BURGERSCOOT

Michael was about halfway through his Sunday run on the Sacramento River bike trail when he saw a woman in distress on a pink beach cruiser ahead of him. A flock of wild turkeys was blocking the trail, and one—most likely a male—was attacking her or her bike. She tried in vain to kick the aggressive turkey, which kept her from riding away. Michael picked up his speed and started shouting. The male finally broke off its attack and took off down the trail with the other turkeys.

Michael turned around to see the attractive woman, probably close to thirty, with blond hair nearly hanging over her pretty face as she leaned over her handlebars, breathing heavily, and looking at him. Michael made sure the turkeys were moving away and walked over to ask if she was okay. She was short with the runner, probably because she was embarrassed. She said the attacking turkey hadn’t hurt her, but Michael could tell the large bird’s aggression clearly rattled her. He said the turkeys often graze along the trail, and after wiping sweat from his right hand on his shorts, he extended his hand. Michael told her his name as she weakly shook his hand. He stood near her, breathing hard, and asked if he could do anything for her. She said quickly, “No, I can go my own way now, but thank you.” She got back on her beach cruiser and continued north up the trail. Michael was a little put off that she wouldn’t introduce herself but chalked it up to the woman being guarded and a little embarrassed.

The very next Sunday, Michael found the same woman stopped on the trail, afraid to pass what was probably the same flock of turkeys that had blocked the trail the week before. Michael stopped at the impasse and said hello to the woman over the turkey convention. The woman did not return the greeting, but said, “I’m stuck again.”

Michael said, “It looks like you are giving a speech to the big birds,” as he walked around the flock to her. She wasn’t amused by the sweaty runner’s attempt at humor, but she accepted his offer of help. He asked for her bike, and she tentatively handed it to him after he pulled her bag from the wicker basket in front of the handlebars and handed it to her. Michael then lifted the front wheel off the ground and started walking the woman’s bike on its back wheel between the docile flock and the levee’s edge, asking the woman to follow him and mind the edge.

Once they cleared the turkeys, he gently set the front wheel back on the asphalt and handed the bike back to the woman. She said, “If we’re going to keep meeting like this, I should give you my name. It’s Madison, and thanks again for the assistance.”

“No problem, Madison, and that’s a pretty name.”

Madison gave him a suspicious look, mounted her bike, and rode north up the trail. Michael continued his now-short run to the Westin Hotel, where he would turn around and run back home.

Michael was out of town the following week. But on the following Sunday, he was running on the trail near the Westin Hotel when he saw Madison a third time, this time walking around her bike, looking at the palm of her right hand and favoring her left leg. When Michael reached her, he asked what happened. Madison looked at him, annoyed, and said, “I fell off my bike. Isn’t that obvious!”

Michael ignored the bitchy reply, then unzipped his waist bag and asked to see her hand. It was scratched up and slightly bleeding.

Michael took out a sterile alcohol prep pad from his waist bag and told Madison as he tore open the pad to extend her hand. Madison initially recoiled. Michael dropped his hands to his sides in frustration.

“What is it with you? I’m trying to administer first aid. Are you allergic to sodium chloride or something?”

Madison, embarrassed, slowly extended her scuffed right hand again. Michael took her hand in his and gently wiped the palm of Madison’s right hand. Madison sucked in air through her teeth, pulled her hand back reflexively, then relaxed again. Michael said, “Sorry, it’s the alcohol.”

Michael thought it was strange how Madison, a woman in her late twenties to early thirties, acted so childishly to a little sting of alcohol on her very minor injury. It wasn’t like he was resetting her dislocated shoulder.

Michael gave Madison her hand back and said, “You’ll live, but you should check that knee out when you get home.” He gave her an unopened alcohol pad, walked over to her bike, picked it up by the frame, and spun the back wheel, checking the chain, gears, and the back tire’s rotation. After that, he lifted the front of the bike and examined the front wheel. He then picked up the few items that had spilled from her bag onto the trail, including a wooden hairbrush. He turned the brush in his hand, then placed it, along with the other items, back into her bag.

“Looks like you didn’t damage anything. It should be rideable,” he said while holding the bike for her.

Madison took the bike from Michael, mounted it, and, in a dizzying mood shift, asked, “Do you really think Madison is a pretty name?”

Michael smiled. “Yes. You know where the name comes from?”

“Madison Avenue, I guess.”

