“Mimicry!” he cried to Oscar. “A wonderful thing!”
Oscar looked up interestedly from the bowling scores in the paper. “I seen Edie Adams on TV the other night, doing her imitation of Marilyn Monroe. Boy, oh, boy.”
Ferd was irritated, shook his head. “Not that kind of mimicry. I mean how insects and arachnids will mimic the shapes of leaves and twigs and so on, to escape being eaten by birds or other insects and arachnids.”
A scowl of disbelief passed over Oscar’s heavy face. “You mean they change their shapes? What you giving me?”
“Oh, it’s true. Sometimes the mimicry is for aggressive purposes, though—like a South-African turtle that looks like a rock and so the fish swim up to it and then it catches them. Or that spider in Sumatra. When it lies on its back, it looks like a bird dropping. Catches butterflies that way.”
Oscar laughed, a disgusted and incredulous noise. It died away as he turned back to the bowling scores. One hand groped at his pocket, came away, scratched absently at the orange thicket under the shirt, then went patting his hip pocket.
“Where’s that pencil?” he muttered, got up, stomped into the office, pulled open drawers. His loud cry of “Hey!” brought Ferd into the tiny room.
“What’s the matter?” Ferd asked.
Oscar pointed to a drawer. “Remember that time you claimed there were no safety pins here? Look—whole gahdamn drawer is full of ’em.”
Ferd stared, scratched his head, said feebly that he was certain he’d looked there before…
A contralto voice from outside asked, “Anybody here?”
Oscar at once forgot the desk and its contents, called, “Be right with you,” and was gone. Ferd followed him slowly.
There was a young woman in the shop, a rather massively built young woman, with muscular calves and a deep chest. She was pointing out the seat of her bicycle to Oscar, who was saying “Uh-huh” and looking more at her than at anything else. “It’s just a little too far forward (“Uh-huh”), as you can see. A wrench is all I need (“Uh-huh”). It was silly of me to forget my tools.”
Oscar repeated, “Uh-huh” automatically, then snapped to. “Fix it in a jiffy,” he said, and—despite her insistence that she could do it herself—he did fix it. Though not quite in a jiffy. He refused money. He prolonged the conversation as long as he could.
“Well, thank you,” the young woman said. “And now I’ve got to go.”
“That machine feel all right to you now?”
“Perfectly. Thanks—”
“Tell you what, I’ll just ride along with you a little bit, just—”
Pear-shaped notes of laughter lifted the young woman’s bosom. “Oh, you couldn’t keep up with me! My machine is a racer!”
The moment he saw Oscar’s eye flit to the corner, Ferd knew what he had in mind. He stepped forward.
His cry of “No” was drowned out by his partner’s loud, “Well, I guess this racer here can keep up with yours!”
The young woman giggled richly, said, well, they would see about that, and was off. Oscar, ignoring Ferd’s outstretched hand, jumped on the French bike and was gone. Ferd stood in the doorway, watching the two figures, hunched over their handlebars, vanish down the road into the park. He went slowly back inside.
It was almost evening before Oscar returned, sweaty but smiling. Smiling broadly. “Hey, what a babe!” he cried. He wagged his head, he whistled, he made gestures, noises like escaping steam. “Boy, oh, boy, what an afternoon!”
“Give me the bike,” Ferd demanded.
Oscar said, yeah, sure; turned it over to him and went to wash. Ferd looked at the machine. The red enamel was covered with dust; there was mud spattered and dirt and bits of dried grass. It seemed soiled—degraded. He had felt like a swift bird when he rode it…
Oscar came out wet and beaming. He gave a cry of dismay, ran over.
“Stand away,” said Ferd, gesturing with the knife. He slashed the tires, the seat and seat cover, again and again.
“You crazy?” Oscar yelled. “You outa your mind? Ferd, no, don’t, Ferd—”
Ferd cut the spokes, bent them, twisted them. He took the heaviest hammer and pounded the frame into shapelessness, and then he kept on pounding till his breath was gasping.
“You’re not only crazy,” Oscar said bitterly, “you’re rotten jealous. You can go to hell.” He stomped away.
Ferd, feeling sick and stiff, locked up, went slowly home. He had no taste for reading, turned out the light and fell into bed, where he lay awake for hours, listening to the rustling noises of the night and thinking hot, twisted thoughts.
They didn’t speak to each other for days after that, except for the necessities of the work. The wreckage of the French racer lay behind the shop. For about two weeks, neither wanted to go out back where he’d have to see it.
One morning Ferd arrived to be greeted by his partner, who began to shake his head in astonishment even before he started speaking. “How did you do it, how did you do it, Ferd? Jeez, what a beautiful job—I gotta hand it to you—no more hard feelings, huh, Ferd?”
Ferd took his hand. “Sure, sure. But what are you talking about?”
Oscar led him out back. There was the red racer, all in one piece, not a mark or scratch on it, its enamel bright as ever. Ferd gaped. He squatted down and examined it. It was his machine. Every change, every improvement he had made, was there.
He straightened up slowly. “Regeneration…”
“Huh? What say?” Oscar asked. Then, “Hey, kiddo, you’re all white. Whad you do, stay up all night and didn’t get no sleep? Come on in and siddown. But I still don’t see how you done it.”
Inside, Ferd sat down. He wet his lips. He said, “Oscar—listen—”
“Yeah?”
“Oscar. You know what regeneration is? No? Listen. Some kinds of lizards, you grab them by the tail, the tail breaks off and they grow a new one. If a lobster loses a claw, it regenerates another one. Some kinds of worms—and hydras and starfish—you cut them into pieces, each piece will grow back the missing parts. Salamanders can regenerate lost hands, and frogs can grow legs back.”
“No kidding, Ferd. But, uh, I mean: nature. Very interesting. But to get back to the bike now—how’d you manage to fix it so good?”
“I never touched it. It regenerated. Like a newt. Or a lobster.”