William Cass                                                                              

Choices

Javier met Rosa when she came down to Tijuana from San Diego to visit her ailing grandmother in the nursing home where he worked.  He had a position there in the kitchen and brought a lunch tray to the room where Rosa sat bedside holding the old woman’s hand.  Rosa turned, their eyes met, and something clenched inside him.  He swallowed.  A small, tentative smile creased her lips, and she pointed to the lap table at the foot of the bed where he left the tray before fleeing the room.  He felt foolish about his hair net, embarrassed about his stained smock, and astounded at the quiet tenderness in her gaze.

After his shift, he found Rosa alone on a bench near the kitchen’s back door and stopped still in his tracks.  She sat with her head bowed, a tissue clasped in her lap.  She looked up at him and said, “Mi abuelita…”  She paused before finishing in English, “…she’s dying.”

“Yes.”  Javier gave two short nods. “I know.”   

He sat down beside her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.  She resumed her silent, head-bowed grief as traffic sped by on the busy boulevard beyond the wall.

~

Rosa made several more trips down that winter, each on DACA Advance Parole, to visit her grandmother before her death.  She and Javier spent increasing time together when she did: sitting on the bench, taking walks, talking, getting to know each other.  He told her he was about to receive a two-year certificate in computer repair from a technical college.

She asked, “Is that where you learned to speak English so well?”

“No, I was given a scholarship when I was very young to a K-12 dual-language school I attended until I graduated.”

When he asked how she came to live in the United States, she told him, “My parents and I crossed the border illegally near Calexico when I was eleven.  We began moving among farmworker camps in the Imperial Valley and eventually made our way to San Diego where I finished high school while they both worked custodial jobs.  My parents were deported just after my graduation, but I was allowed to stay under DACA provisions because I’d already turned eighteen.”  She looked away for a moment before continuing.  “I was hired as a housekeeper at a hotel where a neighbor worked, and he had a garage he’d converted into a kind of studio where I live.  I can’t afford a car, so I take the trolley to and from Tijuana.” 

Javier and Rosa’s romance blossomed quickly and with an intensity that surprised them both.  They kept in touch daily by text, and he often arranged FaceTime visits on his cell phone for her with her grandmother.  When the old woman passed away, he borrowed an oversized suit to attend her funeral and burial with Rosa.  Afterwards, with Javier unable to afford a Border Crossing Card and no further visits allowed for Rosa using DACA provisions, their hearts ached for one another.  Their decision to marry was almost as sudden as their courtship.  A brief courthouse affair followed, and Javier had moved into Rosa’s garage studio in San Diego before summer began; they were both twenty.  He fixed up an old bike her neighbor gave him to ride to an overnight IT job he got at San Diego State University, which expedited his acceptance as a part-time computer science student there.  By that fall, Rosa was pregnant, and nine months later, they were parents to a baby girl they named Sofia.

~

Ian’s father had immigrated from Singapore and his mother was Dutch-American.  They ran a very successful commercial real estate firm together in Orange County and expected him to pursue an MBA immediately after graduating from SDSU and then join them in the business.  When he finally mustered the courage to tell them he’d been accepted instead to the SDSU nursing program after his sophomore year, they promptly cut him off financially and told him they wanted nothing to do with him until he’d come to his senses.  He scraped together tuition to begin nursing classes during the upcoming summer session, but that left him four hundred dollars short for next month’s rent on his apartment, considerably less than he made at the irregular fill-in Starbucks shifts he’d found just to augment his parents’ former regular stipend.

Ian felt desperate, abandoned and alone.  The only boyfriend he’d ever had – another secret about himself he hadn’t yet shared with his parents – had just broken up with him and moved out, exacerbating things further because he’d been splitting rent and expenses.  The apartment was on the third floor and bordered the college.  He often stood gazing forlornly out the window across the street into the mostly empty campus with summer session yet to begin.  The silent buildings, residence halls, lawns, pathways, bus stops, and bike racks stretched sprawling before him with no offer of reprieve.  He found himself fixating on the cluster of bike racks closest to him near the corner of a large residence hall with its collection of what seemed like the same couple dozen bikes randomly scattered among the bars: assorted mountain bikes in various colors, the red road bike with the raised seat in the middle, a yellow beach cruiser almost tipped on its side, bikes with baskets and milk crates strapped to the front or back, one missing a front tire entirely.  Staring at them, Ian’s brow furrowed as an idea slowly formed. 

