Toblerone's mother is a chocoholic. I have known this for the past eight years and was saddened when I could no longer find her jar of Tootsie Rolls. I knew this during the wake for her husband, when everyone was offered a Hershey's bar, and I knew this on Wednesday, when she was baking something that filled the house with the perfume of mocha.
If I ruminated on my relationship with Mrs. Lerone (as she's named in my telephone's list of contacts), I would come to the conclusion that I've been pretty good to her. This is neither an under- nor an overstatement-- there have been times when I've helped her out more than I thought I was capable of, just as there have been times that I've fallen short of what I was supposed to do. "Pretty good," over eight years, becomes "very consistent."
This longevity is something I've surprised myself with. I always considered myself the kind of person that would drop something after a certain amount of time, if for no other reason than the thought that such a long period of time would be awkward.
Anyhow, my relationship with Toblerone has always been a good one (except the few times that I didn't walk him. I hope he can forgive me-- I was in high school and my mind was often elsewhere).
First, let me digress...
Toblerone I was the dog I first started walking. We met when he was four years old (28 years old in approximated dog years, though the actual conversion isn't nearly as simple as "every Earth year equals 7 dog years") and he already had a full, gray beard. His demeanor was calm to the point of saintliness and he peed more often than a Cubs fan during a bad game. He was great, though, and his passing wasn't fun for anybody.
Toblerone II is the latest installment. He's seemingly a literal ball of energy and he likes to dispel some of his excitement by gnawing on things that aren't meant to be gnawed on (my backpack, trash on the side of the street, Hank's hand). Like the old Toby, though, he means nothing but well. He even has something in common with me: we both have unexpectedly deep voices (his always in the form of a gravelly growl or bark, mine only occasionally).
I have not been neighbors with Mrs. Lerone since last December when my mother sold our house and we moved up north. Despite this change of living arrangements, I stuck on as Toby IIs weekend athletic trainer (of sorts). I now make the commute nearly every day (though Toby and Mrs. Lerone do skip town fairly frequently) to take the little guy on an extended walk, or to the dog park, or just to play fetch and chew on sticks.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
A Roger Brown Cityscape
Like every other day, today I learned something new: I fill all the requirements of "babysitter's creepy boyfriend." Here's how it went:
Lucy babysits twins who are two years old.
Exhibit 1: Warranted Dirty Looks
One parent is Irish and has bleach-white skin while the husband is Indian and has pretty dark skin. When we took the kids to the zoo, people looked at the four of us as if Lucy and I were the parents. This is conceivable: I'm 22 and I've been mistaken for being a few years older. Regardless of how old I look, though, I think what really drew the dirty looks was the unshaven face, tattooed arms, and old, dirty shoes.
Exhibit 2: The Guy on the Couch
I thought I had these kids on my side. I held them up to get a better view of the tiger, I kept the beat with my hand on my knee as they butchered "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," and I let them try on my fancy helmet and showed them how the visor shoots into place when you press a certain button. When I left, everyone was happy.
Fast-forward through my night. A few shots of cheap whiskey and several PBRs becomes 3:30 in the morning and I show up at the house where Lucy's babysitting. In my hand is a bag and in the bag is yellow curry with chicken from Late Night Thai (when I picked it up, the guy at the counter remarked, "three nights in a row, huh?"). On my breath there is liquor and in my wallet there is... less than I had hoped for.
I ate sitting on the floor under a few stray rays of light that came from the stairway. Lucy was in bed a few feet away and trying to sleep. I couldn't finish the potato aspect of the dish before my drunken brain led me to bed and haphazardly spilled my body, luckily, on the mattress.
(Resume forward motion at a tolerable speed)
It's noon. Or maybe it's 5 PM. Did I miss work? Am I running late? Does Bekki hate me? The boy-twin is asking about the reappearance of my shoes and helmet while I'm half-jokingly hiding under the blanket on the guest-bed. Taking a peak and noticing the emptiness of the room, I sit up and down the second half of the can of Coke that had gone unfinished with my meal.
I've been detected! Cameron (the boy-twin) asks, "Is he waking up?" One thing I've noticed with young kids is that if you answer their questions honestly and very matter-of-fact-ly, the interrogation tends to end right there. Remembering this, I reply (regardless of whom the question was directed at), "Yep!" He starts with another question but is quickly rushed into a different train of thought by Lucy, who recognizes the awkwardness with ease.
