs

Ten O'clock on a Saturday Morning and here comes Charley in his big VW bus, red white and blue like a mail truck. He's crossing town to a bike shop to have his gear cable fixed, exhilarated by the brand-new feel of this day, thinking how rain has rinsed it clean and vaguely watching the road for hitchhikers. He likes to pick up hitchhikers on such a day. He'd like to pick up a high school girl. He sees so many on the roads now, wrinkled boots, ranch coats, straight long hair. Something about the long hair gets him, some flash of recklessness. He'd like to flirt a little, seduce one, maybe, if he could figure out a way. He stretches to see his face in the rearview, pushes back his forelock. Charley is 31; his wife and two kids are out of town for the weekend. His bus is equipped for random outings, mattress in back, tin skillet, kerosene stove and, at the moment, one bicycle with cable wires dangling. As he rounds a corner ten blocks from home, he sees the girl he might be looking for sitting on a curb.

She hovers over a box full of puppies, arranging them and reaching out to stroke the hair of a white, black-spotted Dalmatian mother. As Charley passes, the girl extends one pale and leisurely thumb, without looking up. This in itself attracts him. He stops. The Dalmatian climbs in back onto the mattress, among spokes and handle bars; the box of puppies is squirming on the seat between Charley and the girl.

She's around 17, maybe 16, wears calf-high moccasins and a skirt (continued on page 187)Epley's Bike Shop(continued from page 149) as wide as a hand towel, so all but a few inches of her smooth legs are visible next to his gearshift. Plum-colored shawl, square-rimmed specs, red hair to her waist but drawn back by a plum-colored ribbon, grandma style, and her face scrubbed clean. No make-up. Her smile has a chaste, benevolent wholesomeness Charley associates with nuns and candybox illustrations and certain passionate women who are holding it all inside.

"You going out to the edge of town?"

"I have to stop at this bike shop first. But if you don't mind waiting in the car a minute, I can take you right to the highway. Where you headed?"

Her voice is soft and breathy, ethereal, hard to follow because she speaks so slowly, as if trying to recall how each sentence is supposed to go. "Up to Mendocino, actually ... to visit a friend of mine ... who might have a baby at any moment."

Charley glances at the wriggling pups. "Mendocino is two hundred miles away."

"Yes ... it will be very ... difficult for her. She already has three children....This will make five ... if it's twins."

"Well," Charley says, "it's a good day for traveling."

With eyes clear and unblinking, with the same benign and guileless smile, the girl regards him. "Yes, I'm glad....I want the dogs to enjoy it."

Charley has to listen hard to hear her. In back, the Dalmatian whines, straining to jump the seat and join her puppies. "She's high-strung," the girl explains. The pups themselves are yipping and squealing and climbing over one another, heading nowhere, 11 snouts, 22 ears, 44 black and white and gray and spotted legs.

At Epley's, the girl covers most of them with one arm and reaches back to hold the mother by the neck while Charley pulls his bike out. He's wearing his long-sleeved paisley shirt---yellow cuffs and swirling turquoise---his wide-grain hip-hugger corduroys with broad black belt. He figures he must look pretty good wheeling his bike up the concrete path.

Epley waits in the doorway. His black hair is the inverted base of a triangle head. The inverted apex, his chin, is nearly black, too, with stubble almost too tough to shave. Charley feels sorry for the skin below his jaw, all the scrapings that have made that skin like a scraped bicycle patch. It hangs a little loose. He's nearly 50. Black Frisco jeans. Black T-shirt.

Thick glasses distort Epley's huge black eyes. He looks startled as he tells Charley the trouble with his gearshift is inside the wheel, not in the cable, and he doesn't have the part in stock to fix this model. Charley follows him inside to the catalog.

Epley's shop is the front room of his house. In one corner, lightning streaks crackle over seated bluish figures, sparks of static through the loud moderator's pixy smirk:

"Sixty seconds left, folks. Big Clock counting it down. Your mother was here an hour ago. Is it real? Is it rumor?"

Worn sofa, six reading lamps, old bicycles, one lawn mower, three electric heaters he's working on, scattered spare parts, metal desk piled with tags and bills; against one wall, an old glass-sided adding machine and, next to the sofa, a tape recorder into which Epley sings from time to time, since he once tried to break into show business. Charley learned this on his last trip to the shop, three years earlier, when Epley played a few yards of himself singing Stout Hearted Men. Charley can't tell whether Epley remembers him or not.