“Those bikes have been left there for weeks now,” he whispered to himself.  “Probably abandoned by graduating students or kids leaving for summer vacation who don’t care what happens to them anymore.  I could take a few of the better ones, sell them on Craig’s List, and make rent.”  He hesitated, chasing an uneasy flush away, then said aloud, “Why not?  What the hell choice do you have?”

He waited several nights studying the patterns of the campus security vehicle that periodically drove through that portion of campus.  When he felt certain that there was at least an hour between each of its overnight passes, he shoved a pair of bolt cutters into his daypack and crossed the street shortly before 2am, just after the security vehicle had disappeared into the depths of campus.  Aside from the rustle of leaves in the trees above the bike racks and a soft chorus of crickets, he met only stillness as he approached.  Despite that, his breathing had quickened, and a cold sweat bloomed on the back of his neck.  His perusal of the available bikes was a hurried one; he chose the red road bike and three of the nicer-looking mountain bikes near it, cut their chains, and led two of them flanking his sides by their handlebars across the street, attempting nonchalance.  He heard and saw no one as he tucked them behind a dumpster on the far side of his apartment building.  Still, his heart hammered away.  Ian re-crossed the street and began the same process with the other two bikes, but gave a little jump and froze at the sound of movement in the bushes beside the racks.  A calico cat slipped out among the low branches, regarded him blankly, and slithered away.  A heaved sigh escaped him, then Ian brought the remaining pair of bikes over to his building, trotting the final few yards, and tucked them in the shadows with the others.

It took him another twenty minutes to carry each bike up the back stairwell to his apartment where he leaned them haphazardly against his couch.  Moments later, he’d stripped to his boxer shorts and lay on his side under covers in bed with its pillow over his head trying to drown out remnants of his father’s persistent lectures about principles and destiny.

~

Javier found his bicycle gone from the rack after he got off shift at seven the next morning.  He regarded the sliced locks, held his own in his hands, then threw it to the ground and swore.  A searing flare of anger rose in him as he cursed again with violated rage.  He and Rosa had been saving what little they could for months to purchase a used bike trailer so he could take Sofia to an infant daycare near the university while he attended classes, allowing Rosa to resume a few housekeeping shifts; Sofia was almost one, and they badly needed that meager extra income.  He banged his hand on the bike rack and called campus security on his cell phone.  When they arrived, they told him without much conviction they’d file his report but that if he really wanted to pursue restoration, he needed to contact the city police.  So, he did, but the officer he dealt with, a big man named Peters, was even less hopeful of finding the stolen bikes.

On the long walk home, Javier’ thoughts turned over on themselves, furious and random.  When he got to the garage studio, he curled up next to Rosa and Sofia on the pullout couch where they slept; Rosa had texted him early that morning that Sofia had been fussy all night and neither had really slept.  Javier managed a few short, fitful catnaps of his own, but mostly stewed further over the injustice of what had happened and the limited possibilities of correcting it.  He finally got up about nine, careful not to wake his wife and daughter, and powered up his laptop at their card table.  He clicked on the local Craig’s List and searched through the “bikes” link under the for-sale category.  Javier sat up straight, blinking rapidly, when he found his bike’s photo staring back at him at the end of the top row there.  Its familiar faded blue frame with the seat’s small torn corner stood perched in front of a couch in beams of low sunlight; it looked like it had been wiped down and the seat polished.  Several additional pictures of it from different angles were included, as well as a description of the bike’s model, dimensions, condition, and the like. An asking price of $100 was listed along with an email address and phone number.  Javier sat studying the entry for several long moments, shaking his head, clenching and unclenching his jaw.  Finally, he glanced over at his slumbering family surrounded by unfinished walls and a concrete floor, considered the dismissive reactions of the campus security and police, then turned back to his laptop and created three fake email accounts.

Javier waited fifteen minutes or so between email messages to the listed address expressing interest in the bike.  He intentionally tried to configure each with a different tone, voice, and length.  He chose the second message to offer ten dollars more than the asking price as long as as the bike was in as good a condition as it appeared in the photos; he added that he’d need to see it in person first before committing to that price.   

Not quite an hour passed while Javier tried to distract himself elsewhere on the web before a reply popped up to his second message.  It said: “The bike is still available at the price you offered and you’re welcome to inspect it.  If you’re local, we could meet in the Starbucks parking lot at 53rd and College at noon.”  It was signed: Ian.

Javier let his fingertips hover over the laptop’s keys before typing: “Sounds good, Ian.  See you there.”  He left it unsigned.

Rosa had sleepily drawn a rousing Sofia to her breast to feed.  She looked up at Javier, smiled, and said, “Hi.”

“Hey, there,” Javier replied.  “Get some more rest.  I’ve got to go.”

