Stories and Articles

Xan and the art of unicycle maintenance ...

by Ean Lawrence

Xanthippe Dunlop was just about to apply some oil to the axle of her unicycle when she was summoned to the front door by the sound of the eight notes that opened Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Xan clenched her teeth and hissed an unladylike expletive, like a locomotive engine discharging a jet of steam as the means of releasing a potentially dangerous build up of pressure. This was the fourth time she had been interrupted in the last half an hour. As far as she was concerned, none of the interruptions had been important: the first had been a man and a woman soliciting support on behalf of some political party the sole plank of whose manifesto appeared to be the repatriation of all alien budgerigars; the second had been a researcher who was conducting a survey on the precognitive dreams of insomniacs; and the third had been seeking to recruit members for an ashram located in a cold and damp corner of Devonshire.

Putting the can of 3-in-One oil down with exaggerated care and wiping her oil-stained hands in the body of a button-less shirt from which both the sleeves had be roughly amputated, she went to the front door with little expectation that the fourth intrusion would be any more interesting to her than the preceding three had been. With a glance in the hall mirror as she passed along the hallway, she arrived at the front door. She twisted the knurled knob on the Yale lock, turned the over-sized handle and pulled the heavy door towards her. The hallway being little more than a long, dark corridor, she was blinded by the bright sunlight as she opened the door. As her eyes adjusted to the level of light, she made out the silhouette of a crouching hunch-backed figure; as her pupils contracted, the object on the step below her rose to its full height, gained solidity and took on the form of something vaguely human. The instant she recognized who it was, her head dropped and she let out a slow, sustained sigh, like the air escaping from a punctured tyre.

‘Why don’t you ever take a key with you when you go out?’ moaned Xan. ‘Sorry, Sis,’ said Jonah. ‘I thought I’d remembered to take one with me this time.’

Xan knew that Jonah was lying. Xan couldn’t recall a single occasion when her brother had remembered to take a key with him when he went out. What was perhaps even more frustrating, neither could she remember having heard of, or witnessed, a single occasion when there wasn’t somebody at home to let him in; it was uncanny: it was as if he had a sixth sense of when the house was occupied.

Jonah pushed the door closed and followed Xan to the kitchen, on the way propping his skateboard against the wall, underneath a framed school photograph taken when they had just started primary school. He went straight to the fridge, took out a carton of milk and poured himself a glassful. He had, until recently, indulged himself in the disgusting habit of drinking from the carton, but on one memorable occasion, in a rush to assuage his thirst, the experience of ingesting a mouthful of something that was as much solid as it was fluid now made him take the precaution of first decanting the liquid into a second container before drinking it. There was some glimmer of hope, after all, for the progress of society, thought Xan: if even my brother can acquire some of the basic attributes of civilization then there was some optimism - wasn’t there? - for the rest of humanity. Xan took the opportunity of the interruption resulting from her brother’s return to make herself a cup of tea. Having completed all the stages of tea-making – although this time she put the milk into the tea before removing the teabag - she took her mug and sat down on one of the kitchen stools.

‘So, Sis, what’ve you been doing with yourself?’ asked Jonah. ‘No, don’t tell me. You’ve been tinkling with your unicycle.’

‘Yes, Jonah, I’ve been working on my unicycle,’ said Xan, ‘as if you’re in the least bit interested.’

‘Of course I’m interested,’ said Jonah. ‘What particularly interests me is how you came to be obsessed with unicycling. What is a unicycle, after all, but a half-finished bicycle?’

‘Careful, Jonah, that’s almost half funny,’ said Xan. ‘Now that you’ve accused me of being obsessed about unicycling – and I don’t necessarily agree with you that I am obsessed about it – what about your obsession with skateboarding?’

‘OK, I’ll admit that I have what some may describe as an obsession - or what I prefer to call a passion - about skateboarding. But skateboarding’s cool. Skateboarding isn’t just about riding around on a bit of wood with wheels attached to it. Skateboarding is a culture, a way of life. What is there in the least bit cool about unicycling?’

Jonah’s face was an outward expression of the triumph he was feeling. It was a feeling he relished, especially when it was achieved at his sister’s expense; it was a feeling he didn’t experience that often.  

‘It’s like trying to think of a famous Belgian,’ continued Jonah, warming to the task of metaphorically putting the boot in. ‘How many famous unicyclists can you name? Can anyone name a famous unicyclist?’

‘What about Eddie Merckx, or Adolphe Sax, or Audrey Hepburn, or Rene Magritte?’ suggested Xan.

‘They’re all famous unicyclists?’ snorted Jonah. ‘I think you’ll find that Eddie Merckx, for one, my dear ignorant sister, was more famous for the two-wheeled variety of cycling. And I don’t recall ever seeing a photograph of Audrey Hepburn on a unicycle. Or were they, in their spare time, members of a secret unicycle display team?’

‘I’m not saying that they’re famous unicyclists,’ said Xan.

‘Then what are they famous for?’ asked Jonah.

‘Well, apart from being famous as a cyclist, the inventor of a musical instrument, a film star and a surrealist artist, they are all Belgians.’ Xan folded her arms and looked at her brother, waiting for his reply. Jonah took another slurp - there appeared to be still some work left to be done on the civilizing front - of milk.

‘Alright, so they might be famous Belgians, but you still haven’t named any famous unicyclists, whether Belgian or of any other nationality,’ said Jonah.

‘OK, so there aren’t any unicyclists that you may have heard of,’ conceded Xan. ‘But in the circus world unicyclists are up there, so to speak, with the trapeze ar

‘You don’t still want to run away and join the circus?’ sneered Jonah.

‘I do,’ said Xan, indignant, ‘and not just any old circus. I want – I’m going to – join the Cirque de la Lune. And,’ added Xan as an afterthought, ‘I wouldn’t consider that it was running away. I would consider it to be a positive career move.’

‘Something of a one-off, I suppose,’ teased Jonah. ‘Do you really think you stand a chance?’ Jonah tried not to sound too contemptuous of his sister’s long-held ambition. ‘Pops was a brilliant juggler and clown and he didn’t even get an audition.’

‘Well, whatever you say, you can’t stop me dreaming, Jonah,’ said Xan. ‘One day I am going to be part of the Cirque de la Lune.’

‘I don’t want to stop you dreaming, Sis,’ said Jonah, adopting a more conciliatory tone. ‘Of course I don’t. We all need our dreams. But how many of us succeed in fulfilling our hopes and dreams?’

‘It’s true that not everyone gets what they want - or what they deserve. Perhaps there is contentment to be found in the thought that “the real cycle you’re working on is a cycle called yourself”.’

‘That’s very deep, Sis,’ said Jonah.

‘You might even say it’s very Zen,’ said Xan