Friday, September 3, 2010


So I owe the world an apology. Here goes.

Hey, World. For a long four days, I lost a lot of faith in you. You did not seem nearly as full of good people as I once thought you were. I thought you were filled with nasty people who lurk in shadows and, when the time is right, take my bike. I perceived your calm indifference to my plight as cruel disdain. I was wrong. You are a good place that treats me well; thank you for correcting my mistaken point of view.

What warrants this change in opinion? Well, I've been reunited with my bike, which is a pretty big deal to me. Spirits have been high; so high that many people having been asking me what drug I've been on, and more importantly, where they can get it. A typical conversation goes something like this:

Friend: My grandfather died recently.
Me: *grins blankly*
Friend: It was horrible.
Me: Aaaaaaaaah. You know that feeling you get when you have an itch on your back, and someone scratches it for you, really, really well?
Friend: He died of tuberculosis. His final words were hacking coughs in my direction. I think I'm wildly contagious, and I've definitely been coughing a lot around you...
Me: I feel like that, except plus the feeling you get when you kiss the girl you love.
Friend:  Brendan. Mortality, pain, suffering and loss.
Me: Mmmm. I feel like I'm in a Jack Johnson song.

So I may have lost a few friends this week because of insensitivity, but it doesn't matter that much to me, because I have my bike back. "But how?," you ask! Well, I suppose I should go back to the whole 'my bike was stolen' issue.

Here's the story that I didn't tell when the wound was too fresh. My friend Vick and I saw Scott Pilgrim vs. The World* on a touching man-date. We decided that the evening had gone well so far, and we didn't want it to end, so we went to the Pony bar** on 45th and 10th. I locked my bike up to a rack with two other bikes. I noticed that the rack was dangerously unattached to the ground, a lot like Shane, the wandering cowboy. "Nah, this will never be taken," I thought to myself.  An hour later, the rack was gone; Shane the rack had moved on, singing his lonesome cowboy song.  Thus began a dark period in my life; I looked suspiciously at all bike messengers, leered at bike racks, and shunned contact with the outside world and showers (not that these last two are that unusual).
*This is an awesome movie. It was like reading a comic book, playing a video game and watching a movie all at once. I recommend it if you enjoy fun things.
**This is an awesome bar. It serves beer! More specifically, it always has 20 delicious microbrews on tap for 5$ a piece.

Well, I went past the location where Shane the rack had disappeared from this past Friday. He was back; he didn't bring my bike with him, but he was there all right. "Those thieves are at it again!," I thought. I swore to myself angrily, and went up to a messenger who was unlocking his bike from that very rack. I noticed for the first time that the rack was stationed in front of a restaurant.

Me: *Trying to be as intimidating as Humphrey Bogart (I think I was as threatening as Elmer Fudd, in reality)* Is this your rack? 
Be very quiet. I'm hunting my bike.
Messenger: "Yes..."
Me: *Menacingly* Did you know I had a bike stolen from here Monday?
Messenger: Oh. A white one?
Me: Um... yeah?
Messenger: Yeah, it's inside. Want it back?
Me: Um... yes please?
I was so vewy, vewy wrong about the wocation and status of my bike. I also need to change my underwear from shock.

That was it. He went inside and talked to his boss, who rolled my bike out of the kitchen in the same shape it was in Monday. They had cut it off of the rack, and then they just took it inside and held onto it. They didn't sell it; the messengers weren't using it. They just didn't want it to be stolen if I left it there overnight. I was stunned, and in no state to talk. I fumbled for my wallet, handed the messenger a 20 dollar bill and hugged him through the tears. I then made out in public with my bike (more or less); after some PDA, I raced my way up Amsterdam avenue, emitting whoops of joy every time a taxi came within inches of killing me.

So, my bike is back, and all is well with the world, at least far as it pertains to me. And you know, I went back to where my bike was recovered that night because I was in the neighborhood. When I passed by, Shane wasn't there. "Come back, Shane! Come back!" I screamed to the empty city. And that's when the girl I was with ran away as quickly as she could.

God bless us, each and every one!

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