SOMEONE STOLE MY BIKE

There is a point when you don’t care what’s important…most ‘breaking news’ is nothing but zits erupting from a porous populous that is bound to slough it off like old, dried derma, bit by bit. Flakes. Dander. It will neither register, nor matter, tomorrow. Yet, you can bet, there’ll be more zits overnight, and a jarring sight in the morning. Reality is what is in front of you. Brush your teeth, check for zits, smell for BO, comb your mop, and get on with it. Only the big stuff matters. And, even that, not for long.

“BIG stuff.” Some people too stupid to see it if they did. Too involved with their own funneled lives, in secular seclusion from Life.

I say, “Someone stole my bike !!!  ”.

And they say,

“Oh…(sorry)…really.”

“You should report it. I would…”

Gotta go..”,

But in reality, ‘they’…  
SHE, left 3 minutes ago as she was chatting with the new ‘face-friend’, even as she spoke those fucking words, with that wan smile and void eyes. Where is the empathy?

She can’t relate, she’s a town-car girl,  and hasn’t ridden a bike since childhood. 

“I used to have a bike, but that was so long ago…” a passer offered, but, who asked?

I suppose ‘someone stole my bike’ does sound a bit juvenile, but it’s exactly what happened, and in the modern street-level world, transportation is a requirement, no matter the scale of the vehicle if it provides efficient mobility. If it gets your ass where it has to go, then the bike is a stealthy, fucking exotic, Italian sport car, that I couldn’t pronounce because I dare not pretend, and, in fact, the damn bike was better! The sport car would sit in traffic with the other commuters, the cabbies and the semi’s. But, if used to it’s full advantage, the bike transports me and my matter, and transitions gracefully, seamlessly, into the city metro flow. Without it I am another schlep-clustered pedestrian, herded down the sidewalk watching bikes whiz-on by, between stalled traffic and we, the murmuring herd. Our progress only to be impeded by ‘red-hands’ flagging us to a stop at every goddamn crossing, while kamikaze natives plunge headlong into intersections, to a raucous chorus, as the bikes mock-on-by with their bells twing’ing in irritating serenade. The riders yelling “left!” “right!” as if they have control. I had that control, too, but, now…

I want my bike back, dammit - Fuuuuccckk!!

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-fffffuuuuucccckkkkkkkkk!!!!!

I don’t usually do that in public like that – lose control. It was out of frustration. I acted out. I did apologize to those that would listen, but most had moved quickly on, and then the police showed up.

“Officer I want to report a stolen bike. It’s a Cham…”

“Raise your arms, spread your legs, and turn slowly around”

And so it went. My bad day was gathering momentum. The police question me. Apparently there had been some calls regarding an angry, perhaps hostile, man screaming obscenities at passers-by (imagine that, in a city like this?)…and apparently that ‘someone’ was I.

I reassured them that it was, in fact, I, who did the screaming and why. They expressed their regrets, and admit that they’d expected ‘deranged’, but could see I was a rational, if not, perhaps, just a bit-pissed-off-guy. They admonished me for my foul language and lack of civility to my fellow citizens. I readily admit my mistake, and point out that I made every attempt to apologize, but…too late. They did me the favor of writing up a report about the bike, but also suggested I do not get up hopes, and perhaps start to shop for another.

They were decent, well intentioned, men, but I’m at loss as to how to pay for one. I’d been laid off a week ago today, I have rent and food money for another week, then, I…I’m at a loss…need a job, and too proud to tell them.

Once the officers had left I took a seat on a stoop and sat stupefied by my dilemma, and bad luck. Passing pedestrians, the herd now thinning out, avoided my glance, and I sensed their apprehension. I must look like a vagrant…a jobless bum. That much was true.

Then came the cry, and the call, “stop her! Stop her! Thief! Stop her!”

A woman in jogging gear ran toward me, while behind her another woman, young like a student, was screaming for her to stop. I had no sooner stood up to see what the matter was, when the jogger whipped a canvas bag, heavy with content, slamming it across my crown and next I knew I lay sprawled on the ground. It appears I was knocked cold because as I came to, I swear I was lying in my bed at home and these people stood staring down and I replied, “why are you in my room?”

“You are on Park. Do you know the city?” the girl asked. I couldn’t make her out clearly, and I did not know the voice. Was she a nurse?

“Spokane…?” People laughed.

“You’re in New York.”

“I knew that…” It was coming back to me, now. With that the crowd that had gathered, now thinned, because this was New York, and things needed doing. At the end there was just the girl and I.

“You don’t have to stay. I’m okay.”

“I somehow feel responsible. She sucker punched you with my laptop. I’m sorry, but I went after her. I didn’t catch her, but I went after her. When I got back here, you were just coming to. So it worked out okay.”

“Maybe better than okay…”

“…maybe.”

V

A FLINT HARD MAN

Pyrus Dunbar was a flint hard man, as tough as his name, and about as unlucky as a rat in a rotisserie. He didn’t take to many, and most didn’t take to him. Maybe that was his problem, but he didn’t care. Get the point? It didn’t matter to Pyrus.

Poor Pi. Never had a chance. A father that couldn’t leave town faster than the mother, so he stayed. But not for long. So Pi saw the ugly side of welfare houses and foster homes, and was out of the system by fourteen. What good is a system that only causes you grief?

Got some street jobs, if ‘jobs’ is what you want to call ‘em. Mostly go‘fer work, delivering packages…you didn’t ask what. Worked his way up, and the work got ‘heavier’. Packages became people, and people became dead.

Pretty soon the heat got to be too much, so Pi skipped town. It was time he saw more of the country anyways. He got hooked up with a gent in Seattle. This ‘gent’ was tough on him, real tough. He had Pi doing the dirtiest of the dirty work, most often ‘wet’, but he grew to appreciate the fact that Pi never complained, and did what he was told. He liked that. He liked that a lot. He took Pi under his wing, and for awhile Pi flourished. But all things came to an end, when the gent, and seven colleagues, got gunned down at dinner. Pi was supposed to be there, but didn’t show. He could never explain that, but then, there really wasn’t anyone left to explain it to, was there? He was gone that night.

A freighter left port with him on it. It was bound for South America, but Pi had second thoughts, and settled for San Diego. San Diego suited him. He stuck to the streets. He knew the streets, just had to learn the layout, and that didn’t take long. Before you knew it, what started as a couple of guys…well, Pi had his own gang. Mostly, they roughed up sailors on shore leave, that was their thing. The thing ran real well, too…coupla’ years there, but no one lasts forever…it’s just a matter of time. Pi got shot up pretty good. His partner, Benny, was killed. After a spell in the hospital, Pi ended up in prison. Just as well, was his initial thought, but ‘wish I had it back…’ was the one that lingered. It would linger for fourteen years.  Years spent squandered.

They finally let him out, sayin’ the jail’s too full.

It all worked out, and that worked for Pi. He just found it too difficult to reconcile, so he remained vengeful. To his last dying day, he was.

V