“Hey man, nice bike.” We were crossing Bergen Street to look at an apartment for rent, and he was wheeling his own bike and balancing a beer in a brown paper bag. On a beautiful spring evening, New York’s open container laws make furtive winos of us all. He stopped and whistled. “Whitewall tires and everything.”
“Bought it off a Cuban guy on 30th Street for twenty-five bucks. I cleaned it up a little, and it’s a great bike now,” said Tim proudly.
“My friend has a truck bike like that. Beautiful thing.”
“Truck bike, eh? That’s what my bike shop guy calls it, too. I call it a cruiser.”
“In Puerto Rico they’re truck bikes. We love ’em out there, man.”
I’m used to this. On the New York street, the fat-framed blue bike is the babe on Tim’s arm, and her balloon tires are the booty worth checking out.
“My friend, his bike has pure white tires. Perfect condition. Big silver fenders. It’s a beautiful thing. He has it wrapped in plastic like a baby. I want him to sell it to me and he won’t. He doesn’t even ride it. He got AIDS–he got it messin’ round with the ladies–and he’s dying now. The doctor says he’s dying, he ain’t got long. So he’s never gonna ride this bike. But he won’t sell it to me. I offered him three hundred, and he says no.” He shook his head. “Wrapped in plastic.”
“Sorry to hear it,” I said, but he continued cheerfully.
“Then last night his girlfriend offers it to me for fifty bucks. She’s a crack addict. They’ll sell anything. So now I don’t know what to do. What should I do?”
“She’s going to sell it anyway.”
“I _know_. I don’t wanna have her steal from my friend, but if I don’t take it fast, she’ll sell it on the street.”
“Could you tell him she has her eye on it?”
“What’s he going to do about it? He’s sick!”
“Better you have it than some guy on the street. At least you could store it for him.”
“Maybe you could find a way to pay him for it.”
“Could you just tell him she’s going to steal it and say you’ll keep it for him even if he won’t sell? He must know she’s a a crackhead, right?”
We talked it through, and shook our heads. He shrugged.
“I’m right down the next block here. Bergen and Washington. I’ll see you around when you take that apartment. You let me know if you ever want to sell it. Good luck, man. Take care of yourself.” He took a swig of his beer and pushed off down the bike lane. The corner boys in ‘do rags watched as we chained the bikes to a railing.
The apartment was beautiful. It stretched the whole third floor of a newly-bought brownstone. Never lived in, the ad said, but that couldn’t be. An old metal plaque fixed to the fire escape read: “Any Obstruction Placed on Fire Escape Will Result in a Fine of Ten Dollars.” We leaned out the bedroom window, and in the tiny backyard next door, a strutting rooster crowed the alarm.
8 thoughts on “Truck Bike”
D- Congrats! it sounds like you may have found your perfect apartment! Well, except for the rooster alarm clock… I guess you’ll keep beating me into the office. 😉
It’s no done deal yet, unfortunately, but Prospect Heights is looking likely.
Interesting story and good luck with the apartment.
I don’t like the business about the rooster. I can’t see a noisy rooster surviving very long in any NYC borough.
Or maybe he’s new to the neighborhood as well.
good luck with the apartment!
on a completely unrelated note–just thought i’d mention that i was up in Wawa the week before last and watched a few sweet Lake Superior sunsets from a beach or two in the park. you shoulda been there!
every time i leave the north, i wonder why i’m leaving the north.
One bike story deserves another…read on as you like./
Oops. either I did the url wrong or the html was stripped. here it is again.
OK, the html was stripped; I understand that. I’ve been getting unwanted links left at my place too. So, for the bike story, just go to my url and see the entry for Monday May 3rd.
I’m sorry, Onion Boy. I’m under siege from comment spammers at the moment–dozens and dozens of messages in the last two days. It’s driving me crazy.
Jack, you lucky, lucky man. Ranger Tim heads back up to Lake Superior in ten days.
Jerry: I think the rooster and his chicken girlfriends will survive. They look like they’ve been there quite a while…
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