He watches gears and rods clank inside the adding machine as Epley computes ahead of time how much the repairs will cost. It's something under four dollars, and Charley is moving toward the door, anxious now to drive the red-haired girl up the Coast a few miles himself. At least to the next town. He has no clear idea of what he will say or do. But maybe something will happen. He has plenty of time.

Epley says, "Do you realize what they're trying to pull? I can't even put bicycles on my lawn anymore."

From between the cushions of his old sofa, Epley takes a sheaf of legal-size paper, flipping pages too fast for Charley to see the title.

"Just look at this, this sentence right here ... 'pertains to all businesses, regardless of location or gross profit.' I call that dictatorship, buddy. That's what it's coming to. Thirty-seven years in this town, just to watch it turn into a goddamn dictatorship."

The magnified eyes widen, as if witnessing some atrocity. He sways, shifting weight from foot to foot, whirls suddenly to face the set:

"Big Clock rewinding, folks. Contestants changing places for Declaration Three. The man you're about to hear is the brother of a former ambassador to one of our NATO allies. Listen closely, now. Is it real? Is it rumor?"

Charley makes his exit. He plans to use his bike gearless till the part comes in. Seeing that he might appear wishy-washy wheeling it back to the car, he starts to shrug his shoulders and make some comic face. But the girl isn't watching. She's hunched over her pups. Epley's angry voice is right behind him.

"Hey, listen! Do you realize what would happen if that building over there burned down? They could put a parking lot in there, which means this other fellow, two lots away, might have to paint his side window. Just cover it up!"

The big Dalmatian is barking, still trying to climb the front seat. The girl decides to leave her puppies and sit in back. She steps out, ignoring the two men.

Epley has started to parade along the sidewalk. "Over fifteen hundred people signed the petition," he shouts. "Here, lemme hold that bike for ya. Me and Mrs. Spragg did almost all the work singlehanded. Living dynamo, that woman, nearly seventy, though you'd never guess it."

While they're lifting the bike, the Dalmatian finally leaps over the seat. In her excitement, she tips the box, and all 11 puppies come tumbling through the still-open front door, out onto the sidewalk.

The girl slowly kneels. Three puppies are waddling up the walkway. Charley moves to grab them. At that moment, the Dalmatian unaccountably bounds past him, across the grass and through Epley's front door.

"Hey! That black-and-white dog of yours just ran into the shop!"

"It isn't my dog," Charley says.

Epley clutches black thighs, stares wildly through his glasses, like a man surrounded by savages, first at Charley, then at the girl where she kneels ministering to her pups.

"Wha d'ya mean, it isn't your dog?"

She looks up at him, her lips spread slowly into that nun's smile. Epley grimaces, trying to hear. "It's ... my dog. Nell is ... very high-strung."

Charley catches the wandering puppies. "Here, hang onto these. I'll try to find the dog."

"Oh ... thank you ... thank you ... very much."

There's so much space between her words, he has crossed the lawn before she finishes. Epley's already inside. Charley hears him yelling in back. Lightning streaks punctuate the voice, disfiguring a blue-white row of faces:

"You're wrong, Mrs. Notley. There's the buzzer, and Big Clock says everybody's wrong this time. It wasn't a rumor at all. Canadian Riley is still alive and she'll be on stage here in just a couple of minutes."

Charley kicks old milk cartons out of the way to get through Epley's kitchen. On the table lies an overturned king-size Corn Flakes box with top torn back, some murky Pyrex bowls. Pans are stacked on the stove and drainboard. Cupboard doors stand open.

Epley's in the bathroom, wrestling with the dog, who has rooted out some stained and grimy underwear. "Look here, mister! Tell this goddamn dog of yours to let go my shorts!"

Charley tries to grab her, but she's snarling now. He draws back, afraid she'll claw his corduroys. "Why don't you let her have the shorts?"

"Are you nuts?" Epley yells. "Are you crazy, pal? What the hell is going on around here, anyway?"

"I'll have to get the girl. It's her dog."

Back through the cluttered kitchen, Charley's heading for the front door when he finds the girl sitting on the floor, back against the adding machine, holding the box of puppies in her lap, watching the screen. Her shawl has fallen open and underneath it, Charley sees nothing but white skin from neck to belt, and below the belt about eight inches of denim skirt before her legs start.