He kissed them both on their foreheads and left.

~

Ian had finally given up on sleep entirely with dawn’s first light and forced himself into action.  He cleaned up each bike and oiled their chains, then arranged them one by one in front of the couch, took photos with his phone, downloaded them to his computer, and created the four Craig’s List postings.  He priced each at only $100, reasoning to himself that he wasn’t looking to make a profit but just wanted to unload the bikes as quickly as possible to make the rent due at week’s end.  He had the postings completed shortly before nine.

To his surprise, he began receiving replies almost immediately.  He had to work a shift at Starbucks that afternoon at 12:30, so decided he’d wait a couple of hours before trying to confirm any transaction that seemed viable.  He concentrated first on exchanging messages with two people indicating interest in the black mountain bike before realizing they were both just fishing for a give-away price.  He deleted a message asking if he’d consider trading the road bike for a surfboard, then concentrated on a series of queries that had come in intermittently over the previous hour about the blue mountain bike.  He returned to the second of those queries, which offered more than asking price if the bike’s actual condition matched the photos. The sender’s email address included “collegeguy”, and his tone was so mild-mannered that it bordered on apologetic.  It was hard for Ian to imagine him as someone difficult to deal with; in fact, he seemed like he’d be a pushover.  He glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost 11.  The looming immediacy of his dilemma seized him, and he quickly exchanged messages arranging the meeting at the Starbucks parking lot.

~

It was a forty-five-minute walk from their garage studio to the Starbucks.  On the way, Javier called the phone number on the card Officer Peters had given him after taking his report and explained what had transpired.  At first, Peters expressed bemused disbelief at Javier’ story, but as more details were provided, he agreed to be waiting with other officers in two unmarked cars at the parking lot by 11:45. 

“You won’t notice us,” he told Javier.  “But we’ll see you.  If the bike is yours when you meet this guy, scratch your head, and we’ll take care of things from there.”

Javier arrived at the Starbucks a little early.  He went inside, bought a coffee, and took a seat by the window.  The strip mall parking lot was about three-quarters full of perhaps thirty vehicles with a couple spots empty in front of the store.  He sipped his coffee and tried to stop the anxious tapping of his foot.  He ignored the quiet chatter of conversations at other tables and the soft, piped-in background music.  Just before noon, a short young man about his age of some Asian descent rode a mountain bike across the parking lot and came to a halt in one of the spaces in front.  Javier made a fist, then opened it slowly: the bike was his.  The young man climbed off the blue frame and looked around with a curious frown; he wore a faded polo shirt, khakis, and sneakers.  Javier wasn’t sure what he was expecting but was struck by how nondescript the young man appeared; except for a prematurely receding hairline, he looked like any other student on campus.  Javier stood, left his cup on the table, and pushed through the jingling door outside.

He stepped towards the young man and said, “Ian?”

The young man turned and smiled.  “That’s right.”

Javier was struck by the gentleness of his voice; his eyes were also gentle, but dancing.  They shook moist hands, then Ian used his chin to gesture to the bike and said, “Well, here it is.  Go ahead and look it over.”

Javier nodded, regarded the bike, and scratched his head.  Things happened from there in a blur.  The next thing he knew, the bike had clattered to the blacktop and two uniformed officers had Ian face down against the hood of the parked car next to them, one roughly handcuffing his hands behind his back while the other recited Miranda rights.  Javier flinched at the sight as Officer Peters came up beside him. 

The big policeman clapped Javier on the shoulder.  “Can’t say I remember a theft like this being solved so quickly, but thanks.”

“What happens now?”

“We’ll bring him in, get him processed.  Question him.  Search his residence for the other bikes.  Impound this one.”

“When can I get it back?”

Peters shrugged.  “Day or two.  I’ll be in touch.  We’ll need a formal statement from you, of course, and I’ll keep you abreast of developments in the case as they arise.  About charges, prosecution, sentencing…all of that.”

The officer that had been handcuffing Ian jerked him upright.  Even with his head bent, Javier could see him crying.  Ian turned, their troubled eyes met briefly, then the officer who’d handcuffed him guided him by the elbow across the parking lot.  The third officer gave Peters a satisfied nod.

Peters clapped Javier’s shoulder again and said, “Officer Wallace here will give you a lift home.  I’ll call you soon.”

Javier watched Peters leave.  A small crowd had gathered in front of the strip mall shops, including staff and patrons from Starbucks, all staring at Ian’s retreating figure.  A kind of hollowness had invaded Javier; he didn’t follow their gazes.