“Indirectly. It is an old masculine surname from England meaning son of James, son of Mary, or son of whoever. It became a popular feminine surname after the 1980s film ‘Splash,’ where Tom Hanks’ character gives the mermaid the name when they see the sign to the famous New York City street.”

“You are telling me I’m named after a street sign,” Madison queried.

“Personally, I think it is a pretty name, and there have been plenty of Madisons since that film.”

Madison’s face broke into a smile. “I guess you’re right. How often do you run, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Michael looked up the river. “I used to run more often—Tuesdays, Thursdays, and then on Saturdays with a small group from work, but since I got a promotion and now work weekdays, it’s just Sundays now; the Saturday group broke up for a couple of reasons.”

“How far do you run?”

“I live on P Street,” pointing up the trail. “I run from there down here, to the Westin Hotel, and back; that’s about six miles.”

“I ride my bike that distance. I live in an apartment complex below the hotel. Every Sunday I ride to my grandmother’s assisted living place on P Street. I used to visit her on Saturdays, but she recently asked if I could move the visit to Sundays.”

“That’s nice. Does she live in Pioneer Towers?”

“Yes, do you live close to that place?”

“About three blocks west. Across the Street from Crocker.”

“I’ve lived in Sacramento for years and still haven’t gone to the museum,” Madison admitted, a little embarrassed.

“Well, we can fix that. Would you like to meet me at the museum some Saturday or Sunday? We can check out the slices of pie, then I’ll buy you a coffee, or if you’re hungry, lunch at the café in the lobby.”

“Slices of pie?”

“Wayne Thiebaud—the museum has a lot of his works, mostly still life art, like paintings of pies and cakes as if through a bakery window or display case. He’s my favorite, but there’s also Ansel Adams, a bunch of California geographical paintings, and there is always an exhibition or two there, so you can see stuff that the museum doesn’t own.”

“You sound like you’re an art critic.”

Michael cringed at the gauche remark, and said, “I just know what I like and dislike. Anyway, if you are interested, you can meet me on some weekend day at the entrance. I’ll pay for your ticket and, if you’re interested, I’ll pop for lunch or a coffee after we see the pies.”

“Okay, how about next Saturday at 11 a.m.?”

Michael smiled and agreed. “I’ll be at the museum’s front door at 11:00 a.m.

Saturday at 11:20 a.m. Michael saw Madison walking up 3rd Street to the museum. “She’s late,” he thought, “and for a first date,” but Michael knew not to make a big deal out of it.

When they walked through the entrance, Michael showed the front office his membership card, which gave him free entrance, and paid for Madison.

“What’s with the card?” Madison asked.

“I’m a member.”

“You must like art a lot to be a member of a museum.”

“It’s a combination of civic duty, and it’s one of the closest places to get lunch and coffee from my condo, even though the hours are limited. Also, the exhibitions give me something new to look at instead of staring at the pies and cakes all the time.”

Madison smiled and asked if they could see the pies and cakes first. “I got to see these desserts.”

“Ah, that’s on the third floor, 20^th Century area. Sure.”

Michael led Madison to the famous 19” x 29” “Pies, Pies, Pies” painting, Madison taking in many of the paintings along the way.

“Yep, those are slices of pies, alright,” Madison said, looking at the famous painting.

When she wasn’t looking, Michael took in Madison’s beauty, the legs that showed beneath her skirt, her perfect arms, her long neck, and her beautiful long blond hair. It appeared that, from the four times he saw her, she liked to wear her hair down, without a ponytail or one of those scrunchie things. Her most beautiful physical qualities were her green eyes and her ivory smile, but he could only notice them when they were talking face to face, and even then he had to be sly lest he start gawking at her.

Before moving on from the famous painting, Michael, feigning a snobby voice, asked Madison, “What does it say to you?”

Madison looked at Michael with a smile and said, “It says what’s for dessert?”

Michael jokingly replied, “Yeah, kind of says that to me, too.” I like it, and I like most of Thiebaud’s work. I took an art appreciation class in college, but I spent most of the time in the class flirting with cute girls who were majoring in the subject.”

Madison shot him a look Michael couldn’t read with any confidence, but he asked himself, “Was that jealousy—of girls I haven’t seen in years? No, it can’t be.”

Michael and Madison walked through the museum’s three floors and ended up at the café for a light lunch and coffee.

Michael said, “Only the smallest galleries can be appreciated in the time we spent here. If you ever wanted to come back here and spend more time concentrating on a specific part of the museum, I’d be glad to pay your way.”