At the next interval between children noticing me, Lucy handed me her keys and sent me to her place. On my walk over I realized that it was only 9 in the morning. There was sleep to be had! That's when I remembered the Coke I drank, and for a second worried that I wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. That fear was quickly dispelled, though, as I passed out until 2 in the afternoon.
Turns out I had woken up and left just in time to be 10 minutes late to work. Sweet!
Tomorrow will mark a return to a normal schedule. This will include working 5 days a week, going to school 4 days a week, trying to walk Toby every day, and somehow fitting the ol' family, girlfriend, and friends in the cracks. This kind of schedule makes me wonder why I buy records and books and instruments when I won't have time to use any of them in the foreseeable future. Hm...
So tonight... last night before school. It's looking like a good night to shave my face. And buy cereal from Dominick's. And maybe some more Late Night Thai. The possibilities are endless.
Lucy babysits twins who are two years old.
Exhibit 1: Warranted Dirty Looks
One parent is Irish and has bleach-white skin while the husband is Indian and has pretty dark skin. When we took the kids to the zoo, people looked at the four of us as if Lucy and I were the parents. This is conceivable: I'm 22 and I've been mistaken for being a few years older. Regardless of how old I look, though, I think what really drew the dirty looks was the unshaven face, tattooed arms, and old, dirty shoes.
Exhibit 2: The Guy on the Couch
I thought I had these kids on my side. I held them up to get a better view of the tiger, I kept the beat with my hand on my knee as they butchered "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," and I let them try on my fancy helmet and showed them how the visor shoots into place when you press a certain button. When I left, everyone was happy.
Fast-forward through my night. A few shots of cheap whiskey and several PBRs becomes 3:30 in the morning and I show up at the house where Lucy's babysitting. In my hand is a bag and in the bag is yellow curry with chicken from Late Night Thai (when I picked it up, the guy at the counter remarked, "three nights in a row, huh?"). On my breath there is liquor and in my wallet there is... less than I had hoped for.
I ate sitting on the floor under a few stray rays of light that came from the stairway. Lucy was in bed a few feet away and trying to sleep. I couldn't finish the potato aspect of the dish before my drunken brain led me to bed and haphazardly spilled my body, luckily, on the mattress.
(Resume forward motion at a tolerable speed)
It's noon. Or maybe it's 5 PM. Did I miss work? Am I running late? Does Bekki hate me? The boy-twin is asking about the reappearance of my shoes and helmet while I'm half-jokingly hiding under the blanket on the guest-bed. Taking a peak and noticing the emptiness of the room, I sit up and down the second half of the can of Coke that had gone unfinished with my meal.
I've been detected! Cameron (the boy-twin) asks, "Is he waking up?" One thing I've noticed with young kids is that if you answer their questions honestly and very matter-of-fact-ly, the interrogation tends to end right there. Remembering this, I reply (regardless of whom the question was directed at), "Yep!" He starts with another question but is quickly rushed into a different train of thought by Lucy, who recognizes the awkwardness with ease.
At the next interval between children noticing me, Lucy handed me her keys and sent me to her place. On my walk over I realized that it was only 9 in the morning. There was sleep to be had! That's when I remembered the Coke I drank, and for a second worried that I wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. That fear was quickly dispelled, though, as I passed out until 2 in the afternoon.
Turns out I had woken up and left just in time to be 10 minutes late to work. Sweet!
Tomorrow will mark a return to a normal schedule. This will include working 5 days a week, going to school 4 days a week, trying to walk Toby every day, and somehow fitting the ol' family, girlfriend, and friends in the cracks. This kind of schedule makes me wonder why I buy records and books and instruments when I won't have time to use any of them in the foreseeable future. Hm...
So tonight... last night before school. It's looking like a good night to shave my face. And buy cereal from Dominick's. And maybe some more Late Night Thai. The possibilities are endless.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Watching the Fire as We Grow Old
Across the street is a man picking garbage out of a trash can. After looking for nothing in particular, he is now stomping on something.
The weather here is gray, as is the mood. Elliott Smith is playing and I'm watching the end of my summer vacation drive by too fast, or blow its nose in the back of the coffee shop, or pick garbage out of a can. I am at work, which means I am sending e-mails that don't particularly need to be sent, reading a book between customers, and constantly planning for the rest of the night which will, with great consistency, turn out to be mediocre.
