Images of the City: Bike

Schwoom!

A car speeds past me, a little too close for comfort. 

I usually bike down a side street, thinking a quieter street would be safer. Not sure that's the case anymore. I hear another car speeding towards me from behind. Bracing myself, I try to ride a straight line to make it easier for the car. Just as the car is about to pass me I see it.

A pothole.

It's huge! Ginormous! Ridiculous! Absurd! Too large to charge straight through yet I'm moving too fast to stop in time. Swerving is not an option given the speeding car behind me. I'm running out of options, and time. I thought dodging potholes in a car on the weather-ravaged streets of Chicago was rough. It's not any easier on a bike.

I do not want to crash today. The weather was nice when I left so I didn't change out of my dress pants, my $200 dress pants. I'm going to regret that decision.

Deciding to attempt a quick stop, I squeeze the brake handles hard. The tires squeak and skid. These tires are not coming to a crisp stop as I'd hoped, probably should've paid for that tune up.

My bike barely slows down. These brakes are a joke. The front tire slams into the crater taking up half the street (exaggerate much?). The bike, along with myself, flips over and I land on my back, half in/half out of the hole. I glance up and notice my pants are still pristine.

Success.

Giving Directions

Waiting at the corner. Red Light forever frozen. Woman standing next to turns and looks me in the eyes. She's in her mid-forties, short with olive complexion, wearing a casual cardigan and black slacks.

Is she going to ask me for money? Oh please don't ask me for money. I really don't want to deny anyone today.

She speaks but the words only jumble about in my head. Not her fault, my heart is racing like a jackrabbit. I am unable to focus on her words. 

Her eyes look expectantly at me, waiting for my words to answer her recent request. I have no idea what she said. No. I. dea.

"What?"

"Where is State?" she asks again as pleasantly as the first time.

"State street? Oh, that's two blocks straight ahead of us," I say while pointing in the direction we are facing. "That's actually where I'm headed."

She smiles at me and tilts her head as if consoling or pitying me. She also creases her forehead looking confused. Did she say State? Did I answer her question? I'm sure she said State! She definitely said State. Maybe she meant a different State?

The Red Light finally thaws into Green. Deciding I'd completed my civic duty I crossed the street, still wondering if the woman is going to follow my instructions. I don't want to look suspicious or get into another hard-to-understand, heart-unrelentingly-beating conversation so I don't turn around to check.

The next corner is also frozen Red, giving me an opportunity to look behind me as if I am looking at incoming traffic. I notice the woman is following my instructions, but she is walking slowly with her forehead still creased.

She must be a tourist, unsure of where she is supposed to go. I'm starting to doubt she meant State Street.   But I can't show her I'm second-guessing my advice. I can't look like a fool to someone I'll never see again. Too much to risk.

The Red once again melts to Green and we cross the last street to State. I steal another glance at traffic to see she also continues her wayward journey to State.

Arriving at State I look around as if wondering where to go next, giving her an opportunity to ask me another question, in case this isn't the State she expected to arrive at. Instead she turns left, still walking at her deliberate pace seemingly confused. Maybe she doesn't want to play the fool either, already appearing helpless once to a stranger in the city.

I turn right towards my destination wondering if she will remain lost in this vast city continually looking for State. Are we all looking for State?

Passing a Stranger

She's coming down the hallway. Do I say hi? Too far away, thankfully.

Our eyes lock.

Crap. She knows I saw her. At the end of the hallway I can still ignore her. There's a hallway just to her left; please turn please turn, please turn.

She doesn't.

Maybe someone else will come that knows her. Is she walking faster? Now she's too close to ignore.
I must do something; head nod? "hey"? "My name is..."? handshake? Maybe she'll initiate.

She doesn't.

Instead she suddenly becomes interested in the blank wall to her right.

Clever.

Instantly I become an expert on blank walls, analyzing the wall to my right. She's obviously too busy to say hello, I'm obviously too busy to say hello, concentrated as we are, on parallel walls, passing without a hint of recognition.

Awkward escaped, intro avoided, as I walk down the hallway.

Riding the Bus

Short story inspired by "Idea for a Sign" by Lydia Davis.


I'm not one of those annoying patrons of the bus who spends the entire trip on their phone. Believe me that is not me. 

You will not hear what I did throughout the day; will not hear what she did or did not do; will not hear about how sick I have felt all day, making you wonder if I am still contagious; would not ride the bus if I was contagious, unless, of course, I had to, which I wouldn't; will not hear how I can't wait until I get home; how slow the bus driver is driving; how bad traffic is. Of course you can see those things for yourself so why would I say them? I will not laugh loudly and unexpectedly, causing you to spill your coffee on your shirt and bag; would never get an argument on the phone, how awkward to hear a one-sided argument; will not have the ringer obnoxiously loud then answer the phone just as loudly to say "I'm on the bus!".

Unless, of course, someone calls me.

Save the Fly

This story was for the Figment.com July contest. The challenge was to write about an animal activist. I decided instead to be the animal activist for an undervalued animal in our society. Here is my tongue-in-cheek entry.

Consider musca domestica. Short life: thirty days. Less, if you are successful.

Soaring through the kitchen air.  Hair flowing. Globe-like eyes, golden iridescence seeing everything. Light shining through asymmetrical shapes etched into translucent wings, causing prism-like rainbows on the wall. Swift movements, grace unmatched, dodging between fingers, twirling around instruments of doom. Laughing at the hunter's clumsiness?

Fighting for survival. Living peacefully, buzzing joyously. Continually hunted, anxiety marring the happy flight.

Consider musca domestica. Short is his life: only thirty days. Someday there will be no buzzing, no iridescent eyes, no prism-wings, no pirouettes; only miserable silence.

The Daily Starter

The Daily Starter is a controversial product. Invented by Check MacLin, the product was meant to help the consumer start their day right. All a person has to do is stand on the small, circular platform, and the product does the rest. Cleaning, prepping, make-uping, combing, clothing, feeding. Everything is done in 10 minutes. What once took people an hour in the morning now only takes 10 minutes. At least in theory.

But the product malfunctioned. Almost like clockwork. The same thing every time with the same results.

Danger Bear! Dos!

Ever since the diving incident, Scribbles and I haven't been getting along. It's a good thing my owner is also into fish. Gary and I have really hit it off lately. Goldfish aren't much for talking (I can't hear him anyways given the glass between us). Still, he follows my paw wherever it goes.

I wonder if he would talk if there wasn't glass between us. He's in that big tank all by himself. Maybe he could use some company. Taking this thought into action (that's why they call me Danger Bear), I decide to stack some books next to Gary's tank. Next to the books I drag over a large snow globe. I use the books and the snow globe as stairs until I am towering over the water. Without warning I hear a "RIOWR!" and Scribbles pushes me into the fish tank. I thought that cat couldn't climb up here! I'm going to need better defenses against this cat.

My teenage owner isn't one for cleanliness so the lid to the tank is missing. I can't swim and my fur starts to take in water. Eventually I sink to the bottom of the tank and Gary starts swimming laps around me. Apparently he can't talk because he never laughs or says a word.