She isn't self-conscious about this. She doesn't even look at him.

"You'd better call your dog. She's chewing up Epley's shorts."

She stands, draws the edges of her shawl together, walks into the kitchen, lifting moccasined feet as if picking her way across a floor covered with guitars. Her steps make no sound. When she's gone, Charley squints in amazement at the row of puzzled faces in the corner.

In back, the dog snarls. Epley's yelling. "Goddamn you. black-and-white dog bastard. Let go! Will ya let go?" Charley hears him yelling at the girl. "Hey. what the hell is all this?"

Then Nell shuts up, and the girl's in the kitchen, dragging her by the collar. Right behind comes Epley, stuffing torn shorts into his back pocket and trying to step around them, shifting from foot to foot as the girl pauses in his doorway.

"Jesus Christ, lady. Why'd you have to bring all these dogs into the shop?"

She turns to him. "Do you happen to have any oats?"

"Oats?"

"Dried oats." The smile again, everybody's grandmother, everybody's saint. One hand holds Nell, who strains to reach Epley's back pocket. The other holds the edges of her shawl. "It's what I feed the puppies after they nurse awhile. Just a big cupful, and anyone who didn't get enough milk can fill up on dried oats."

Epley starts to massage his scalp, digging grimy fingers into the black inverted triangle of hair. He strides to his desk, kicking old sprockets with his heavy boots. One broad sweep of his arm clears half the desk of papers and tags. They flutter to the floor.

"Jesus Christ Almighty!"

He grabs the handle of his lawn mower, shoves it across the room and right out the door, so that it clangs down three steps and overends into the grass.

"Look at that lawn mower, for Christ sake. Now what am I gonna do? Lady wants it fixed by three this afternoon. And look at it now!"

All this noise scares the pups. They're yipping and wiggling under one another to escape it. The girl joins Charley at the adding machine, squats, reaches in with one hand to knead and reassure. The way she squats, with knees spread, it's clear to Charley she's wearing nothing under that short skirt, either.

Nell has started barking again. On the screen, small faces open wide in loud guffaws, cameras cut from mouth to mouth. Epley has switched on his tape recorder; his own warped baritone fills the room:

"Give me some men who are stout hearted men,

Who will fight for the right they adore."

And now he's rushing around, grabbing bikes that lean against his walls. He runs them out the door one by one and they bounce down the steps, piling up around the lawn mower.

"Look at that!" he shouts. "Look out there on my lawn. A week's work, all shot to hell! What am I supposed to do now?"

Nell strains and snaps at the torn back pocket of Epley's Frisco jeans. The girl murmurs, "Nell. Nell, sit down."

"Maybe we'd better get going," Charley says. "Why don't I carry the pups out to the car? Nell might follow them."

Epley yells, "Hold it! Hold it right there, buster! I got a week's work stacked up on that lawn, ya know---busted wheels, a mower that'll probably never go again."

"I guess I could help you bring all that stuff back inside," Charley offers.

"What good would that do?" The grizzled face contorts.

"Didn't you say you couldn't park your bikes on the grass anymore?"

"Fuck 'em!" Epley shouts. "Fuck the bikes! Fuck the rules! Fuck 'em all!"

Nell tears loose from the girl's grip and lunges at Epley's rear, rips the back pocket off his jeans, mouthful of old shorts and black pocket patch, bucking her head with the prize.

"Here. Gimme that, you goddamn dog bastard. Gimme that!"

Epley dives for the dog, hunched and hairy-armed, chasing, lurching. Charley grabs the puppy box, hurries toward his bus. Nell bolts after him, Epley right behind. Charley opens the front door of the VW, sets the pups on his seat, then opens the double side doors in time for Nell to bound up onto the mattress.

"C'mon," he shouts to the girl, "let's get going!"

She appears in Epley's doorway like a sleepwalker, surveying the scene---the bike-littered lawn, the dog-filled bus. Epley sprinting the concrete walkway---with her benign smile, as if about to raise arms and bless it all.

From behind, around her shawl and out the door, come Epley's phlegm-spattered lyrics, into a second chorus, the voice louder now and trembling, as if with anger, as if Epley is an incensed revolutionary crying out for men and equipment:

"Shoulder to shoulder and bolder and bolder

We grow as we go to the fore.

Then there's nothing in this world

Can halt or mar a plan...."

