Characters in Stationary Bike

… two hundred dollars came with a note from Barry Casselman, his agent. You scared me a little, hon, the note said, and Sifkitz thought: You’re not the only one. Hon. Every now and then during the following week it occurred to him that he should tell someone about his adventures …

… could no longer afford the bennies and so Carlos Martinez could no longer afford the drugs that made the pain a little less, could no longer afford the chiropractor that made the pain a little less, and the house-payments—ay, caramba, they used to say, joking, but he sure wasn’t joking …

… still been alive), Richard Sifkitz was invited by Dr. Brady to view and discuss the results. Since the patient could detect nothing overtly ominous in his doctor’s voice, he went willingly enough. The results were rendered as numeric values on a sheet of paper headed METROPOLITAN HOSPITAL, New York City.

Sifkitz didn’t know how he knew all this, but he did. Just as he knew that the man with the buckets was Freddy, and he owned the truck in which the men had come.

Freddy was Freddy Albemarle, this kid he’d known in high school—they’d been in a band together, and had become friends for a simple enough reason: they both hated school. And Whelan? An artist he’d met at a conference somewhere. Michael Whelan? Mitchell Whelan?

… he was laid off the benefits were gone, Jimmy Berkowitz could no longer afford the bennies and so Carlos Martinez could no longer afford the drugs that made the pain a little less, could no longer afford the chiropractor that made the pain a little less, and the house-payments—ay, caramba, …

And here lay Pepe the dog with his muzzle on his paws, and Pepe did not raise his head but rolled his eyes up to look at him as he passed, revealing a gruesome, blood-threaded crescent of white, and that was when Sifkitz began to weep in the dream, understanding …

… pointed out if she had still been alive), Richard Sifkitz was invited by Dr. Brady to view and discuss the results. Since the patient could detect nothing overtly ominous in his doctor’s voice, he went willingly enough. The results were rendered as numeric values on a sheet of paper headed …

That felt like getting warmer. Trudy had died of a particularly ravenous blood-cancer, and Sifkitz had been with her, in her hospital room, when she passed on. He remembered how deep her last breath had been, how her sad and wasted bosom had heaved upward as she drew it in.

And Whelan? An artist he’d met at a conference somewhere. Michael Whelan? Mitchell Whelan? Sifkitz couldn’t quite remember, but he knew the guy specialized in fantasy art, dragons and such. They had spent a night in the hotel bar, telling stories about the comic-horrible world of movie-poster art.

Freddy, who owned the truck (a Dodge Ram) and fancied himself a fancy carpenter. Carlos, the one with the bad back. And Whelan, who was actually sort of a goldbrick. These were the guys whose job it was to keep him from having a heart attack or a stroke.