New wars give posers new lies to tell under the freeway overpass and inside cardboard rebar driftwood shelters out in the pickle weed and salt grass. Ones that lie about Vietnam so long in the tooth nobody cares. But Iraq Afghanistan vet punks with muscled up tatts beat your brains in you ask too many questions about units troops and stations.
So he doesn’t. Damn near 60 and Wheel Man never asked a question and never lied once about who he was.
A driver. Fuck yeah. Not for any army of the US of A either. SLA. Symbionese Liberation Army. No Symbionese ain’t a country. Let’s tell it straight. You’ve heard of Patty Hearst, right, because you live around here you can’t turn around without running into Hearst Ave. Hearst Hall Hearst something or other. Rich fuckers put their name on everything.
But not on him. It was Donald DeFreeze aka General Field Marshal Cinque, who gave Private Wheel Man his name.
Driver for the SLA. Private. Cinque’s wheelman. Get it? Yeah, no joke.
Wheel Man keeps his wheels to the ground. He’s seen some take to the Bridge. The Golden Gate. Can see it from where he stands. Not for him, though. Too high above the depths below.
So when he’s done, he rattles down to the mossy rocks. Nighttime. Cold wind. High tide. Everything tugs at him, an invitation he can’t refuse. Water flows over him. Mud oozes around him.
Bones of jumpers leap up to greet him crying, Hell yeah, Wheel Man, let’s go for a ride.