"What about my bikes?" Epley yells. "What about my lawn mower? What about my underwear?"

She slides into the bus. As Charley pulls out into traffic, Epley sprints to his tangle of bikes, frees one many-geared racer, hops on and starts across the grass, bouncing over the curb. With knees pumping furiously, he catches Charley at the first stop light and pulls alongside, yelling, "Hey, where do you think you're going, for Christ sake?"

Red light snaps green. Charley guns it. But in this traffic, top speed for his VW bus is 30. Epley keeps up, pedaling along next to the window.

"You son of a bitch, with your bastard dog! Gimme back my underwear!"

Charley shuts his window, switches the radio on, up full:

"The next caller is Miss Rosalie Dimond over there in Pacifica. Our operator is ringing her now. I can hear it buzzing." (Click click) "Hello, Rosalie? Rosalie?" (Click)

At the edge of town, where the street becomes a highway, traffic is still just heavy enough to hold Charley back. He can't pass or pick up speed. Epley's right behind him. Charley's afraid to drop the girl here, worried about Epley's harassment. Yet there's no point in driving her up the Coast, not while Epley's tagging along. Nell is howling now. Some puppies have spilled out onto the floor. Charley has to watch his feet on the pedals. The girl leans to gather the pups. Her shawl falls open again, white breasts hanging, and she lifts her eyes to look at him with her saintly smile, while outside the window, Epley's stubbled, sweating and tortured triangle of a face yells over the radio and Charley's engine, "Turn around. Will ya turn around? You think I can leave my shop open all day with nobody to watch it and bikes scattered all over hell? I've gotta get back to town, for Christ sake! Turn this rig around, buddy. Goddamn it, my legs are getting tired. What'd ya pick a track like this for. anyway?"

The town is two miles behind when Charley spots a narrow road off to the right. It's unmarked and unpaved but graded, and it winds steeply into mountains that lean back from the sea. He turns suddenly and Epley goes shooting past. In second gear, Charley starts to climb, grinning. He turns off the radio. In his rearview, he sees Epley circle back, struggle to pump up the grade. Finally, rounding a high banked curve, Charley sees him far below, stopped, straddling his bike and flapping both arms like a man warning traffic at an accident. He picks up what appears to be a rock and hurls it in Charley's direction.

Then Epley is out of sight. Charley keeps climbing. After a while, the girl says, "You said you were going to drop me at the highway."

"Just making sure we get rid of Epley. We'll follow this road a few minutes more, then head down to the highway again. Don't worry."

"Oh. I'm not worried."

Her voice, in fact, is full of trust, total repose. A couple of curves later, she says, "But could we stop somewhere? Nell's very sensitive. She gets carsick ... on curves."

She points to a gravelly wide space next to a knoll covered with long grass, a high mound shining green after the long rains. Charley parks. She climbs out, opens the side doors and reaches in to fondle Nell, rubs her sides, lets the dog lick her face and neck.

When Nell jumps out to scamper around her legs, the girl takes the puppy box and meanders toward the knoll. She moves in that slow, soundless way, as if each step is a thing in itself, to be savored---the only real step anyone has ever taken. This appeals to Charley. When she wades into the grass, starting to climb, he follows, imitating her pace.

The grass stands two to three feet, topped with pale tassels hung from capillary branches, all translucent now. Charley drags his hands through the tassels and his heart swells with amused and generous gratitude, a surge of warmth for the man who forced them toward this hillside retreat.

At the knoll's top, he finds her flattening a grassy oval. She smiles again, the smile that purifies every act, somehow makes it holy. She removes her shawl, spreads it out behind her, and she's lying there in a plum-colored nest, miniskirt and moccasins, with arms stretched back and the sun shining two silver squares off her specs.

"I just love the sunshine. So does Nell."

Charley looks around. No other cars on the road. No houses. Not even a cow. Just this spring mountain sloping to the sea, wooded in spots, broken by gullies and other little mounds and knolls. He remarks how he loves the sunshine, too, and starts to remove his turquoise-paisley shirt.

"What's your name?"

"Charley."

"Mine's Maude. Hey, Charley? Will you sort of dump those puppies out all over my chest and stomach? I love to feel 'em crawl around like that. They're so furry."

Charley dumps the pups onto her stomach and chest, and the big Dalmatian is circling like a cowhand. Charley starts to take off his boots.

"I could spend all day up here," Maude says, "just lying around in the sun."

