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He brings out his new unicycle. The seat, from all the saddle soap, has to be held firmly; he wonders if, when he mounts it, he might slip off. He would rather slip then than in the middle of a ride.

He has polished the chrome rim twice, even gleamed the spokes. The pedals have been methodically lubricated. All the metals of the frame have been glistened and the height adjustment trued against his old unicycle, the one now for sale in the front yard, original purchase date and mileage scrawled on a sign beside. Best offer, but it had better be a good, flattering offer. Plenty of miles left in that unicycle, though plenty have already been run.

This first outing will be a test. Just a short cycle. Something to prove the balance, see if the new seat has ridge-and-play similar to the old unicycle. A pedal to the corner store, perhaps. Or over to Mina’s house to show off the new conveyance. Backwards, forwards, pinpoint turns, letter-making in loose gravel. A trial run before he starts using it everyday for work or shopping. A jaunt to wear the newness off.

Perhaps he could gather a few of his fellow unicyclist friends, swagger a bit on his new, still-smelling-of-factory, unicycle, later organize an amen group to pedal over to throw stones at some bicyclists’ houses. Bicyclists really appreciate it when a unicyclist throws stones: the balance, the near tip in the set-up, the leveling of recovery. Their wonder outweighs their anger. Their complaints and curses are an expected formality.

Ken has an array of books to his name. Their covers follow.