But everything's okay. School starts on Monday and I finally have a desk. When the weather gets bad, I won't have a car (if someone will buy it). Seeing my girlfriend will be difficult but not impossible. Maybe I'll be forced to get straight A's? Maybe.
Just give me a motorcycle and a guitar and a pen and paper and a pack of cigarettes and some bourbon. I don't think I'd need much else. I won't need an audience and I won't need any food. My cash wouldn't have nowhere to go and I'd quit my job first chance I got. I'd take a little less and I'd make it into some more.
My mother told me that people get sad when they turn 18, and that their sadness only gets worse until their fifties or sixties, when they're happy again... or dead. I think it's a fear of death, or of how to make ends meet until the end. I'm not afraid of death. Every movie and every album and every life is a different length. Some end before they should. Some sequels and some kids should never have been made. I won't anticipate the end if the rest of the movie is good, but I'll know it shouldn't go on forever. I'm just worried that my story won't develop the right characters, or that meaningful scenes will be cut short. And I don't want my song to have too many choruses, either. Summer is usually the chorus, but this summer was the bridge. Maybe tomorrow night can be a brief chorus before the verse of school kicks in. Maybe cigarettes as a theme is simply a narrative tool that illustrates how easily I can be defeated, or how well I can do when I apply myself. Maybe it's trying to show that my natural inclination is toward smelling bad. Or maybe it's because, when I smoke, I isolate myself from close relationships while indulging myself in good times
The weather here is gray, as is the mood. Elliott Smith is playing and I'm watching the end of my summer vacation drive by too fast, or blow its nose in the back of the coffee shop, or pick garbage out of a can. I am at work, which means I am sending e-mails that don't particularly need to be sent, reading a book between customers, and constantly planning for the rest of the night which will, with great consistency, turn out to be mediocre.
But everything's okay. School starts on Monday and I finally have a desk. When the weather gets bad, I won't have a car (if someone will buy it). Seeing my girlfriend will be difficult but not impossible. Maybe I'll be forced to get straight A's? Maybe.
Just give me a motorcycle and a guitar and a pen and paper and a pack of cigarettes and some bourbon. I don't think I'd need much else. I won't need an audience and I won't need any food. My cash wouldn't have nowhere to go and I'd quit my job first chance I got. I'd take a little less and I'd make it into some more.
My mother told me that people get sad when they turn 18, and that their sadness only gets worse until their fifties or sixties, when they're happy again... or dead. I think it's a fear of death, or of how to make ends meet until the end. I'm not afraid of death. Every movie and every album and every life is a different length. Some end before they should. Some sequels and some kids should never have been made. I won't anticipate the end if the rest of the movie is good, but I'll know it shouldn't go on forever. I'm just worried that my story won't develop the right characters, or that meaningful scenes will be cut short. And I don't want my song to have too many choruses, either. Summer is usually the chorus, but this summer was the bridge. Maybe tomorrow night can be a brief chorus before the verse of school kicks in. Maybe cigarettes as a theme is simply a narrative tool that illustrates how easily I can be defeated, or how well I can do when I apply myself. Maybe it's trying to show that my natural inclination is toward smelling bad. Or maybe it's because, when I smoke, I isolate myself from close relationships while indulging myself in good times
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
A-huggin' the pillow where my baby used to lay
Two parking tickets and $100 later, I'm back. It's almost 10 in the morning and I'm at work, drinking a cup of coffee that, once upon a time, was warm. To my right is a bag of cereal (Mini Wheats), and beside that is the uneaten half of my Clif Bar. For me, the refrigerator holds two green tea Arnold Palmers, the rest of my green Naked juice, and a Pepsi Throwback (which, once again, will probably cause numerous new cavities in my teeth).
So this summer... It's been productive, to say the most. I earned an A and a B during summer school, am employed at a job I don't hate, moved into a new apartment, read a few books, bought a bunch of new records, chipped away at my debt (though I still have a long way to go), and I saw some sweet shows.
Debauchery, on the other hand, has not come out in full force this year. This could mean one of three things: 1) I'm slowing down in my old age, 2) I'm under control now that I have a girlfriendo, or 3) some summers are less action-packed than others. I don't know which idea I favor least, but I suppose it's not a bad thing that I haven't blacked out due to excessive drinking or recreational drug use. I've gotten high a few times, but the amount of smoke I've toked in various sessions this summer could have been inhaled in one sitting under my previous tolerance.