"So could I."

"You want a few puppies?" Maude asks. "Let 'em crawl on your stomach, too?"

"Sure. I guess so."

Dreamily, she rolls her head toward him and half rolls her torso, in a gesture of offering. "Here, help yourself."

Charley is leaning toward her flat white belly, reaching for one warm handful of gray fur, when he hears behind him the scratch of loose rock; he hears heavy breathing. He turns to see Epley's black hair clearing the knoll's far side, then the agony of Epley's face, running with sweat. His great eyes blink insanely behind dripping lenses.

It's a steep, short drop-off over there and Epley is clutching for handholds.

"Hey! Jesus Christ Almighty! What the hell kind of a deal is this? Give a guy a fair shake once in a while!"

Charley jumps up. "You get the hell out of here, Epley! Go on! Get back to your bike shop or something!"

Nell has spotted him, too, and comes tearing through the grass like a maddened guard dog, neck stiff and growling.

Maude pays them no attention. Between her eyes and the sun, she holds one puppy, tickling it, cooing and snicking with puckered lips.

"Can you do that?" Epley yells. "Can you give a guy a fair shake? I was doing OK till you turned up this Godforsaken turnpike. I blew a brand-new tire before I'd gone a hundred yards. What am I Supposed to do now? Hey, call off this dog, will ya? Get away. G'wan. Dog bastard. Will ya leave me alone?"

"Sic 'em, Nell. Sic 'em," Charley says. "Get Epley."

Nell has forced him to the precipice. Epley loses his footing and steps backward, sliding down the short rocky wall he has just climbed. Nell pursues him, and Epley, in his logger's boots, his burr-prickled Frisco jeans, takes off, galloping and yelling, down the hillside.

"Hey! Tell this dog bastard to cut it out. Can you do that, for Christ sake? Get away from me, black-and-white dirty dog son of a bitch in the grass! Hey! Hey! What do you people think this is---a picnic area? I got a flat tire and my front door wide open. What am I supposed to do now?"

"Hitchhike," Charley yells after him. "Ride on the rims. Do whatever you want, but get the hell away from here. Sic 'em, Nell. Get him good."

He watches till they disappear in a grove of trees. Then he hears her soft voice. "Charley? Charley?"

He turns to find that she's removed her skirt. Just high moccasins now, the spectacles and 11 puppies swarming over her body.

"Charley, doesn't the sunshine make you sort of ... you know ... feel like doing something?"

"What about Epley and Nell?"

"Well, I mean before they get back."

"I'll put the puppies in the box."

"Don't you like my puppies?"

"I love your puppies."

"You're not old-fashioned, are you? I mean, you're not hung up on some cornball style of---"

"Not me, Maude. Never let it be said."

Charley has stepped out of his corduroys and is kneeling next to her when he hears the engine of his VW starting down below. "Did I leave my goddamn keys in the car?"

"C'mon, Charley," Maude murmurs, "hurry up."

He runs to the knoll edge, sees Epley behind the wheel and Nell leaping at the window wing, hurling herself against the door.

"Hurry up, Charley. This sunshine is turning me on."

He sees his bus swing out of the. gravelly wide space. In his shorts, Charley's sprinting down the hill toward the graded road. But Epley swings it again, cutting two tracks through the deep grass, and he's heading up the slope, straight for Charley, with Nell alongside, leaping and barking with hate. Behind the windshield, Charley sees the wild eyes, more startled than ever, terrified. He jumps aside and, as the car careens past him, he grabs the open window, one foot on the tiny step, head next to Epley's head.

"You're going to wreck my car! Stop! Stop!"

Just as the front wheels clear the rise, Maude is coming slowly to her feet, red hair pouring over white breasts and shoulders; puppies drip and fall to the grass like some fur coat falling apart around her. Epley brakes in panic; his head hits the window; Charley tumbles into the grass.

Maude catches two falling pups, lifts them to her neck like a muffler and begins walking toward the car with a pleased smile, some priestess receiving an expected pilgrim. Epley's foot slips and the car, rear wheels still on the incline, starts to roll backward.

"Brakes!" Charley yells. "Hit the brakes!"

