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.