So summer's wrapping up and I still haven't registered for classes, which start on Monday. The only thing left to do before the summer is officially over is to go to New York for Labor Day weekend. It's about time I got out of Chicago for more than six hours.
Oh, so I think I understand something about my body. Ha, that sounds funny. Anyways, I feel as if my body has some kind of protective shield against alcoholism and cigarette addiction. Here's what I noticed:
When I drink heavily for an extended period of time, the calories from the liquor replace the calories from food. Basically, the more I drink, the less I eat. With cigarettes, the more I smoke, the less I eat.
This can mean a couple of things. First of all, this can be an obesity defense mechanism. Under this system, I will never gain weight (let alone become obese). What I meant by this being a shield against alcoholism and cigarette addiction is that I don't think it's possible for a human being to withstand the kind of malnutrition that goes on when I drink and/or smoke heavily. After a short period, my body is given a choice: cut it out, or die! I've always taken the first option.
Anyhow, speaking of food, my diet on Wednesdays is predominantly compressed foods, like Clif Bars and superfood juices. I would love to eat things that provide more than bare bones-sustenance but... I don't have time.
So this summer... It's been productive, to say the most. I earned an A and a B during summer school, am employed at a job I don't hate, moved into a new apartment, read a few books, bought a bunch of new records, chipped away at my debt (though I still have a long way to go), and I saw some sweet shows.
Debauchery, on the other hand, has not come out in full force this year. This could mean one of three things: 1) I'm slowing down in my old age, 2) I'm under control now that I have a girlfriendo, or 3) some summers are less action-packed than others. I don't know which idea I favor least, but I suppose it's not a bad thing that I haven't blacked out due to excessive drinking or recreational drug use. I've gotten high a few times, but the amount of smoke I've toked in various sessions this summer could have been inhaled in one sitting under my previous tolerance.
So summer's wrapping up and I still haven't registered for classes, which start on Monday. The only thing left to do before the summer is officially over is to go to New York for Labor Day weekend. It's about time I got out of Chicago for more than six hours.
Oh, so I think I understand something about my body. Ha, that sounds funny. Anyways, I feel as if my body has some kind of protective shield against alcoholism and cigarette addiction. Here's what I noticed:
When I drink heavily for an extended period of time, the calories from the liquor replace the calories from food. Basically, the more I drink, the less I eat. With cigarettes, the more I smoke, the less I eat.
This can mean a couple of things. First of all, this can be an obesity defense mechanism. Under this system, I will never gain weight (let alone become obese). What I meant by this being a shield against alcoholism and cigarette addiction is that I don't think it's possible for a human being to withstand the kind of malnutrition that goes on when I drink and/or smoke heavily. After a short period, my body is given a choice: cut it out, or die! I've always taken the first option.
Anyhow, speaking of food, my diet on Wednesdays is predominantly compressed foods, like Clif Bars and superfood juices. I would love to eat things that provide more than bare bones-sustenance but... I don't have time.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Illinois Smith
A recurring question that keeps bothering me is, "why do people do things that they know are wrong?" I've exhausted this question in my own head and on various pages in my diary-- no answers, though. And here's what really gets me: I do it, too.
What brings this question up again is Indiana Jones. He was mentioned accidentally when Lucy's roommate was trying recall the action hero that Angelina Jolie played a while ago.
Indiana Jones' theme song was the jingle that played when someone would call my composition teacher's cell phone. This bothered me for on real reason: this particular teacher quickly dissected the plot of Indiana Jones to expose its implications as being very, well, fucked up-- the way Forrest Gump isn't quite as innocent as one might suspect. I saw Indiana Jones once and I was in... 6th grade? It was around the night that the White Sox and Tigers got into a huge, bench-clearing brawl... April 28th, 2000 sounds about right. I've lived ten years, enjoyed countless beers and blunts, and have seen several movies that I enjoyed more, so my memory of the plot and specific scenes is very unreliable. From my professor's rant, the movie depicts the people of India as being helpless when not under British control and, generally, a savage people. His whole telling of the story cast a very negative light on the now classic film, yet he still saw it fit to include the theme song in his daily life. His reasoning was that he liked "to wake up to adventure." That's all good and well, but other adventurous songs have been written. Furthermore, if you're aware that something is morally bankrupt, why would you support it?