But Epley is paralyzed. The bus picks up speed, rolling silently. Nell stands watching now. Maude whispers Charley's name, but he doesn't turn. He sits in the grass and watches his red-white-and-blue bus roll across the road and bounce over the far side, into more grass, a steeper slope that drops about 50 yards then gradually levels out before it slopes up the other way. Through the bottom of this draw runs a rocky ditch, the bed for a water trickle slipping seaward. Charley watches his rear wheels drop into this ditch; he hears the crunch.

There's a long silence---Charley clasping his knees in disbelief, Maude above him with two neck-warming pups, other invisible puppies strangely quiet in surrounding grass, the only sound a thin piping whine from somewhere deep in Nell's throat as she, too, waits for the distant bus to do something.

At last the horn sounds; a long waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah fills the little valley. Another waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, and waah waah waah, and Epley's head out the side window.

"Hey, you people gonna stand around till lunchtime? I'm stuck down here in the bottom of this gully, for Christ sake!"

Nell barks back but without much conviction; Epley's too far away to interest her. She drops her head, rooting through the grass to round up her litter. Maude drops to hands and knees, lazily crawls around imitating the dog, shoving puppies with her nose toward some center point. Like Nell, she wags her tail each time she locates a pup, and Charley watches her round buttocks wriggle in the sun. He studies her nippled, ground-pointing cones, and all about her the back-lit thicket of slender stalks, translucent, seed-heavy tassels bending to tickle milky skin. He can't stand it any longer. He rolls over on all fours and scuttles toward her, planning to take her from behind, by surprise.

Waah waah waah waah comes Epley's manic horn from the gully. Charley ignores it. "Hey, what's going on up there? Jesus Christ, can't you give a guy a hand? I haven't got all day, ya know!"

By this time, Maude and Charley are rolling in the grass. The VW engine starts up again. Charley hears the whine of gears and axles straining, lifts his head to see the bus going nowhere, wheels spinning, rear end lurching and writhing to clear the ditch.

Maude whispers, "C'mon, Charley."

Nell circles, whimpering and sniffing, the pups yip and squirm on all sides, little paws to tingle Charley's legs, groping tips of noses.

Epley races the engine, leans on the horn. Axles whine around the madly shifting gears. Charley hears hollow metal clanking on the rocks.

"Maude, he's destroying my car."

He starts to lift his head again; she grabs his shoulders and holds him down. Nell licks Maude's neck, tries to nuzzle in between them.

"Hey! What are you guys trying to do---give me the shit end of the stick or something? Think I can pull somebody else's car out of a hole all by myself? I call that a hell of a note, buster. One hell of a note!"

He bellows this; the engine roars again, yowling gears. Something rips loose with a metallic clunk and tinkle, and suddenly Epley's in the clear. The bus grinds upward through steep grass, painfully listing but pulling the grade.

"Oh, Charley," Maude begs, "don't stop now."

But he breaks their tangle of arms and legs and is galloping down the slope again, naked this time, to meet his bus as it reaches the road. Epley stops. Charley grabs the door handle. Locked.

The radio is filling, surrounding the bus:

"Is this your first album, Eddie?"

"It's my third, Ralph, although actually it isn't my album at all."

"Can you explain that for our listeners?"

"I wish I could, Ralph, I honestly do. Say, why do I keep getting little electric shocks from this mike stand?"

Charley yells, shakes the door handle till his whole bus is rocking. Epley doesn't look at him. Charley runs around and throws open the side doors, jumps in on top of the mattress and crouches there, with palms extended, like some underweight sumo wrestler. The black head swivels, lips apart.

Surprise turns to huge-eyed horror, as if Epley's struck dumb by the sudden appearance of another person in this wilderness, not just a naked man but anyone at all.

Charley leans over and switches off the radio, bare shoulder next to short sleeve of black T-shirt; sweaty, "3-In-One" Oil smell of Epley, who sits now, examining his knees, grabbing black thighs with grease-edged fingers.

"Get out of my car!" Charley has climbed the front seat, sitting next to him, shoving. "Out. Out."

"I call that the shit end of the stick, my friend." Epley glares at the windshield wiper. "All I want to know is, who got this car out of the ditch? Huh? Tell me that."

"Shut up, Epley. Just shut up and---"

"Out of the ditch, singlehanded, back on the goddamn road, and me with a flat tire of my own, not to mention more work at home than any ten men---"

Charley is ready to start punching, when Epley stops in midsentence, staring through the window, befuddled and openmouthed. It's Maude, floating down the knollside, waist-deep in tasseled grass, with Nell scampering. Under one arm she carries her puppy box, over her shoulder Charley's paisley shirt, his corduroys.