“Wow, that had to be the worst second date offer a girl has ever received.”

Michael smiled, but thought, what’s wrong with going to see more art? Then feigned, “Yeah, that was horrible. How about: would you like to go out on a proper date sometime soon—a movie, a play, a walk in the park?”

Madison smiled and asked for Michael’s phone. “I’ll give you my number. If you come up with something interesting, text me.”

“Okay, are Saturdays good for you, or are Friday nights also open?”

Madison said, “Saturdays and most evenings work. Sundays I try to visit my grandmother and I don’t know how long I will stay.”

Michael and Madison began dating regularly. When they didn’t go out, Michael would make dinner, then they would either watch a film or go out for drinks. One of the first dates, on Madison’s insistence, included watching “Splash.” Michael marveled, and not necessarily in a good way, that whenever Tom Hanks’ character yelled the mermaid’s name, Madison would giggle.

Michael’s condo was becoming a regular stop-off before she rode her bike home after visiting her grandmother. If Michael was finishing a run and Madison was waiting for him outside his complex, he would let her in and have her start preparing vegetables or another part of dinner while he showered. There was plenty of kissing, but Michael was still a little apprehensive about taking it to the next step. Also, Madison, who could be aggressive when it came to kissing, seemed to stop there.

During one visit to Michael’s place, after he emerged from the shower, Madison asked Michael if he would like to visit her grandmother. They walked the three blocks to the assisted living apartments. Madison signed herself and Michael in, then showed Michael to her grandmother’s apartment. On the walk and elevator ride to Madison’s grandmother’s place, Michael got a firsthand look at an assisted living facility and found it depressing. He kept his thoughts on the place to himself.

Madison’s grandmother was waiting for them at her apartment door. She hugged her granddaughter and, with a big smile, told Michael she was excited to meet him, then hugged him too. They all came inside, where Michael could hear what he believed was a tea kettle whistle. She told Madison and Michael to sit down on the couch. She wanted to serve them Earl Grey tea and cookies.

Grandma Davis, as she initially wanted Michael to call her, gave a brief version of her life and of Madison’s mother, who now lives in Florida. She said little about Madison’s father other than that he left early in her granddaughter’s life, leaving Madison without a male role model. She asked Michael many questions, including what kind of work he does. When Michael told her he does IT work for the State of California, she seemed satisfied with his vague answer and didn’t press for details.

She was proud that “Maddie,” as she called her, was “the accountant for the State of California.” Michael had to suppress a grin, though sometimes, the way Madison scrutinized the most insignificant differences in receipts and menu prices, Michael thought of Madison as the chief Petty Officer.

At one point, Madison excused herself to go to the bathroom. After she shut the door, Madison’s grandmother, who asked Michael to now refer to her by her first name, Grace, turned to Michael and asked if Madison had been a good girl. Michael laughed and said she could be bratty at times, but most of the time she behaves herself. Grace told Michael that Maddie needs discipline from time to time, just like her mother did when she was Maddie’s age. She added that, when Grace herself was that age, she needed a strong man with a firm hand. “It’s good that women in our bloodline have strong men in our lives.” Michael didn’t know what to say. He just smiled. Grace looked at Michael’s hands and reached over and held one gently in hers, turning it, and said, “I see you have good, strong hands. I think that’s important for Maddie. She needs correcting from time to time.” His own experience with Madison and Grace’s words made sense, though he wasn’t sure how to implement this “correcting,” but a picture was forming in his mind.

Just then Madison came out of the bathroom, and the subject changed, but not before Grace squeezed Michael’s hand and stared at him intently, punctuating the discussion. The three of them chatted for an hour, then Grace told her guests that she needed to take a nap. She showed them to her door, gave them both hugs, and hoped that Maddie would bring Michael back soon.

Two blocks outside the apartment complex, Michael ran into Sarah, a woman he knew from work. Michael made the introductions, and when he tried to chat with the attractive redhead, he felt a tug on his arm, so he quickly said goodbye, though it came off as abrupt. As they walked to the condo, Michael suggested they stop at the Crocker for coffee, but Madison suddenly went quiet.

Michael stopped Madison and asked what was wrong.

“How much longer were you going to talk to that bitch?”

“Hey, she’s not a bitch, her name is Sarah, and she’s a nice person. What’s got into you?”

