Hanging on the back of a flower-wheeled motorcycle with a noose around his neck, he holds a keychain and her coat with one hand. A Charley Brown Christmas Tree wedged under his armpit dangles with a clay pot at its end. He, like the girl, looks distracted. Across the front of the bike reads, ‘Police’. I wonder where they are going with this motorcycle? I wonder if they are going to get somewhere or just going to go?
The girl has a green headscarf with the same color stockings. Her scarlet trench coat covers everything else but her rigid hand. Maybe she is he. Or they or both or neither or maybe someone driving a flower-wheeled motorcycle wearing green and red all over. Now I wonder, who are they? Do they need to know?
The boy reminds me of Shaggy from Scooby Boo. The same bushy brown hair, the same green trench coat, the same khaki pants. I wonder if Ruth Gordon or Bud Cort would agree—the producers of at least this poster. Did they also watch Scooby Boo growing up? Or did Scooby Boo grow up watching them? Without time’s linearity wouldn’t inspiration be one big gasp that never faded?
I haven’t mentioned their footwear. I don’t know why. I don’t know why this poster is hanging in front of me or for even how long. I don’t know who hung it up or bought it. Who printed it, designed it? How far did it travel? How many hands have handled it? How many have loved it? I love it. I love their disinterest in probably the most interesting motorcycle ride I’ve ever seen. They just are travelers of madness. I want to join them. I want to know what it’s like when insanity is no longer a rush. I want to settle behind the boy in my yellow trench coat, red jeans, unmentionable sneakers. I’ll hold him gently at the side with my baseball cap pointing brim back. A fluttering piece of paper will be between my bottom and the bike cushion. Possibly this note, maybe something blank. I’ll look to the side, bored. My poster self will lock eyes with my regular self and ask, “Where are you going?”