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04-20-04, 08:22 PM
I unlock, and push down Monroe, dodge a ped with a Texas-sized umbrella...psssssst, ****. And it’s raining today. ****ing raining and I flat. Find the curb, dismount. I pick at the wound in the sidewall. A few fibers hold in what parts of the inner tube they can, but the rest has spilled out like intestines. This soldier’s gone to heaven.
1. Light smoke
2. Find one dollar seventy five cents, in bag pocket
3. Shoulder bike
4. Walk 2 blocks east to Red Line
Pay the man and I am homeward bound. The subway car I get on has the best thing yet: a possibly insane man, wearing a reflective vest, leather construction knee pads, slicked back hair, tool belt…the works. I can’t tell if he is free-styling or ranting; either way I need the aural company he can provide right now.
“Doors closing, Yeah *****, get in,” he says. “Doors closing.”
I look closely at my bike as some sort of distraction, maybe to keep him at bay, to keep me from wanting to talk to him, or just plain gut fear. Who knows. He keeps prattling on, who knows what about. I just like the city white noise he is giving me right now.
I rub my palm slowly around my defeated tire, looking for why. It doesn’t matter, but I am somewhat Aristotelian and want to feel the reasons. Glass shard, small metal shavings, wood; something I cannot make out. And it really doesn’t matter.
“You gotta care for your 10 speed.”
Huh?
“D-40 man, D-40. In the bearings. It is sex for them. Let them have it.”
My unknown companion has decided to engage me with a bit of talk on the finer points of bike maintenance. I bite.
“Yeah, she’s dirty, but that’s the city. Right? Dirt makes it real. Check out the rear wheel – no gears. Just one speed.”
He smiles at my statement. “I once made a muscle wheel, big spokes and bearing you know, but the Chinese stole it. Four hundred dollars, the mother ****ers. Banks, you know…wouldn’t finance me. But China’s got it now. China love bikes. They may love you too if you let them. You and China. Good. I can tell you love your bike.”
“So, what do you do?” I ask.
He procures a found college ID and says he is now a college student. Digs in his bag and pulls out a folder with a campus building on the back:
“This is a hospital in Pennsylvania. I walk around and when God touches me with an idea, I send it to the rover. It takes care of it from there. Heading there now as a matter of fact.”
I like this guy, a lot. The most tangible encounter of the day for me. The most random junction occurs to offer these moments. I cannot let go of these things. They make it all make sense to me. The pain, the bull****, the facades…all gone. That’s how I know it is all genuine. No questions asked.
“You must have so many ideas. That is probably the best place for a thinker like you, where you can let it all roll out and no one cares,” I tell him. He smiles at me and turns back around muttering “Yes sir, sir sir sir. Yes SIR!”
No one else has the balls, they are all afraid of this interaction. They cannot accept anything this foreign while their friends aren’t watching them do a “charitable” deed. Talking to people is not charity in my book; it is expected.
I get back to my tires and look again at how much of Chicago’s alleys have imbedded themselves into the soft rubber. I am afraid to pick the glass out. The metal looks comfortable in the tire and the splinters are fast asleep.
My friend catches me checking out the wheel and remarks “Remember, let them have it. They won’t ask for it. You just need to know it on your own.”
I shot a smile and a two finger his way, and he snaps one back to me, sounds effects and all.
And I let this insanity continue to hold my wheels together.
1. Light smoke
2. Find one dollar seventy five cents, in bag pocket
3. Shoulder bike
4. Walk 2 blocks east to Red Line
Pay the man and I am homeward bound. The subway car I get on has the best thing yet: a possibly insane man, wearing a reflective vest, leather construction knee pads, slicked back hair, tool belt…the works. I can’t tell if he is free-styling or ranting; either way I need the aural company he can provide right now.
“Doors closing, Yeah *****, get in,” he says. “Doors closing.”
I look closely at my bike as some sort of distraction, maybe to keep him at bay, to keep me from wanting to talk to him, or just plain gut fear. Who knows. He keeps prattling on, who knows what about. I just like the city white noise he is giving me right now.
I rub my palm slowly around my defeated tire, looking for why. It doesn’t matter, but I am somewhat Aristotelian and want to feel the reasons. Glass shard, small metal shavings, wood; something I cannot make out. And it really doesn’t matter.
“You gotta care for your 10 speed.”
Huh?
“D-40 man, D-40. In the bearings. It is sex for them. Let them have it.”
My unknown companion has decided to engage me with a bit of talk on the finer points of bike maintenance. I bite.
“Yeah, she’s dirty, but that’s the city. Right? Dirt makes it real. Check out the rear wheel – no gears. Just one speed.”
He smiles at my statement. “I once made a muscle wheel, big spokes and bearing you know, but the Chinese stole it. Four hundred dollars, the mother ****ers. Banks, you know…wouldn’t finance me. But China’s got it now. China love bikes. They may love you too if you let them. You and China. Good. I can tell you love your bike.”
“So, what do you do?” I ask.
He procures a found college ID and says he is now a college student. Digs in his bag and pulls out a folder with a campus building on the back:
“This is a hospital in Pennsylvania. I walk around and when God touches me with an idea, I send it to the rover. It takes care of it from there. Heading there now as a matter of fact.”
I like this guy, a lot. The most tangible encounter of the day for me. The most random junction occurs to offer these moments. I cannot let go of these things. They make it all make sense to me. The pain, the bull****, the facades…all gone. That’s how I know it is all genuine. No questions asked.
“You must have so many ideas. That is probably the best place for a thinker like you, where you can let it all roll out and no one cares,” I tell him. He smiles at me and turns back around muttering “Yes sir, sir sir sir. Yes SIR!”
No one else has the balls, they are all afraid of this interaction. They cannot accept anything this foreign while their friends aren’t watching them do a “charitable” deed. Talking to people is not charity in my book; it is expected.
I get back to my tires and look again at how much of Chicago’s alleys have imbedded themselves into the soft rubber. I am afraid to pick the glass out. The metal looks comfortable in the tire and the splinters are fast asleep.
My friend catches me checking out the wheel and remarks “Remember, let them have it. They won’t ask for it. You just need to know it on your own.”
I shot a smile and a two finger his way, and he snaps one back to me, sounds effects and all.
And I let this insanity continue to hold my wheels together.