“This is stupid.” Stanley pouted up at his daughter from where he was sprawled awkwardly across the ground, his limbs crossed in positions that felt entirely unnatural.
May crossed her bony arms over her chest and tapped her foot rhythmically against the tree branch where she was perched. “I think it’s productive.”
“There is nothing productive about eating shit into the ground every ten seconds.”
“Pound for the swear jar.”
“The swear jar doesn’t count today,” Stanley grumbled, picking himself up from the tarmac he just collided into and dusting off his pants.
“If the swear jar counted when I was getting my tooth removed, then it counts for you learning to ride a bike,” his daughter May replied, swinging her legs back and forth from the tree branch she sat on.
Stanley was a man of many talents. Productive, hard-working, and dedicated, he couldn’t be faulted for not trying his damn hardest. But bike riding must’ve fallen between the cracks of his many talents. That, and parenting. It didn’t matter how many movies he’d watched or how many conversations he had with his biker buddies about being a father, nothing could’ve prepared him for the real thing. The long, awkward pauses, the forced conversations about things he thought she liked, about things she thought he cared about. What common ground was there to find between an eleven-year-old girl and a thirty-five-year-old man? No one could say he didn’t try though. He gave the tea parties a go. Didn’t work. She tried to play his favorite video games. They were boring. He’d even taken her for a ride on his motorbike. Once. When she was ten. Safe to say, for her benefit and so he wouldn’t have to get an earful from her mother, he wouldn’t be doing that again. So it was almost comical that the closest they could get to a “bonding experience” was her teaching him to ride a bike.
“You ride electric bikes, but you can’t ride a pedal bike? It’s easy, just pedal one foot in front of the other.” May jumped down from the tree branch she was perched on and picked up the black bike that had been discarded on the floor, brushing imaginary dirt off the seat.
“Yeah, easier said than done, May. And they’re not electric bikes, they’re motorbikes.” Stanley took the bike from his daughter, taking hold of the handlebars. He swung his leg over the bike and sat immobile on the road. May stood next to him, looking up at her dad with her arms crossed.
“What’s the difference between a motorbike and an electric bike?” She tilted her head to the side like a confused puppy.
“An electric bike is smaller, and it’s not road safe.”
“What does ‘road safe’ mean? Isn’t everything road safe if it can go on a road?”
Stanley sighed, rubbing his temple. He wasn’t even going to attempt to explain road safety to a eleven-year-old. She didn’t need to know about that for another few years.
“Kid, are we doing this or not?” He huffed, propping his foot on the peddle, staring down at his daughter. His shoulder was starting to ache with all the collisions he’d made with the ground, and the sun was beginning to set. May recoiled, kicking up gravel as she stared at her shoes.
“We don’t have to if you’re not in the mood.”
Guilt bloomed in Stanley’s chest. It had been his idea to learn how to ride a bike. After another failed attempt at getting her to play his favorite game, she asked if they could go bike riding instead. He already had limited common ground with his daughter, and no thirty-five-year-old wanted to admit that they couldn’t ride a bike, especially not one as loud, proud, and intimidating as Stanley. So he lied and said he needed a “refresher” class on how to ride, landing them in the current predicament. He patted May on the head.
“I am, kid, let’s just start slow.” Stanley dragged his feet along the ground, moving along like a toddler on a push bike, not really pedaling, but moving nonetheless. “What tattoo is this?” May pointed to the large ship on the back of his hand, trailing alongside him. The small tattoo sat atop waves, three large sails covered in floral detailing. He looked down at his hand. The tattoo was tiny, the smallest of all the ink that littered his skin from head to toe, but it was his favorite by leaps and bounds. “It’s a Mayflower,” he replied, still plodding along.
“What’s a Mayflower?”
He laughed.
“It’s a type of ship from long ago. They still have a couple floating around in some places.”
“It looks like a pirate ship.”
Stanley shrugged.
“I suppose it could be a pirate ship.”
“Do you like pirate ships?”
“I like Mayflowers.”
“Why do you like Mayflowers?”
“They remind me of someone.”
“Who?”
He picked up the pace on the bike, moving from a walk to an awkward jog, not yet putting his foot on the pedals. May had broken out into a run next to him, her little legs struggling to keep up with his long ones.
“I’ll let you figure that one out.”
“I want tattoos when I’m older,” May wheezed out, struggling with maintaining a running speed.
“Oh yeah? What tattoos do you want?”
“A Mayflower.”
Stanley stopped the bike and let out an airy laugh.
“D’you like the tattoo that much?”
May shrugged as she stopped running beside him, putting her hands on her knees as she took a couple of deep breaths.
“Not really.”
Her dad cocked an eyebrow and looked at her quizzically.
“Why would you get a Mayflower then?”
“Cause you have a Mayflower.”
“Kid, you don’t have to get a Mayflower just cause I have one.”
“But I want to be just like you when I grow up.” She looked up at her dad like he hung the moon. Stanley sucked in a breath.
“Why would you want to be like me?”
“You’re my best friend, why wouldn’t I want to be like you when I grow up?”
He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t formulate a reply if he tried. Instead, he opted to stare at his hands planted on the bike handles, his Mayflower tattoo staring back. Parenting hadn’t come with any guidelines or warning labels, it had just grabbed Stanley by the neck and thrown him into the deep end. He’d spent god knows how long trying to keep his head above water. But, as he sat in the uncomfortable seat of a bike he couldn’t ride, his daughter poking and prodding at the back of his hand, he figured he had to be doing something right to end up with a kid like her. Besides, it was her first time being someone’s daughter; they could figure it all out together.
Stanley picked his daughter up and slung her over his shoulder, May squealing and giggling as he started to bike back towards their home. “Enough bike riding for today, my ass is starting to hurt in this seat.”
“Pound for the swear jar!” she exclaimed wildly through giggles.
He laughed with her.
“Sure kid, whatever you say.”
Madelin Gonzalez Franco has been an avid writer since she was able to pick up a pen. A recent graduate from University with a degree in Creative Writing and Screenwriting, she spends her time drumming up ideas for her next script, excited for what the future holds.
Featured image by David Herron on Unsplash.