Charley watches, too. Her knees flex slightly; smooth tendons catch the light with each downhill step. The way she walks, drifts, descends, he would recognize it anywhere now, unmistakably Maude. It fills him with pure affection.

She stops on his side of the car, holding Nell. "You said you were going to take me back to the highway."

Her face inches from his, her shawl loosely draped, Charley's affection splinters into a thousand warm needles. He is weak with lust. His groin aches. He would like to run over Epley with his car.

He turns to see those startled eyes focused on his lap, where Maude's presence has had dramatic effect. Charley grabs the car keys, opens the door, steps out. "Give me my pants, Maude."

Through the open window, he addresses Epley. "I'll give you a ride to the bottom of the hill."

"I got a flat tire down there, buddy."

"All right, I'll take you back to your shop."

Epley considers this, pulls the loose scraped skin beneath his jaw. "Can I do the driving?"

"Hell, no, you can't drive! You've already destroyed my whole rear end. Spring's busted, bumper's mangled, body all mashed up. Jesus Christ, Epley!"

Charley is starting to shout. Epley outshouts him. "Jesus Christ yourself, pal! Who hiked up from the bottom of this road? Who climbed while everybody else got a nice cozy ride? Huh? Can you tell me that?"

Nell is barking again and Epley reaches for his scalp again, dark fingers digging into dusty, oil-black hair.

"Who sweated his ass off while everybody else is laying around in the grass taking a sun bath? Huh? I'm just asking for a fair shake. Is that too much to ask? Can you give a guy a fair shake?"

While holding Nell's taut collar with one hand, Maude is helping Charley dress, running his belt through the loops, buttoning his shirt, tucking in his shirttails with slow, tender hand plunges.

"OK, Epley, OK. You can drive. Straight back to your shop. How does that sound? Everybody else will get in back."

"Just hold onto that dog bastard. Don't expect me to drive this hill with a goddamn bloodhound yipping at my neck the whole way down." Epley's squirming in the seat like a trapped man, frantic eyes scanning, the way he looked when he shoved his lawn mower down the stairs.

Charley ties Nell to the rear door, sets the puppies next to her on the mattress, shoves his bike to the left, hands Epley the keys.

"There's no rush. Just take it easy. OK?"

"Yes," Maude adds, "these curves are ... hard on Nell."

"Easy does it, folks," Epley yells. The clutch pops. The bus bucks. He leans on the big steering wheel, nose to the windshield, as if they're heading into heavy fog. Bus bucks again, leaps forward, stuttering. Maude and Charley are thrown back onto the mattress, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Their bodies clamp together.

"Hey, what's going on back there?"

Rear end swings wide as the bus careens around the first curve.

"Never mind, Epley. Watch the road, for God sake!"

Nell is still barking, sometimes gagging, as her new rage strains against the rope. Pups have spilled again and Maude is unzipping Charley's fly. Each time Epley swings through a curve, the bike slides across the mattress. Charley tries to brace it with his foot. Everything slides to the right now. On some curves, the bumper and one corner of the frame scrape the ground. No time to worry about that. Maude's skirt is up around her waist, her shawl falls open.

The bus is picking up speed. With each curve, the puppies tumble over Charley and Maude. And soon she's murmuring, "Oh, Charley, oh oh oh oh oh."

At that moment, Epley's tentative, quavering baritone drifts back from the front seat, nasal and phlegm-throated, feeling its way:

"Without a songThe day would never end.Without a songThe road would never bend.Without a songA man ain't got a friend...."

It grows louder, expanding as he warms to the car's acoustics, drowning Maude's little moans of ecstasy. He throws both windows open, sits back to breathe deep and guns the engine for a short stretch of straightaway:

"I'll never knowWhat makes the rain to fall.I'll never knowWhat makes the grass so tall....

Bellowing the refrain, Epley whips the bus around a hairpin curve like it's a sports car, slides up banked gravel into a soft shoulder, recovers for the drop past a sloping stand of eucalyptus. Charley, sated now, closes his eyes, one foot still braced against the bike, and figures it would be riskier to try to wrest control than to let him keep driving. He waits and prays Epley will find the brakes before they reach the ocean, and while Nell howls out a counterpoint to his triumphal song, her puppies pour back and forth over the spent lovers in a wriggling, furry cascade.