Hive Ave Fall2024 - Flipbook - Page 12
Fiction
Hive Avenue Literary Journal
397.22
Chad Lutz
Ohio’s Summit county owns and operates a system of
trails following old sections of decommissioned AB&C and NYC
railroads, which were in operation until the early 1930s. For
昀椀fty cents, passengers could take a one-way trip from Akron to
Public Square in Cleveland. The appropriately named Bike and
Hike Trail was one of the 昀椀rst “rails to trails” initiatives in the
U.S., with the 昀椀rst section of the trail opening in 1972. These old
railroad lines, accessible by ten trailheads along the way, now
invite great blue heron, coyote, deer, bobcats, cross-country
skiers, runners, hikers, and bikers.
No motorized vehicles allowed.
It’s early and there are no signs of Max. His lights are out,
his windows are shut, and his giant SUV sits lazily in the drive.
“Shit,” I mutter. “He’s gonna be sleeping.”
I pick up my phone and dial his number.
Straight to voicemail.
I pull into the drive next to Max’s SUV and dial his phone
again.
cops.”
“The sun’s up,” he argues, and hollers again for no reason.
“Come on,” I plead, and motion toward his SUV, a massive Chevy with enough room to 昀椀t a bu昀昀alo.
“Alright, alright. I’ll spare ya, Chutz.” He scans his living
room, maybe making sure he has everything, and then pulls the
front door shut behind him and locks it.
The Silver Springs section of the trail is approximately
two miles from Max’s house (and only three miles from his parents’ house), which is perfect because it’s early and we want to
get this show on the road.
“It’s where I’ve done all my walking,” Max tells me, as we
climb into his hulking SUV. “Gotta make a stop at Starbucks
昀椀rst, though. Can’t do this right without some fraysh ca昀昀ee,
noam sayin’?”
I moan playfully and buckle up.
Five speedy minutes later, we pull into the Starbucks
parking lot and enter the drive-thru. Max drives right up to the
intercom and rolls down his window to give his order, but something isn’t right.
“You hear that?” he asks, and turns the music down.
Straight to voicemail.
“God damnit.”
I turn o昀昀 the engine and open my door. The smell of
magnolia a昀昀ronts me. I check my watch and it’s exactly seven,
already light in the sky.
I casually stroll up to Max’s front door and am about to
knock three times when the door opens and Max is standing
there with a toothy grin and a demeanor that says, Am I right?
“It’s Super Anderman Saturdays!” he bellows.
The neighbor’s dog across the street barks.
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“Max, keep it down. Your neighbors are going to call the
I strain my ears enough to just barely make out someone
yelling, so I put down my window all the way, despite the cool
temps, to hear better and catch the tail end of a heated rant
about Stevia.
“I said, ‘Splenda’,” the voice insists. “Where’s your manager? This is ridiculous!”
“Somebody needs their co昀昀ee,” Max says, still waiting
for the barista at the window to take our order.
“I won’t drink it,” the customer ahead of us yells. We hear
a splashing sound and the rev of a large engine. “I have half a
