Hidden Wheel. Michael T. Fournier

never seen her so happy in her life.

      Lewis Brinkman: There were several games prior which I felt lucky to have won.

      Sven Gunsen: I was happy for her.

      Lou Schwartz: I thought maybe she’d leave, finally.

      Lewis Brinkman: Of course I was happy. How could I not be? She was so gifted.

      Luna Vallejo: After she beat Brinkman, she began to talk about playing Zaitsev.

      Lou Schwartz: The top of the heap at Le Petit Chapeau wasn’t enough for her. Good riddance, then.

      Sven Gunsen: She began to play in regional tournaments. She did quite well.

      Ralph O’Keefe: Suddenly she was gone.

      Lewis Brinkman: She still visited, of course, but it wasn’t the same.

      Luna Vallejo: I renewed my membership in the chess society so I could follow her in the newsletter standings.

      Lewis Brinkman: Her ranking rose steadily.

      Ralph O’Keefe: I missed her tits.

      Stan Barrett: She hung a photocopy of Zaitsev’s face in her room and drew a target around it.

      * * *

      Then it was like okay how do I do this tags people see my walls CD cases? No idea. Drill in the pile worked okay used to know someone at the hardware store from some Dovestail party maybe they weren’t there no hookup I had to buy screws bolts did one hole at first in the center I started smashing the bolts at the end ruining thread they’d stay on the lamppost. People were taking them down which I hope is because they knew before everyone else that I was the man but I wanted people to see them different people every day. Then it was two holes top and bottom. Had to find spots ahead of time. Planning ahead and shit. Measured post screwholes in my notebook used to be full of tags just dots spaces. Not many river poles a few I found them took pictures blew em up did the work put it up. Those never got smashed or stolen. When I noticed I started looking for the poles first.

      I thought that would be it find the best pole go from there but Ben told me—

      How did you meet him?

      Ben? I met him at the Dingo come on man you remember it was—

      For the recorder.

      Damn I talk it’s like we’re just having a conversation talking the good old days.

      I know.

      The Dingo there was one show there you guys sorry Stonecipher and Pee Valves before they split there was this guy there who gave me shit about my jacket so I punched a motherfucker in the face remember that during Pee Valves’ set.

      How did you meet Ben?

      He tried to deal to me before the show said he liked my outfit except that guy he was always using those big words that shoulda been our tipoff but no one cared because he had Hidden Wheel and good shit if you were into it he must’ve thought I was because of my Velcro or something Louis Maddie Eli Katie shit Amy still smokes tons you ever smoke any of that?

      Not since college. Did you?

      I don’t know he asked if I wanted to buy some weed I said no. Kids smoking weed to be like me all I need is a little coffee. Hahaha.

      You were talking about Hidden Wheel before I stopped you.

      Yeah Ben told me Hidden Wheel music and art I had to be the first artist plus a lady he knew. Serious street art he said represents the people but the people it represents don’t always realize it something like that big words so yeah art show. My stuff on walls except hung there legal as much or little as you want he said of your past when you do it. I said I’ll think about it in the back of my mind it’s starting to get warm messengers starting to come out I had to get all the finishing touches on my new look look fresh for the opening. Find some fly.

      * * *

      I punched in the new passcode. Did they have a different four-digit number for every step of the process? I wondered if all the entries and exits were being downloaded to a mainframe somewhere.

      No one was at the reception window when I arrived. Beyond the sliding glass pane was what looked to be the very corner of a huge space.

      There was a gizmo that looked like a cross between a phone and a torture device on the left side of the window ledge—a series of tiny prongs next to a numeric keypad, and two metal flanges jutting out below. On the right was a black plastic three-ring binder which barely contained stacks of laminate. And the “ring for service bell.” I obliged.

      The overweight Asian appeared at the window. She sent me back to the waiting area.

      I settled on a three month old news magazine. The plant in the corner, I decided, was probably fake.

      A guy appeared, a few years younger than me, probably. An argyle sweatervest over an oxford shirt, and chinos creased severely enough to slice. Hair, heavy with product, that looked simultaneously well-groomed and messy, and the faintest hint of a flavor saver on his bottom lip (though he probably called it something different).

      He introduced himself as Derek, and invited me into his office, maybe ten steps from the waiting room, directly across from the window. It was stark, aside from two—no, three—framed advertisements for the donation center: a smiling, attractive Asian couple, a black one, and a white one.

      My paperwork had checked out fine, he said. I was pre-pre-qualified. The only thing left was to test my motility. He said he’d send me a date.

      * * *

      He had known she was a painter for some time. At first, she was hesitant, which Ben found very professional; her pool, he guessed, was small.

      Later, he realized her initial reluctance stemmed from the nature of her work: she had only one completed. When she talked about it, he was reminded of a little girl trying on her mother’s clothes.