On a real sticky day in July I wheel across to a station at Thirty-fourth Street, and nobody yells at me, and I go over to the air pump and fiddle with my tires. A car pulls out after it gets gas, and there’s Tom.
“Hi!” I say.
Tom half frowns and quick looks over his shoulder to see if his boss is around, I guess, and then comes over to the air pump.
“How’d you get way out here?” he says.
“On the bike. I got your postcard, and I figured I could find the filling station.”
He relaxes and grins. I feel better. He says, “You’re a crazy kid. How’s Cat?”
But just then the boss has to come steaming up. “What d’ya want, kid? No bikes allowed on the parkway.”
I start to say I’m just getting air, but Tom speaks up. “It’s all right. I know him.”
“Yeah? I told you, keep kids out of here!” The guy manages to suggest that kids Tom knows are probably worse than any other kind. He motions me off like a stray dog. I don’t want to get Tom in any trouble, so I get going. At the edge of the parkway I wave. “So long. Write me another postcard.”
Tom raises a hand briefly, but his face looks closed, like nothing was going to get in or out.