I was thinking along terms of WalMart, but that whole system is fucked. If I'm in a small town and I'm not making enough money to feed my kids, I'm sure I'd cut corners and shop at WalMart occasionally, no matter how much I would hate myself for doing so.
What brings this question up again is Indiana Jones. He was mentioned accidentally when Lucy's roommate was trying recall the action hero that Angelina Jolie played a while ago.
Indiana Jones' theme song was the jingle that played when someone would call my composition teacher's cell phone. This bothered me for on real reason: this particular teacher quickly dissected the plot of Indiana Jones to expose its implications as being very, well, fucked up-- the way Forrest Gump isn't quite as innocent as one might suspect. I saw Indiana Jones once and I was in... 6th grade? It was around the night that the White Sox and Tigers got into a huge, bench-clearing brawl... April 28th, 2000 sounds about right. I've lived ten years, enjoyed countless beers and blunts, and have seen several movies that I enjoyed more, so my memory of the plot and specific scenes is very unreliable. From my professor's rant, the movie depicts the people of India as being helpless when not under British control and, generally, a savage people. His whole telling of the story cast a very negative light on the now classic film, yet he still saw it fit to include the theme song in his daily life. His reasoning was that he liked "to wake up to adventure." That's all good and well, but other adventurous songs have been written. Furthermore, if you're aware that something is morally bankrupt, why would you support it?
I was thinking along terms of WalMart, but that whole system is fucked. If I'm in a small town and I'm not making enough money to feed my kids, I'm sure I'd cut corners and shop at WalMart occasionally, no matter how much I would hate myself for doing so.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Rock Me, Mama, Like a Wagon Wheel
I made a connection today. Check it out:
When I read, I seclude myself. When I write, I expose myself.
I'm at work right now. When I'm at work (and I'm not working), I'm either reading or writing.
When I'm reading I am, essentially, listening. Somebody is telling me a story or spilling their guts or deciding who has a better shot at winning tonight's baseball game and all I can do it sit their and use my eyes as a sponge.
When I write, I am engaged in a conversation. It may be entirely first or third person, but I'm talking and the blank page is listening as it fills up. In this case, my brain is working in a more social capacity than it is when I read.
What brought this to my attention is simple: I usually devote my time to writing entries on this page, or e-mails to whomever. Occasionally, I check ESPN's forecast for the upcoming Sox game, or look for an interesting article on Fark. Regardless, most of my time is spent writing or conversing with customers (or doing dishes). Today, though, I have spent the first two and a half hours reading a book. This is different than usual because I'm reading one thing. It consists of chapters but it is a continuous piece of writing that requires me to flex different pieces of my brain.
Now for what actually brought this to my attention: business hasn't been too steady today (not that this is particularly unusual), which has given me many opportunities to read several pages without being interrupted. When I did have customers, though, I could barely make any audible sounds, let alone carry a conversation. It caught me off guard. I've been awake and active since noon-- I'm not especially alert, nor am I very tired (I mean, I could go for a nap... but that's consistently been the case lately).
To wrap this up on a completely different note, have seconds and pennies fallen through the cracks and out of view? What I mean is this: because cell phones and credit cards are more convenient than watches and cash, are little things like seconds and pennies becoming obsolete? Maybe not, but maybe so. My cell phone has a timer and I still save all my pennies. Just a thought.
When I read, I seclude myself. When I write, I expose myself.
I'm at work right now. When I'm at work (and I'm not working), I'm either reading or writing.
When I'm reading I am, essentially, listening. Somebody is telling me a story or spilling their guts or deciding who has a better shot at winning tonight's baseball game and all I can do it sit their and use my eyes as a sponge.
When I write, I am engaged in a conversation. It may be entirely first or third person, but I'm talking and the blank page is listening as it fills up. In this case, my brain is working in a more social capacity than it is when I read.
What brought this to my attention is simple: I usually devote my time to writing entries on this page, or e-mails to whomever. Occasionally, I check ESPN's forecast for the upcoming Sox game, or look for an interesting article on Fark. Regardless, most of my time is spent writing or conversing with customers (or doing dishes). Today, though, I have spent the first two and a half hours reading a book. This is different than usual because I'm reading one thing. It consists of chapters but it is a continuous piece of writing that requires me to flex different pieces of my brain.
Now for what actually brought this to my attention: business hasn't been too steady today (not that this is particularly unusual), which has given me many opportunities to read several pages without being interrupted. When I did have customers, though, I could barely make any audible sounds, let alone carry a conversation. It caught me off guard. I've been awake and active since noon-- I'm not especially alert, nor am I very tired (I mean, I could go for a nap... but that's consistently been the case lately).
