In the Surrounding air – Jacob M. Frericks

April 2, 2026

Paul is the kind of neighbor my parents would have told me, adamantly, to avoid while out playing in the cul-de-sac during my childhood. Most of his days are spent secluded within his garage, from which abrasive noises can be heard during off-hours. In my childhood hometown, the rumor would have been something along the lines of his house being the headquarters for a comprehensive drug operation. So I can only begin to imagine what was going through the neighbor’s mind while looking on intently as I—scrawny, with a haggard rendition of a Beatle’s-cut, half-deteriorated blue jeans, and a greatcoat beginning to tear at the seams—somewhat eagerly approached Paul’s front door and knocked.
        After two rounds of knocking he opened the door. I have never met Paul; Paul has never met me. We greeted each other with a vague familiarity accustomed to those who have only conversed online. Up until this moment, I had no clue that Paul was well over 50, bald, with a patchy, steel-wool-esque beard. Or that he would be wearing an old red t-shirt and blue jeans, both of which appeared multiple sizes too big and must have several years ago fit more appropriately. And at this moment, I knew nothing of his two kids, one of whom had been in and out of rehab since freshman year of college. Or that seven years ago his wife died of a stroke, and he has since devoted all free-time to his work. These things I would, in fact, never learn about Paul. In the same way he would never learn that I had just recently dropped out of college for a second time after only completing a semester and a half, or that, once and for all, my family—specifically my mom—had severed all ties with me. He probably didn’t even think to think about what fortuities had or hadn’t occurred throughout my life, in the same way that his life never once occurred to me. Paul was, at that present moment, merely an average bald man with an average road bike that happened to pique my interest, less because it was his bike, or any particular bike at all, and more because it was only $50 and within reasonable driving range.
        He took me around the side of his house to a shed in the backyard. I never saw the house’s interior. For all I knew it was like every other single-story suburban house and not even worth describing. Or perhaps it could have had rich oak floors, off-white walls, and colorful furniture that gleamed during certain hours of the day when the sun crept through the semi-translucent drapes. I like to imagine that not only the garage but also the rooms were full of Paul’s tools and building materials, though this is purely speculative and based upon no logical grounds.
        From the shed he pulled out a red, slightly rusted 10-speed road bike from the 90s. He didn’t tell me anything about it. I didn’t ask. We walked back through the side yard and out into the front where I then rode the bike a little ways down the street. I pedaled around and shifted gears once or twice. I didn’t know what else to do.
        As I said previously, Paul was expecting $50 in exchange for the bike. Or perhaps he chose $50 knowing that whoever bought the bike would attempt to haggle and thus said $50 while only expecting $40. Or perhaps he didn’t care about the money and was simply trying to offload the bike, choosing $50 for no more reason than why I chose the gas station that I filled up at on the way to his house. Nonetheless, the moment where I had to hand over a certain amount of money—be it $50, or $40, or, with a persuasive degree of papal infallibility, $30—had presented itself.
        But I decided not to haggle Paul and paid him what he asked. It was easier.
        And now, almost a year after buying the bike, I, every so often, think of Paul while riding it. Well, no; I haven’t thought of Paul since the day I bought the bike. I actually haven’t once thought of Paul—ever. I most definitely couldn’t pick him out of a photo array, or a yearbook with the names removed, or, assuming the school had at least two Pauls, even with the names not removed. I doubt I even remember Paul’s name; I doubt he remembers mine. Paul could just as easily have been Jeffery, or Brandon, or Michael. And to Paul, I could just as easily have been you or anyone else. And yet, in a sense, we are, for better or worse, somewhat bound by this bike. Paul and I. Jeffery and you. ___ and ___. Not because Paul traded the bike to me for $50, $50 he has long since spent on food, or tools, or a new bike, or drugs. But because in the way that the bike is now a part of me—or better said, my life—it was once a part of Paul. The bike that I, just today, rode to get a six-pack from the corner store, I imagine (or don’t imagine) that Paul, today five years ago, rode into town on the evening of a spring day that’s remnants could still be smelled in the surrounding air to buy a pound of ground beef from the supermarket, and upon reaching the checkout counter said to the clerk, “Hello. How are you today?”