Life is Harsh

May 01, 2008

I ride a BMX sometimes, think iron pony, or better yet, some sort of hog – dog hybrid. I ride by the supermarket on my way home from work, because I want juice. It's cold outside. There are construction men mounting a Styrofoam facade on my shabby strip mall grocery store. Soon, it will be a castle. Somewhere I can be proud to buy my sustenance from. The construction effort is messy, and it encroaches on the stairway safety rail that I normally lock my bike to. I'm forced into the parking lot to chain my bike to a handicapped parking sign.
Coasting, I swing my left leg up and to the right, over the frame. Foot to concrete, my body stops short and I lift the tiny bike off its wheels and up against the sign. I turn the key on a padlock on my hip, and a heavy gauge chain around my waist slackens. There is a large round man, half hair and half shabby clothing standing nearby.
“Nice belt.“ He says. He winks and nods his wiry gray brown beard face. Some sort of Popeye sailor dialect. I smile big.
“Thanks.“ I wrap the chain around the sign and the bike, and shut the padlock. Beard man speaks.
“All somebody has to do is lift that bike over the whole sign, you know.“ I consider this. I test my reach, to see just how true this is.
“It would be a lot of work for a small bike.“ I say. A hairy nod in reply, and some weight readjusting. In truth, if my bike were stolen, the culprit would have to be six foot four and nimble. My risk assessment on a juice run is good to great.
“I think I'll be OK.“ I say. He shambles a bit to the side.
“You smoke?“, he asks, hunching and leaning his roundness on a cane, drawing his shoulders up around his neck.
“No.“ I say.
“No?!“ He's smiling now, “You should!“ I give him my bewildered smile, it's an eyebrow technique that's heavy on the teeth.
“I should? Why? So that you can?“ I assume he wants to bum a cigarette from me.
“Of course!“ He smiles, his weight thoroughly settled on his cane now, like an old, fat, shabby house creaking on its foundation.
“Ha!“ I laugh loud, very loud. An elderly womens' trajectory is intercepting us on her way to the grocery store entrance, she is circumnavigating saws and hammers and scaffolding and Mexicans. I head to the entrance myself, falling in step with her, she smiles at me. I call back to Popeye, “If anyone tries to steal my bike, kill them.“ Elderly woman eyes my clothing, my bike, and my mohawk.
“That's a bit harsh, don't you think?“ She pleads the imaginary thief's case. I'm still smiling politely.
“You shouldn't steal from people.“ I say. She looks thoughtful for a second and then resigned, we are still walking in step.
“Life is harsh, I guess.“ She sighs. I can almost taste that sweet, sweet juice.

Tags for this piece: bmx supermarket juice

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