Sprinting down the street toward a tragic looking shape, I wonder if it's necessary to be running so fast. Then, heavier racing footsteps behind me. Turns out it's just Ben, the gentle giant and fellow preschool teacher. He said he was there to teach someone a lesson had it not just been a slow, skinny crackhead lady who stole my bike....or, tried to anyway.
This is my bike. Something close to a car, boyfriend, expensive PC or child. I consider it my most valuable possession, MVP. True, it's nothing special to look at, but come the sweet memory of candy-coated farting children 6 miles across town, when I get out of bed in the morning and her out on the open road, perhaps, in the fog? oh, I don't know...MVP is a stud. On my way to work, party or buy crickets for the gecko, it is a daily ritual. It is what Italy envisions for Vespas in their fancy-schmancy, glossy buyer's brochures. "The wind in your face, a new way to see the world", etc., etc., except this is sweaty, stinky muscles and a huge backpack. Not always cookies and cream.
It's a Trek, sometime from the 1980's? I really don't know, except the bike-shop boy who sold it to me 3 years ago said it was cool because "Trek" was spelled in Star Trek font. As in the show. I never watched Star Trek. I'm sure my new friend, Ol'Crackyface didn't seem to notice either. Somehow, she managed to walk right into our parking lot--usually managed by the front desk or program director who stops strangers at the gate--and make her way all the way to the back, around the shed near the gardening boxes and strolls out with MVP. Brazen, lady. Brazen.
Who's to say she didn't think it was a piece of trash set aside from the garbage bins she was digging through though? Maybe she actually thought it was "Amber's" bike resting, just 5 feet away from 4-year olds? Or maybe she had just smoked some really good shit before I startled her up fom behind during my sprint. I don't mean to be so judgmental, except that she's just shanghaied my baby, who's now laying sideways atop her crappile shopping cart. It's true, my bike's not in the best shape. I could probably afford to give my MVP some kind of makeover..new seat, clean the gears, or at least a better wrap job on the handlebars. (I admit I did that one last summer and it wasn't very good.) But dude-but-I-really-mean-dudette-with-a-dangly-cross-nose-ring-slash-crack-catcher-and-tie-dyed-pants-with-someone's-stolen-mid-90's-fly-girl's-hat, do you really expect me to believe that "Amber" told you her bike was tucked away in a preschool parking lot? At least she acted apologetic.
Well, I guess it was my lucky day because someone I work with came running in the conference room while I was on my lunch break googling, and told me what she saw. Fortunately, she's the type of girl who enjoys long lunches spent sitting in her car, talking on the phone about god-knows-what, conveniently able to spy MVP exiting the premises with a stranger. Out of breath, god bless her, she still had the phone to her ear. I started running.
Thank you Dee. Had it not been for all those rollover minutes and your keen sense of wrong-doings, I would be a very unhappy camper these days.
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