Madison was quiet for the next five minutes, probably sulking, Michael thought. This wasn’t the first time Madison had shown possessiveness whenever they ran into a woman who spoke with Michael in Madison’s presence. Michael found Madison’s attitude towards other females who were friendly unacceptable, but Michael’s reaction was to defend the other woman, not deal with Madison’s attitude. He would have to address that if he planned to keep seeing Madison.

As their relationship continued, Michael’s Sunday run would change. He would take a much longer break when he ran to the hotel — only half of his run. He would run to Madison’s apartment, shower, change into a set of clothes he kept there, and they would go somewhere in Madison’s blue Corolla.

This wasn’t ideal for Michael; he wanted to run the full six miles, but he enjoyed Madison’s company and would gladly accommodate her by running only three miles to her apartment. After Michael showered, they would drive to her grandmother’s apartment. At Madison’s grandmother’s place, Grace and Michael talked about Madison again while she was out of the room. Grace believed her granddaughter would better respond to firm instructions. Michael had stopped thinking Grace was some kind of groomer and only cared for her granddaughter, who, in her words, “needed a father figure.”

From Madison’s grandmother’s place, they would go somewhere to eat or just have coffee, and maybe end up at Michael’s place to watch a film or one of the shows on Michael’s premium cable platforms.

One day, while Michael was taking a quick shower at Madison’s, she walked into the bathroom and took off her clothes. When she stepped into the shower, she admitted, “I never thought taking showers together was very sexy, but I couldn’t wait to see your body.”

Michael was finishing washing his hair. He was tired of Madison directing him and thought she needed to follow his lead. He quickly rinsed out the shampoo, then stood in front of Madison, blocking the water from her. “I didn’t tell you to come into the shower with me, did I?”

Madison froze. “No, but—”

“No, I did not. Leave the shower. Remain naked. Go to your bedroom. Sit at the foot of the bed with that hairbrush you keep in your bag. Place it next to you and wait for me. Also, take your clothes with you. Fold them properly and place them on your dresser, not anywhere on the floor like you often do. Do this now.” And with these firm instructions, Michael stepped closer to Madison and, grabbing her long hair from the back, pulled her head up to face Michael and kissed Madison on the forehead. “Come on, quick like a bunny,” Michael punctuated.

She did as she was told, but Michael felt something was amiss. He hadn’t spoken to Madison like this before; he didn’t even know how to start. He just knew that it seemed too sudden. Michael quickly finished showering and got dressed. When he left the bathroom holding his socks, the apartment looked abandoned except Madison’s bedroom door was shut. Michael put on his socks, walked to the door, knocked, and said, “Madison?”

Through her sobs, Michael heard, “Please go away.”

“Madison, can I explain what I just did?”

“No, please just go away, Michael”

A few minutes later, Michael was standing outside of Madison’s apartment complex, amazed at what a cluster fuck he had made of this: how he completely misread Grandmother Grace’s charge to handle her granddaughter. “Shit, she said everything short of collaring Madison.” But now he was outside—in more ways than one. It was over; Madison most likely will have nothing to do with him now.

And Madison, wow, what a piece of work: childish, possessive, proud. Good luck to the next fool who falls for those emerald-green eyes and that smile, goddamn that smile. The kind of smile that makes you work to make her happy, just for that endorphin rush when she smiles. Oh, god, what have I done?”

Michael was about to cry when a breeze gently pushed his damp shirt against his torso. “Ha! A silver lining around this massive turd of a day after all: I’m wearing my running clothes!” He looked down. “I even have my running shoes on.” And with that, Michael believed he could heal his broken heart through running. He crossed the street and ran up the hotel’s driveway, where he would soon be on the Sacramento River bike trail on his way home, and he believed he was on his way to healing his broken heart. It would take a lot of miles, though.

Six months and over 150 miles later, Michael was doing his usual Sunday run. Right after the breakup, Michael started each run with dread, and this one was no different: would he run into Madison coming up the trail or from behind him? What would she say as she passed him: “asshole,” “piece of shit,” or maybe, “Well, if it isn’t the Marquis de Sade.” No, that wouldn’t be like her. It would most likely be nothing; as they passed in brutal, gut-wrenching silence, he would have to mind the road due to the sheet of black ice that followed her and her pink beach cruiser whenever she passed The Evil Michael.

What happened was nothing. Michael changed neither the day he ran nor the direction; he didn’t want Madison or the breakup to dictate when or where he ran. Michael assumed in these last six months she’d taken city streets, driven, or changed the day she visited her grandmother.