To wrap this up on a completely different note, have seconds and pennies fallen through the cracks and out of view? What I mean is this: because cell phones and credit cards are more convenient than watches and cash, are little things like seconds and pennies becoming obsolete? Maybe not, but maybe so. My cell phone has a timer and I still save all my pennies. Just a thought.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Lucy, I'm Home
Two more firsts in my relationship with the Stella: today I went on Lake Shore Drive and yesterday I crashed into some guy.
Here's what led up to the latter event: I had gone to bed around 1:30 in the morning and had to wake up at 6:30 in order to have enough time to shower and eat a cup of yogurt before work at 7:15. Unusually, I was three minutes early to work! I was on all day, as far as a barista can be "on." For sustenance, I drank a large bottle of the Naked Green Machine juice, ate two Clif bars, and drank lots of coffee.
My shift ended at 4, at which time I filled my bowl of ramen with hot water and walking into the scorching heat (it was hot enough for a safety advisory to be issued until 9 o'clock that evening). I enjoyed my hot soup outside with Tony (the guy who drives a 750 CC Honda) and talked biking. I showed him how a manual scooter works and he was impressed. He told me I could take his bike around the block once I get my M-Class license.
After 30 or 40 minutes, I headed down to Bryn Mawr to walk the Honda Elite to ScooterWorks. Well, that's not exactly what happened: first I called my mom and told her it was impossibly hot and that walking 3+miles (half of which while maneuvering a dead scooter) was out of the question. She understood and suggested I come back at night. I wasn't thrilled with her idea, plus I decided that I give myself too many breaks. Then I went to Bryn Mawr and Broadway.
The walk to ScooterWorks mildly sucked but it wasn't so bad-- I had a bottle of Arnold Palmer, which always makes life easier.
I was tired when I got back to the Stella. I had to head to my mom's for dinner and Hank wanted to play catch beforehand. The route I had in my head was simple: Broadway to Clark to Wrightwood. This went as planned until the Broadway/Halsted fork at Grace. I was about eight cars back when the light turned green, which gave me sufficient time to make it through the intersection. I was going maybe 30 MPH when it happened; I think I was in 3rd gear: a biker came out of Grace, ignoring his red light. I meant to stay on Broadway, which would have forgiven the biker's breaking of the rules-- I didn't, though. This mistake that I made had no legal or fault-assuming repercussions on the incident as it is just as well that I go straight as opposed to taking the slight left. So I'm going straight and this dude comes out of nowhere. I wave at him, the kind of wave that says, "Get the hell outta here!" He doesn't, and, if I remember correctly, he was grinning the whole way (he may have been drunk). I grab the break (and the clutch, too, accidentally) and try to avoid him. His course, versus mine, made him nearly impossible to avoid. His front tire collides with the back of the Stella and we both go down. Here's where it seems to get interesting: when the Stella hits the ground, I accidentally rev the throttle (in the chaos, the gear has gone into 4th).
My brain ran a quick systems diagnostic of my body, decided everything was okay (but that my shins are lightly scraped) and I checked for the other guy. I had looked back as the throttle had accidentally revved and seen the guy's face just inches from the back tire. As I'm standing up, I see a dark puddle of red on the pavement. Immediately, the vision of seeing red while swimming in the ocean moments before noticing a shark gnawing on my legs passes through my mind. That vision never occurred but the thought troubled me for a time while I was a freshman in high school. Anyhow, My heart leaps at the thought that I had just killed some red-light-running biker asshole. That worry was quickly dispelled when I saw that it was oil that had spilled out of my engine and that the guy seemed to be okay. We both jumped up, I shook his hand in recognition of understanding that it was an accident, and he took off.
I spent the next 20 minutes decompressing and looking for the cap to my oil intake. A wise old Latino man who was missing his two front teeth (but had given up searching) helped me out as we recapitulated what had happened from our differing perspectives. He said I had the light and that I was lucky for having a helmet (the other guy wasn't wearing one). We couldn't find the cap, even after enlisting the help of a hobo.
When I decided that I was ready, I strapped on my helmet, hopped on, and rode away-- about 10 feet. The wheel had been bent and was no longer true to the handlebars. I called Will and got instructions on how to bend it back. I had no luck, though, so I decided I'd walk it to my mom's. A block or two down, I decided I had had enough of walking scooters places, so I tried bending it again. Turns out I had been bracing the wrong part of the wheel. I tried a new way and it worked. So I rode home.