~

As soon as Officer Peters and his partner sat down with him in the police station’s interrogation room, Ian waved his rights and confessed to everything including where they could find the other bikes.  By their steely expressions, he could tell his explanation about thinking the bikes had been abandoned and just needing money to make rent had fallen on deaf ears.

Ian was brought to a holding cell where he waited alone until the public defender who’d been assigned to him came to meet with him a few hours later.  The lawyer, a short man in a shiny suit whose last name was Burke, said that Officer Peters had told him the owner of the parking lot bike was pissed as hell and wanted a piece of his hide.  When Burke explained that because the cumulative value of the bikes exceeded $950, Ian’s preliminary charge was larceny, a felony, Ian’s eyes grew wide.  He gasped, “I was selling those bikes for a hundred bucks each.”

“That’s not what the police valued them at.  They have their own scale for all types of property.”

Ian’s shoulders slumped.  “Holy shit…what’s the typical sentence for that?”

Burke’s mouth closed into a tight line before he said, “Up to three years in prison…usually closer to sixteen months, though, in this sort of case.”

Ian’s head collapsed between his knees; he squeezed it with both hands and began crying again.

~

The post-arrest exchange between Officer Peters and Javier didn’t actually occur until the next day.  Peters arranged for him to be brought to the station, took his statement, and told him his bike was ready to be reclaimed downstairs in stored property.  When Javier asked about what had happened so far with the young man who’d stolen the bikes, Peters explained about the preliminary charge, the sentence typically involved, and the timeline for eventual court proceedings.

After he finished, Javier shook his head.  “He didn’t seem like a crook.”

“They often don’t.”

“I mean, he just looked like a regular college kid…like me.”

“Well.”  Peters cocked his head.  “That’s exactly what he is.”

Javier turned towards the window and shook his head again.  “That bike was a piece of crap.  It was given to me…I didn’t pay a dime for it.”  He looked back at Peters.  “What about the others?”

Peters let a long moment pass before he said, “We haven’t actually been able to locate their owners yet.”

“I saw those photos on Craig’s List,” Javier said.  “The other three bikes weren’t anything special either.  Just used ones like mine that he cleaned up.”  Javier rubbed the back of his neck.  “Jesus, I mean I don’t want to ruin this guy’s life.  Can’t you reduce the charges a bit?”

Peters leaned forward at this desk.  “Son, that punk stole your property and the property of others.  And right now, you’re our only corroborating victim.  Are you saying you’re not going to cooperate with us?”

“Not with that charge,” Javier said.  “No.”

Officer Peters sat back in his chair and took a turn shaking his head.  Then he waved his hand toward the door like he was shooing away a fly.  “Go,” he said.  “I’ll talk to the prosecutor and be in touch.

~

Ian had spent two nights in jail because he had no means of posting the large bail required to be released; beyond telling him to never try to contact them again, his father had refused to speak to him when he’d made his lone permitted call.  He was brought to the courthouse in an orange jumpsuit handcuffed to a belly chain the following morning for his arraignment and led to the defense table where Burke stood waiting for him.  The bench was temporarily unoccupied while the judge was on a restroom break.

Burke looked over at Ian and said, “Well, I have some good news.  The charges have just been reduced to petty larceny, and that’s only a misdemeanor.

Ian stared back, dazed.  “Why?  How?”

The lawyer shrugged.  “Not sure.  Stroke of luck.”   A door opened behind the bench and the judge reappeared, his robes fluttering behind him.  “Stand up straight,” Burke whispered to Ian.  “And look repentant.”

~

Ian was sentenced to a month in county jail.  He wasn’t surprised to receive messages during that stint from his supervisor at Starbucks that he’d been fired, from his apartment building’s property manager that he’d been evicted, or from the university that he’d been expelled after they received the security and police reports about his arrest.  When he was released, he sold whatever belongings he could, rented a spot in a six-person room at a youth hostel downtown, and began looking without success for employment.  He was able to arrange a few interviews, but things ended quickly with each when he had to admit his criminal record and the nature of his offense; even though it was only a misdemeanor, he found that no employer would take a chance on hiring someone who’d been a convicted thief.

He began heading early each morning to the nearest big-box hardware store and waiting with other men hoping to obtain day-work jobs.  He got a few of those here and there that eventually led to a landscaper who hired him under the table on a more or less permanent basis to dig ditches for sprinkler systems.  That allowed Ian to move into a room of his own in an old residence hotel near the hostel where he snuck in a hotplate and mini-fridge and which he called home for the next handful of years.

