Whoever Said Go
by Davon Loeb
Peddling their bikes, their silhouettes bobbed like bodies on boats, atop the quiet suburban road—zigzagging, swerving, coasting—legs spread at their sides, the pedals revolving—taking hands off handlebars, their voices shrilling—kee-eeeee-arr. Their calls shook the pine trees, and some birds fleeted and became just specks. And in that sky, the sun was resilient and reluctant and didn’t want to let go of its summer reign, like those boys who held on to the day with resentment of the night that was coming from a cloud in the foreground. They rested at a stop sign before an intersection.
They closed their eyes and felt the sun on their skin. Dusk was approaching and a car or two or more passed by. They weren’t sure how many and didn’t care to look. They just stood there, straddled on their bikes, their feet throbbing in their sneakers, the sun drying beads of sweat that trickled between their brows and fuzzy upper lips. And then when the road went completely silent, they thought of something—about a game they played but didn’t want to say it. Just four boys basking in a light that was slowly fading—fading like the day and like their summer, and those boys were pissed school was starting and wanted to feel something before it was too late.
They were tethered to the fidelity of adolescence, to an air of invincibility, of a suburban safety and privilege—of nothing bad will happen to me because I come from a good home in a good community and have good parents. Whoever said Go said it, and it didn’t matter who because they pumped their legs with their eyes closed and across that intersection.
For a moment, all they could hear was the thumping of their hearts, was the squeaking of their bike chains, was a bird that was far out and warned them by trying to call them back to safety. But they didn’t listen, those boys, and did it anyway—rode blindly into the middle of the intersection with their eyes tightly pinched. The sun tried to break through their eyes, tried to force them open as if to say—please, don’t do it.
They heard the brakes skid first and then the crash, the metal on metal—the sounds of machine against machine, of opposing forces pushing into each other like pulleys—like gears grinding in opposite directions, like something big and mechanical being forced open. But they had crossed the street by then, and now their eyes were open and fastened on the wreck. They scanned the scene, long tire streaks, one set curved and one set straight. The two vehicles faced each other, as if staring the other down to see which would stop hissing first.
A muffled voice yelled from behind a deployed airbag of a truck. It was a man, and he was barking obscenities about the boys who stood rigid with fear of some sudden responsibility. The truck’s front bumper and grill was completely rammed and looked like the crooked smile of that kid from school, the one they teased, whose teeth were bucked and overlapped. The truck’s exhaust pipe wheezed. The man was exiting, punching the now deflated airbag in with a certain rage. He wanted to hurt something. He wanted to hurt someone. The other car, the mid-size sedan, was almost silent, just the rattling of the timing belt. Smoke billowed from its hood, and the entire frame was the unfinished crush of a car compactor.
The police would come soon and blame them—would say it was their fault, would tell their parents—maybe take those boys to jail. But it was their fault. They knew it, so no one said anything much. They were breathing in upheavals. This time, no one actually said Go, but they went.
They peddled their bikes harder than ever. They peddled as the night quickly reached around the sun—wrestled it and was bringing it down. They peddled with a fear of life and death—of what happened to the old lady in the other car—and something else, just a feeling, but they didn't understand it. Then, the sirens blared, and they thought they were getting closer. And that’s when the darkness was fully on them, the boys, who knew they were almost home.
Davon Loeb is the author of the memoir The In-Betweens (West Virginia University Press, 2022). He earned an MFA in creative writing from Rutgers-Camden University. Davon is an assistant features editor at The Rumpus. His work is featured at The Rumpus, Catapult, Ploughshares Blog, PANK Magazine, No Contact, Wigleaf Top 50, and elsewhere. Besides writing, Davon is a high school English teacher, husband, and father living in New Jersey. He can be reached at davonloeb.com and on Twitter at @LoebDavon.
