Which just goes to show that anything I love, anything that brings me the least amount of happiness, will surely be taken away from me. Or maybe that
Which is kinda what I was thinking as Rich and I were drowning our sorrows at this rather divey bar we found ourselves at, after driving for a few minutes up and down the street where the bike had been locked. I had said, during the drive, that I either needed to get a drink or go home and cry—though, honestly, crying is something that I usually need a lot of depressing bells and tearjerking whistles to achieve, and I do not have any cry-porn (e.g., United 93, Hotel Rwanda) at my apartment. And then there’s this: It’s a bike. It’s replaceable. It’s a kinda expensive inconvenience, yes, but no one’s hurt. Thus, crying seems a huge overreaction—but it’s my overreaction, goddammit, and anyway, like I said, I wasn’t at all sure that I could cry over this new sitch, and, even if I could, we decided to go to the bar instead of to home, which is where I wanted to do my crying. All of a sudden, though, two Newcastles into the evening, I found myself meditating on how everything sucked, how easy it is for things to go from awesome to stupid, and why don’t any of my pants fit anymore, and how lame am I not to have a job yet, and why is it harder to make friends here than it was in Remote Mountain Village, and now I won’t be able to trust anyone, and this is why I always want to lock the car door, even if I’m only leaving for a minute or if it looks like no one’s around, because you can’t trust people, and people steal your shit even if you’ve locked it up after all. So then I start crying, because it’s not even about the bike anymore; it’s about me, and my failures, and the universe’s failure to live up to my needs, and other people not even caring, not even stopping on a busy street to see what that guy with the lock cutter is doing with that brand-new bike. And then it becomes solely about me: Oh, poor me. Of course my bike gets stolen. Nothing ever works out for me. Meanwhile, Rich is doing the embarrassed guy thing, saying, “Maybe we should leave now,” and I don’t feel like leaving, because these people who are sharing the bar with me, these embodiments of Saskatoonian crime, need to see me crying. They must know the results of their actions!
Or whatever. We paid up and left, so as not to allow myself to further embarrass myself in physical form, in public (though admittedly I’m doing a fine job of picking up in blog form where I left off at the bar). I still have my old clunker, if I wanted to ride it, which I don’t. I’m considering leaving it on the street for someone to steal, though I assume that will only result in a fine for littering. I had previously entertained the idea of putting a post on craigslist saying that whoever wanted to come and take the bike could have it, but that seemed like an open invitation for veiny-cocked drifters to come to my home and kill me. These ideas came to me after an unsuccessful attempt to give the cursed thing to my sister, who got on it and immediately fell, slicing open her palms and bruising her knee. Oh, sorry, sis. I did not actually believe the bike was cursed. Lack of imagination, I suppose. A doom machine, it is. An instrument of torture and death. Anyone in the greater
I probably will feel better in the morning. For now, since it can no longer, I think, be seen as stupid bragging about owning a mid-level consumer product, I leave you with a picture of my baby. Or, not really my baby, since we didn’t spend enough time together to even take a photo, but a very similar baby. And by baby, I mean bike. Oh god, hold me.
8 comments:
Ah, the Embarrassed Guy thing. Yes, for my own selfish needs, I didn't want to be in a crowded public setting with it looking like I'd made you cry, and now wouldn't let you leave.
But then, I also was knowing for damn sure how my asking for us to leave would look, as well. The barkeep was the only one in there who knew about your bike, by the way, and even he seemed nonplussed that it was a bicycle and not a motorbike under discussion.
Where people are, theft shall be. But nonetheless we must try madam, eh?
Oh, I know. Perfectly understandable, that Embarrassed Guy thing. And, frankly, it's lovely to at least try to convince people not to make too much of a drunken, emotional fool of themselves in public, when they are dead set on doing so. As I was, last night.
"Where people are, theft shall be." And that's why that damn renter's insurance is actually a good thing, I guess. Though that doesn't make me think any more highly of people right now.
Aunty, you're cute. Never change. I'm glad you have a smart cute guy to flirt with.
sorry about the bike. i too know what it is to lose a prized possession... the fucking dog ate my ipod a couple of weeks back. oh how i grieved. me and the dog are still emotionally distant. but this ain't about me...
some days... in your fair city, i would get so fucking frustrated, for it is a small town, and only at the worst times do you realize you can walk into any bar and know three or four people present. that cannot help but rattle around in the back of your head anytime something like a theft or a hit-and-run or some other faceless crime gets you: odds are you know someone who knows someone who fucking did this. and that's unforgivable.
i used to be good friends with a odd group of boys who were way too smart for their own good about cars. they used to steal crap off and out of cars regularly, but they had some bizarre code of ethics about it; never break glass, always lock it back up, try and replace what you steal. i remember acting as a sort of lookout as we "traded out" seats out of a jetta in northwest portland... literally, they were taking out these aftermarket race seats, and replacing them with the stock ones that were in my pal's car. we almost got caught because it was taking too long to re-install the old ones. ah, the glorious results of a misdirected polytechnical education. still don't make it right.
gotta chime in with disco on the petty crime ethics thing. Back when I was getting a cheap thrill out of petty crime, it was *always* and in every way a statement of silly ass rebellion, but I still think that ennobeled it a bit. I stole street signs, and hood ornaments off of fancy cars and as for general theft, always always always steal from corporations. Steal from the 7-11, or the Texaco convienience store but don't steal from the mom and pop store. Stealing a bike would have been unthinkable.
Although, I have to say that many of these idiots have taken the outlaw ethos and distilled it down to the misguided idea that any ethical thing you do is somehow taking it to the man.
Stealing bikes, backpacks; there's a special circle of bad karma heck reserved for those who steal these things.
1. Rich how do you spell ennobeled.
2. correction what was: "and distilled it down to the misguided idea that any ethical thing you do is somehow taking it to the man"
was supposed to be: "and distilled it down to the misguided idea that any *unethical* thing you do is somehow taking it to the man."
'Ennobled'.
Hey Nicole: we're wondering who you are.
Disco Boy: That dog! This--"ah, the glorious results of a misdirected polytechnical education"--made me laugh quite a bit. So there's that.
George: I assume you know a thing or two about bad karma heck circles, in your line of work. Which I think should sound pretty ominous to anyone who doesn't know what line of work you're in. I'm just going to leave it at that. I like sounding ominous.
Nicole: Yeah, I asked Rich if he knew who you are, assuming that you had leaped over from his blog. He didn't (or claimed not to ... hmmmm!). If this were 1994 and I had just been introduced to Ye Olde Inter-Nette I would say something like "*shrug*". Now I have to suggest my simultaneous interest/not-really interest using written cues. But yes, hello! Welcome! Thanks!
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