~

While he completed his degree, Javier did well enough in his IT department to be promoted several times, and when he graduated, he moved into a supervisory position with them in information systems.  He and Rosa had a second daughter by then and had been living for some time in a small rental house on a quiet street in La Mesa.  They shared a car, but Javier still rode his bike often for exercise.  He’d never told anyone about it having been stolen, not even his wife.

One sun-splashed Saturday in May, they attended a birthday party/bar-b-que for a first-grade classmate of Sofia’s.  Families gathered in the backyard where kids played in a blow-up bouncy house while parents mingled on the deck where the host grilled.  When the time for cake and gifts arrived, Rosa realized they’d left theirs in the car, so Javier went back for it.  He retrieved the wrapped box from where they’d parked up the cul-de-sac along the curb and closed the car door.  He turned just as a worker climbed out of a ditch he was digging in the front lawn a few feet away.  Javier didn’t realize it was Ian until the young man’s receding hairline was revealed when he took off his ball cap and used it to wipe sweat away from his forehead.  Their eyes held and recognition filled Ian’s.  Javier stiffened.  Ian replaced his cap and closed both hands around the handle of his shovel.  He said, “You.”

“Ian, right?”

Ian nodded.  An older man came around the corner of the house, took several long lengths of white PVC pipe from the back of a pick-up truck in the driveway, and carried them away.  He and Ian wore identical long-sleeved blue T-shirts displaying the insignia of the landscaping company stenciled on the side of the truck.  They both wore jeans, but Ian’s were scarred with dirt.

“You’re working,” Javier said.

Ian gave another grim nod.

Javier nodded himself.  “It’s been, what…five years?”  He paused.  “I’ve wondered about you.”

“You’ve wondered.”

“I have, yes.  I mean, about what happened to you.”  He moved the gift from one hip to the other.  “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“I’m not, actually.”

Javier felt his eyebrows raise.

“After I got out of jail, this was the only steady work I could get.  Lost my job, my apartment, my spot in nursing school, and was kicked out of college.  My parents haven’t spoken to me since.”  Ian’s face hardened.  “Shit, man, I thought those bikes were abandoned, left at the end of the semester by students who didn’t care about them anymore.  I was just trying to make my damn rent.”

Ian’s voice and eyes held their same earlier gentleness despite his harsh words.  Javier said, “I wasn’t made aware of any of that.”

“Yeah, well…”

“I didn’t want to wreck your life.  I just wanted some kind of retribution.”  Javier paused again.  “I got your charges reduced.”

“You did that?”

“I did.  But I wouldn’t have pressed charges at all if I knew the rest of it.  I would’ve been fine with just getting my bike returned.  I needed it to get back and forth to work.  We were poor as hell then.”

“We?”

“My family…my wife and daughter.”

Ian dropped his head and shook it.  “Jesus,” he muttered.  “No way I would’ve taken your bike if I’d known that.”  He looked up at Javier.  “Doesn’t matter.  I shouldn’t have stolen any of them.  It was wrong, period.  I got what I deserved.”

The older landscaper appeared at the corner of the house.  “Hey, Ian,” he called.  “I need your help back here.”

Ian answered, “Coming.”  The landscaper left, and the two young men stood looking at each other in the white light.  A dog barked nearby.  Finally, Ian said, “Listen, I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.”

Ian gave one last nod, then turned and walked away dragging his shovel.  Javier watched in a wave of regret as the back of him disappeared.  He was vaguely aware of the sound of voices and laughter coming from the birthday party, but he made no move to return there.  The ditch began at the base of the house and had been dug about halfway across the lawn, perhaps a foot wide and deep.  The turf had been cut away neatly and set to one side with a trailing pile of earth on the other.  Javier wondered how many trenches like it Ian had dug since they’d had their few brief minutes together in that parking lot.  Time passed, you found shelter where you could, life went on.  He wondered what he would be doing at that moment if Rosa had never come to Tijuana to visit her grandmother: another chance encounter of a different kind.  A chorus of voices rose singing happy birthday, but still Javier didn’t move.  Instead, he hugged the gift to his chest and wondered what the future held for each of them, what control any of them had over it, and what choices, for better or worse, they had yet to make. 

William Cass has had over 300 short stories accepted for publication in a variety of literary magazines such as december, Briar Cliff Review, and Zone 3.  He won writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal.  A nominee for both Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net anthologies, he has also received five Pushcart Prize nominations.  His first short story collection, Something Like Hope & Other Stories, was published by Wising Up Press in 2020, and a second collection, Uncommon & Other Stories, was recently released by the same press.  He lives in San Diego, California.