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🧟 Stick to the shoulder

an UnDeadbeat story

by Marlee Ryan and Alex Atkins

Gas. Brakes. 

Gas. Brakes. 

Gas. Brakes. 

Cyclists are a menace. Rush hour gridlock is bad enough, but humans on bicycles casually blocking roadways deserve a special place in hell. In the past two centuries, nothing has raised my blood pressure faster.

Wait, do vampires have blood pressure? 

I read an article about cycling in Sports Illustrated once. They were talking about how much the sport is suffering, after that whole thing with that guy. You know the one. And I thought, hey—if you want to cycle, then cycle your little heart out. I’m here for it. I really am. But like, could you not do it during fucking rush hour? 

The guy inching along in front of me looks like he starches his underwear and packs a perfectly square tuna salad sandwich every day. 

Oh my God, are his khakis… tucked into his socks?

Brakes slam a few cars ahead, but I’m so distracted by the oxygen-wasting eco-warrior (and those damn socks) that I hit mine a second too late. 

Blood splatters everywhere. 

Not his, unfortunately. The travel mug from my cupholder turns out to be no match for inertia. My delicious O-negative breakfast drips down the dashboard. 

Why does this shit only happen on the day you forget to screw the lid on tight? It’s just like how you only snag your sweater on a doorknob when you’re already in a foul mood. Humans like to mutter about ‘Murphy’ under their breath, but I know the Devil thinks shit like that is hilarious. 

Smashing my hands on the steering wheel makes a satisfying thud, but does nothing to temper my frustration. I was being such a good faux-human today, too. Washed my hair. Wore clean clothes. I even used the steamer I won from the (mandatory) office social club raffle so Brenda in accounting wouldn’t make that awful tsk tsk sound at my wrinkled blouse.

The floor mats are soaked, too. I don’t think I can get away with hosing them off on the driveway and pretending it’s paint again. Mrs. Henderson definitely didn’t believe me last time. She probably tells the neighbours I’m a serial killer. And like, technically all vampires are serial killers, but it’s still rude to point it out, you know?  

The cyclist continues on his way, completely oblivious. He doesn’t even hug the shoulder, just rides right out in the middle of the lane.

Gas. Brakes. 

Gas. Brakes. 

The intersection ahead can’t come fast enough. I need to get around him more than I need hemoglobin. Unfortunately—and to my utter despair—it’s clear that fate doesn’t have my back today when he takes my freakin’ turn.

There’s too much construction for me to scoot across Main Street. The town got together and decided they wanted to replace the perfectly serviceable asphalt with some kind of textured pavers. For tourism. To attract what they now call ‘guests’. Because everybody’s vacation wishlist includes textured pavers. 

Three side streets later, traffic has thinned, but I have yet to find a way to pass the desperado on two wheels, who no doubt still hits his Peloton for fun when he gets home. I bet he has a wall-mounted equipment rack with rows of perfectly organized specialty shoes. 

This is worse than hell. And I would know.

Gas. Brakes.

Maybe it’s time to do humanity a favour… 

There’s nothing out this way but low-rise office buildings, endless beige rectangles that resemble minimum security prisons. It’s the land of corporate headquarters and businesses so bland they make me look like I have a soul. 

One last turn and it’s quiet; we’re on the outskirts of town now. I’m still hot on Captain Khaki’s heels, and a glance in the rear view gives me the best news of my day: we’re alone. 

My fingers flex around the wheel, itching to twitch to the right. A single flick of the wrist and this poindexter could be run right off the road. 

My therapist says I have ‘intrusive thoughts’. We’re working on identifying our conscious thoughts, the ‘active inner monologue’ in the brain, dictating our actions. I haven’t done the worksheet yet, though. My therapist is on vacation.

I inch towards him. He turns and gives me the look, the ‘You’re required to share the road’ look. 

There’s actually a little-known and never-referenced clause in the city bylaws regarding motor vehicles and cyclists. It says if there is a prolonged impediment to vehicles, the cyclist must move—as safety permits—and yield to the vehicular traffic. 

I simply cannot abide by this disrespect of the local bylaws.

I yank the car sharply to the right. There’s a satisfying crunch as he and his bicycle catapult spectacularly into the ditch like those circus acts where a man gets shot out of a cannon. 

I pull over and set my four-ways to a steady flash because, you know, road safety. Swinging my blood-spattered legs out of the car, I take my time stepping down the weed-and-gravel landscape into the ditch.

“Oh, Dave…” I sigh. 

He groans. 

“So sorry. I didn’t see you there. You really should be more careful, you know.” I push his broken arm out of the way and pull his wallet—is that… velcro?—out of the secure, zippered cycling pouch. His name is actually Peter. 

Oh well, I was close. 

“Listen, Pete—can I call you Pete?—I really am sorry. It’s just that today is Talent Show day at work, and I don’t have it in me to sit through Keith’s rendition of I Did It My Way one more year in a row. Not without caffeinated blood.”

A shard of dimpled reflective plastic glints in the sun. That’ll do nicely. 

“I know, I know. You look like you’re probably more of an herbal tea guy.” I stretch out his mangled wrist and make a clean, deep slice with my makeshift shank. “But if I’m lucky, you’re a green tea type of fella and there’s still a little bit of caffeine left in you.” 

A strangled gurgle escapes his lips.

I’d love to stay and enjoy my meal hot, but I’m late for work, so I’m going to have to improvise. 

“Shh… shh…” I pat his head. “I know. Dying is such inconvenient business. Almost like being stuck behind a cyclist in rush hour.”

My hands are full, so I push the door open with my ass and left elbow. Pete’s khakis are a little long on me. The ankles are wrinkled. 

It’s not my typical look. More masc than my usual v-neck and ‘should have gone in the wash several weeks ago’ jeans. I doubt my colleagues will notice. Or they’ll just think I’m a lesbian now. 

Blood sloshes against the walls of my Stanley. Hot damn, are these ever good at keeping it just the right temperature. Thirty-seven degrees celsius, baby. I take a long pull through the straw as I wave at Brenda in accounting. She has lipstick on her teeth.

“You look nice today, dear.” 

“I went for a bike ride. It really gets the blood pumping.”

Brenda makes a face. “During rush hour?” She side-eyes me a little. “Be sure you stick to the shoulder.”