It got to the point where Michael could go on runs, and until he stopped at the hotel to turn around, he had forgotten about her. But knowing she lived so close to the hotel brought her to mind. Her blond hair, her emerald-green eyes, those legs. God, those legs. The woman rarely wore jeans or slacks; it was as if she was flaunting them. Her bustline. That segued immediately to the time she startled him in her shower. God damn, they were as beautiful as he had imagined them, but then her glistening, perfect tits reminded him of what he said after he saw them.

Other times he thought what a pain in the ass she was. She insisted she was always right, fussing over a few pennies on a dinner bill; complaining to pimple-faced concession-stand workers about how expensive movie-theater popcorn was, as if they were part of a secret cabal intent on taking some of the fun out of movie-going. Oh, and not showing empathy toward restaurant servers and stiffing them on tips. If he didn’t throw some bones on the table as they left, the wait staff would get close to nothing. Was it just a coincidence that Madison’s grandmother spoke to him about how Madison needed a “firm hand” when he had already fantasized about taking her over his knee when she got impossible?

“You should be glad you’re done with her,” he mumbled to himself. Once he got sick of thinking about how unproductive thinking of Madison was, he rebooted his run in his head. He would forget about all that and focus on his surroundings: the Sacramento River, the boat dock the hotel put in that no boater can use, elements of his city he loved and elements he hated. As he pulled farther and farther away from the hotel, he thought less and less about Madison.

On a cool Sunday, after turning around at the hotel, he thought he saw her up the path. At first, he sped up to confirm whether it was her. Once he saw her beautiful blond hair in the wind and the brown wicker basket on the handlebars, his excitement turned to fear. “Oh shit!” Michael thought. This is going to be one of those awkward moments he had dreaded, but the dread was mixed with a kind of excitement he couldn’t put his finger on.

“I’m sure she’ll fly right by me without a word, then I’ll have to figure out some other route to run, damn it! Maybe I’ll start running north from the condo. God, I’ve done that, and it sucks. What a drag!”

As they got closer, Madison steered directly into Michael’s path. Michael stopped running. For a split second, he thought she was going to hit him, but she stopped her bike a few feet from him. Michael flinched, and his mind raced. What could she want after six months?

Madison swung her leg over her bike, keeping her eyes fixed on Michael’s, and stepped towards Michael, her bike crashing down on the pavement.

“You know those things have kickstands.”

Michael noticed Madison was crying. Madison ran into Michael with a hard hug. Michael accepted the hug and wrapped his arms around her with equal muscle.

“Hello, Madison,” was all Michael said.

Madison, still crying initially, said nothing. Then she croaked, “I missed you so much.”

“Me too.”

“When we were in my apartment, were you going to spank me with my brush?”

Michael pulled out of the hug and looked at Madison. “I didn’t know what I was going to do. You needed to be corrected, but I think it would have been better to first tell you what I expect of you. I was either going to use one side of your brush to spank you for being headstrong, or I was going to flip the brush over and brush your hair and tell you how much I love you, but I have expectations, and you needed to know the rules first, but I hadn’t made up my mind. Do you understand what I just said and why I thwarted your advances and ordered you out of your own shower?”

“I think so,” Madison said.

“Good, that’s something we can start with. How is your grandmother, by the way?”

Madison, embarrassed at Michael’s subject change, replied sheepishly, “She’s fine. She wants us to make up,” Madison mumbled.

“Aren’t we doing that now?” Michael assured Madison.

“I guess so,” Madison said through tears.

“Moms and grandmothers usually can sense when things are off with their kids. Have you been sad over the last six months or so, but too proud to admit to your grandmother that you miss me?”

“Yes,” Madison said, looking down.

“Well, we’re fixing that right now, too. First thing, pick up your bicycle and deploy the kickstand.”

Madison gave Michael a quizzical look, but ultimately turned around, pulled up her bike, and set the kickstand.

“That’s how you should treat your property.”

“Yes, Michael.”

“Would you like to say ‘Yes, Sir’ or, if you prefer, ‘Yes, Daddy.’”

Madison’s face lit up. “Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s my Baby Girl,” Michael said with a smile and open arms.

Madison ran to Michael and wrapped her arms around him. “I love you, Daddy.”

“And I love you, too, Baby Girl. Now, get back on your bike and ride home. I’ll be a few minutes behind you.”

“Can we take a shower together?”

“Yes, Baby Girl, then we need to talk about what I expect from you and what you should expect from me.”

“Yes, Daddy.”