A Horse Named Sorrow

2

13 2 Iended up right back on that same plat­ form a year later. Alone. And going in the op­ po­ site di­ rec­ tion. But the bike was the same, and the pan­ niers—even the ­ clothes on my back were the same, since they were­ Jimmy’s: the baggy army cut­ offs, the Red Hot Chili Pep­ pers ­ T-shirt. Even a new tat­ too: on my left ankle, the Chi­ nese sym­ bol for “dog,” in­ spired by Jimmy—or his good­ ness, or both. And sec­ ond ­ thoughts, of ­ course. Eyes a vivid blue. The bike was still cov­ ered in those ­ strings—he’d only got­ ten to a few dozen, and there were hun­ dreds: every sort of ­ string im­ ag­ in­ able— from all col­ ors of cot­ ton ­ thread to ­ skeins of silk, and even ­ braided hair and plas­ tic fish­ ing line. There was a short sec­ tion of some of that yel­ low po­ lice tape, and a ­ twisted ­ length of shim­ mer­ ing tin­ sel from some old Christ­ mas tree; a thong of ­ leather, some Mardi Gras beads, and even plas­ tic ties from food bags in yel­ low, blue, and white. And there was yarn and hemp and tan­ gles of pack­ ag­ ing twine. There were the shim­ mer­ ing brown re­ mains of cas­ sette tapes—I won­ dered what songs? There were­ twisted ­ pieces of rib­ bon—­ cherry red, navy, kelly green—and even a­ frayed knot of rope. And the name, ­ painted over where it used to say­ Schwinn on the front han­ dle­ bar post of the bike—­ scrawled in Jimmy­ dime-store model paint: Chief Jo­ seph. And Jimmy, of ­ course, in an old pur­ ple vel­ vet bag with gold draw­ strings, all ten ­ pounds of him, tied tight ­ around the cen­ ter of the han­ dle­ bars. Tak­ ing him back the way he came, just like he’d asked. ...