5.

     Biking in snow of variously frozen textures, snow that’s been beat up all day by traffic, is quite a different matter from the new-fallen stuff. The hardened ruts of slush pull your wheels continually off course, and it’s very strenuous just to keeping your balance while trying to maintain some modest forward movement.

I could tell that my bike thought I was just plain stupid to be biking in this climate. It kept trying to lie down and go to sleep.

     The traffic was heavy, and people in fat heated SUVs kept beeping at me when I’d swerve a little out of the bike lane to avoid the piles of snow that filled the lane where snowplows had cleared driveways. The beeping really helped.

     I was preoccupied with misery, and so the police cruiser surprised me by suddenly cutting  to the curb directly in front of me, and I hit its front quarterpanel hard and flew over my handlebars, across the hood and into the gutter on the other side of the car. Instantly a huge blast of adrenaline surged through my spine and mutated my depression into pure fury. I rolled once in the slush and came up on my feet, screaming inarticulately with slush down my neck, and charging the cop car.

Through a red haze, I saw that a second police cruiser was pulling up behind the one I’d just rolled over, as the cop on the driver’s side was just starting to climb out of the door. I slipped in the snow and fell with my entire weight against the car door and caught his head between the door and the frame. He fell into the street, and said “Ow,” I picked up the billyclub that fell from his nerveless fingers, and accidentally stepped hard in his solar plexus as I reached in and put the cruiser in neutral, then wedged the billyclub between the accelerator and the seat, then snapped the shift lever over into reverse. The other cop, standing on the other side of the car outside the passenger door, had just figured out that I was inside the cruiser and ducked down to reach across the seat at me, but I got out and as the car started to reverse into the road, the door hit him and knocked him down in the street as well, hard.

     The cruiser, in reverse gear, rolled briskly back to smash into the front bumper of the second cruiser, deploying their airbags and pinning the second pair of cops in their front seat. By the time they got out and the other cops got up, I had picked up my bike and left.

     I arrived home, covered in gutter slush, bruises, and bad news. The kids were kind of upset to hear that I’d be gone for five days, but their displeasure was mitigated by the fact that as six-year-olds they really had no concept of time. First they wanted to know if I’d still be home for dinner tomorrow, then Tibor asked if they’d be legally able to drive by the time I returned.

     Vampirella took it philosophically, “Well, it was probably inevitable that you’d have to put in a few days of actual work at some point. Damn.”

    “Well, I always hoped it wouldn’t have to come to that,” I said.

      “I do wish we were all going to Florida, though.”

     “It’s only Orlando,” I said, “It’s not like I’m going someplace real.” I started to try to find the luggage and the stuff to pack in the luggage. Vampirella gave me a long kiss and then went off to do a couple hours work at PriceThrottler’s, airbrushing pizzas and adjusting the skin hue of a liposuction candidate. The kids helped me pack by adding plastic dinosaurs and a jar of jam to my suitcase.

     Tibor, Natasha and I ate cucumber sandwiches and drank mango milkshakes for about twelve minutes, and then suddenly a tremendous karate match ensued. Really, I never had a chance when pitted against their combined Kung–Fu techniques. They were natural athletes, and all of my training, with Doc Savage, with Kent Allard, with those Swedish gymnasts, could not compare.

     Natasha initiated the bout by launching herself from her standing position on her chair over the table, tackling me with a tiny arm around my throat and knocking me over backwards in my chair. Tibor began to pummel me furiously with two throw pillows as soon as I hit the ground.

     We rolled around the Quonset hut for an hour or so, I lost the fight and then I read books to them in various mangled dialects until they passed out.

     I left the beautifully sleeping kids in the bedroom and came out to wait for Vampirella to get home from work. I was miserable. I had never been away from Vampirella for more than a single night since the day she picked me up in Niagara falls. The kids also disliked being away from the two of us. Vampirella’s parents could watch the kids occasionally, but twice I’d had to go get them at 1 AM because they wouldn’t stop yodeling for poor old Tiberiu and Tatiana, and the neighbors were complaining.

     I do know I’m sick. I know as a functioning member of this modern society that I’m supposed to desperately try to get away from my wife and kids whenever possible. I’m supposed to cram the kids’ schedules full of timewasting activities and go out bowling twice a week with a bunch of morons to complain about my wife. I should have been looking forward to the Orlando trip as a glorious opportunity to smoke stinky cigars and drink beers while eating deep fried pig maws on a grimy motel bed, switching the TV giddily back and forth between Pro Football and “HOT WET LAWYERETTES.” Heavenly.

     I think maybe I’m some kind of a throwback, some kind of missing link. Hence the fang, perhaps. My instinctual inclination is to never be more than fifty yards from my family, in case there’s a sabretooth tiger in the vicinity. I can sublimate the instinct and go the five miles to work every day, but the prospect of traveling one thousand, one hundred and thirty-four additional miles was utterly terrifying on the primal level. At that distance, even a giant prehistoric sloth could get to them before I could intervene.

     It was growing later, but there was little chance of sleep, thinking about the flight, and the potential horrors of Orlando, and how much I loathed Sam Handwich. Vampirella came home a little after midnight, and seemed surprised to find me still awake. It looked like she’d had a difficult night at work. Her hair was in some disarray, and she was very pink and out of breath.

     “Oh!” she said, tossing her purse into a chair, “you’re still awake. I hurried home. There were a bunch of things I had to sort out for the deadline tomorrow, so I figured you’d have given up on me by now.”

     “I can’t sleep,” I said, “I’m deeply disturbed about this stupid trip.” She threw off her coat. She was wearing a stunningly low-cut silk shirt with pink paisleys,  “I might be able to find some temporary solace in your arms.”

     “Yes,” she smiled, “you might. I’m going to take a quick shower to get the rubber cement and smudges of graphite off. I’ll be right out, and give you a proper send-off.”

     So the remainder of the night went really well, but the next morning was dreadful.