And that was that. Everyone appreciated the pool-of-blood part of my story.
Time to close up shop.
Here's what led up to the latter event: I had gone to bed around 1:30 in the morning and had to wake up at 6:30 in order to have enough time to shower and eat a cup of yogurt before work at 7:15. Unusually, I was three minutes early to work! I was on all day, as far as a barista can be "on." For sustenance, I drank a large bottle of the Naked Green Machine juice, ate two Clif bars, and drank lots of coffee.
My shift ended at 4, at which time I filled my bowl of ramen with hot water and walking into the scorching heat (it was hot enough for a safety advisory to be issued until 9 o'clock that evening). I enjoyed my hot soup outside with Tony (the guy who drives a 750 CC Honda) and talked biking. I showed him how a manual scooter works and he was impressed. He told me I could take his bike around the block once I get my M-Class license.
After 30 or 40 minutes, I headed down to Bryn Mawr to walk the Honda Elite to ScooterWorks. Well, that's not exactly what happened: first I called my mom and told her it was impossibly hot and that walking 3+miles (half of which while maneuvering a dead scooter) was out of the question. She understood and suggested I come back at night. I wasn't thrilled with her idea, plus I decided that I give myself too many breaks. Then I went to Bryn Mawr and Broadway.
The walk to ScooterWorks mildly sucked but it wasn't so bad-- I had a bottle of Arnold Palmer, which always makes life easier.
I was tired when I got back to the Stella. I had to head to my mom's for dinner and Hank wanted to play catch beforehand. The route I had in my head was simple: Broadway to Clark to Wrightwood. This went as planned until the Broadway/Halsted fork at Grace. I was about eight cars back when the light turned green, which gave me sufficient time to make it through the intersection. I was going maybe 30 MPH when it happened; I think I was in 3rd gear: a biker came out of Grace, ignoring his red light. I meant to stay on Broadway, which would have forgiven the biker's breaking of the rules-- I didn't, though. This mistake that I made had no legal or fault-assuming repercussions on the incident as it is just as well that I go straight as opposed to taking the slight left. So I'm going straight and this dude comes out of nowhere. I wave at him, the kind of wave that says, "Get the hell outta here!" He doesn't, and, if I remember correctly, he was grinning the whole way (he may have been drunk). I grab the break (and the clutch, too, accidentally) and try to avoid him. His course, versus mine, made him nearly impossible to avoid. His front tire collides with the back of the Stella and we both go down. Here's where it seems to get interesting: when the Stella hits the ground, I accidentally rev the throttle (in the chaos, the gear has gone into 4th).
My brain ran a quick systems diagnostic of my body, decided everything was okay (but that my shins are lightly scraped) and I checked for the other guy. I had looked back as the throttle had accidentally revved and seen the guy's face just inches from the back tire. As I'm standing up, I see a dark puddle of red on the pavement. Immediately, the vision of seeing red while swimming in the ocean moments before noticing a shark gnawing on my legs passes through my mind. That vision never occurred but the thought troubled me for a time while I was a freshman in high school. Anyhow, My heart leaps at the thought that I had just killed some red-light-running biker asshole. That worry was quickly dispelled when I saw that it was oil that had spilled out of my engine and that the guy seemed to be okay. We both jumped up, I shook his hand in recognition of understanding that it was an accident, and he took off.
I spent the next 20 minutes decompressing and looking for the cap to my oil intake. A wise old Latino man who was missing his two front teeth (but had given up searching) helped me out as we recapitulated what had happened from our differing perspectives. He said I had the light and that I was lucky for having a helmet (the other guy wasn't wearing one). We couldn't find the cap, even after enlisting the help of a hobo.
When I decided that I was ready, I strapped on my helmet, hopped on, and rode away-- about 10 feet. The wheel had been bent and was no longer true to the handlebars. I called Will and got instructions on how to bend it back. I had no luck, though, so I decided I'd walk it to my mom's. A block or two down, I decided I had had enough of walking scooters places, so I tried bending it again. Turns out I had been bracing the wrong part of the wheel. I tried a new way and it worked. So I rode home.
And that was that. Everyone appreciated the pool-of-blood part of my story.
Time to close up shop.
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