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Joel Coiler was an intense rider of bikes. There was no such thing as a quick and leisurely ride in the world of Joel Coiler; he rode hard and he rode with a purpose. Normally, his mind would be a cool blank, nothing in focus, nothing absorbed. In fact, his speed rides through the park were rarely remembered when he returned home to his Castro apartment.
Today he couldn’t quit thinking about stupid drama, and it was distracting him, and nothing pissed him off faster than not being able to lose himself in a ride. He had already turned his head to look back at that guy that seemed to be nodding off on the park bench. This was such an abnormality of behavior for him that he felt the need to hit himself to try and shake himself out of it. Where most people, feeling a similar inclination, would have smacked the handlebars of the bike, Joel punched himself upside his helmet.
Anger was a familiar emotion to Joel, but it was one that he did his best to hide from the outside world, just like his dad. However, just like his dad, anger often thrived in the warm culture of his home. This was not something Joel was willing to look at fully, even though the idea sang to him like some annoying song stuck in his memory. He was also not willing to accept that this was a reason for Jerry’s leaving.
Yeah Joel and Jerry, everybody had always thought that was so cute. But what were his friends going to think when they found out Jerry was leaving him for some other guy. And how long had he been fucking this guy? Joel clamped his jaws together, grinding his teeth and with a look of fury, he pushed on the peddles even harder.
Jerry was a painter that was truly great in the mind of Jerry, but merely decent in the minds of most others. Joel had put up with his “artistic” nonsense for years, paying all of the rent and bills so that he could paint and not be fettered by society’s unrealistic expectations of a job. Jerry had always talked down him, as if being a painter was well above being an account exec. Jerry had always flirted voraciously with other artists, and wrote it off that Joel wouldn’t understand because he wasn’t a painter. Jerry had a secret hatred of his own gayness that made Joel consider him weak.
His mom would be happy, she’d never really liked Jerry. Joel just felt played. He resented having put up with Jerry’s slacker, artist bullshit just to have him run off with some art fag on Telegraph Hill.
Joel let out a rough little bark, something he sometimes did at home when he needed to relieve some internal pressure. He was already mostly through the park, back closer to the ocean where the cypress trees and various plants seemed to feed on the briny fog and grow thicker, more wild.
He suddenly felt his heart pick up speed. It was a feeling he was familiar with for sure, but it was not from the exercising, it was adrenaline flooding his system. There was a fierce flicker of fear riding his spine.
Stopping so suddenly that he nearly went over the handlebars, Joel began shaking. Some uncontrollable sense of dread was climbing over him like a living shadow. He could feel something watching nearby and he began whipping his head around to try and see anything through the overgrown brush. Only the sense of watching and waiting was there, the sense that this was no ordinary raccoon or possum in the park, but something big.
Joel jumped quickly back on his bike and peddled faster than he had known he could.