There's a teenage newspaper delivery girl who comes to my street corner every Thursday afternoon with her papers in a blue foldable wagon. She grabs a stack and, leaving the wagon on the sidewalk in front of my house, runs up the street, returning every fifteen minutes or so for more papers. The other day, she brought a friend along, a guy who left his bike on the corner with her wagon.
The weird thing was that he didn't leave the bike on the sidewalk, or even beside the sidewalk—he left it way out in the middle of the street with its little kickstand out, forcing cars to drive around it. Maybe he thought he was being funny? I remember being fifteen; I remember doing stupid things, thinking I was being funny.
But now I am 33. Now I stand at my window, clutching a mug of cold coffee and scowling at fifteen-year-olds who can't see me hiding behind my blinds. I do not think they're funny. I do not think anything's funny. Hey you kids, get off my lawn! Or, off the street, rather! Get off the street and THEN get off my lawn!
I took a picture of the obnoxious white bike sitting out in the middle of the street and texted it to my neighbor. Who, I wrote with an air of disdain fit for a queen, leaves their bike in the middle of the street like this? I began to daydream about someone stealing the bike, or driving over the bike, just to teach the kid a lesson. Am I a bad person? Does this make me a bad person? I've hit the stage of adulthood where I talk nonstop about politics and wish harsh life lessons on the young people.
I looked out the window again, in time to see a man ride up on a pink bike. He noticed the white bike in the middle of the street, but he was more pleased about it than I was. He was downright thrilled, actually. He dismounted his own bike and grabbed the handlebars of the white bike. Two bikes, for the price of none! What a lucky afternoon! He nudged the kickstand with his foot and started to wheel it away.
Theft! I realized then that I didn't actually want anyone to steal the bike. I felt bad for the kid. He was just trying to be funny. He didn't deserve to lose his bike over it.
Fortunately for me and my conscience, and unfortunately for the would-be bike thief, my mom was there.
She and my dad had just pulled up. They were visiting from out of town, and she's no fool. She knows a bike robbery when she sees one.
"I don't think that's your bike," she said to him, smiling, because my mom is always smiling, at everyone.
He stared at her. "I need this bike," he said simply, as though she were misunderstanding the situation. "Mine has a flat."
"Well yes," she said, "but it's not your bike."
I was out there too by this time. The guy looked defeated when he saw me, like he thought it was my bike and now that I was there he couldn't have it.
"Is this your bike?" my mom asked me.
I said it wasn't, but that I knew whose bike it was. The guy perked up. "Whose is it then?" He lifted his chin defiantly at me, as though he suspected I was making up the fact that it had an owner. Like bikes don't usually have owners and it was inconceivable that this one did, like maybe I just didn't want him to have a bike and was messing with him to be mean.
I smiled at him. Like my mom. My dad was smiling too. Everyone was smiling except the man who just wanted to steal a bike in PEACE, people. "Some guy out delivering newspapers. He'll be back soon."
"How do you know he'll be back soon?" the guy challenged me. "What if he doesn't come back?"
My parents and I gawked at him for a moment. "He'll come back," I said finally. "He was literally just here. Shouldn't have left his bike in the middle of the street though. That wasn't a great idea." I was trying to lighten the mood. Didn't work.
The man was getting annoyed with us. He had a bag draped over the handlebars of the pink bike, and he started to rummage through it, discarding the things he didn't want right onto the street. Something made of green tulle and ribbons that looked like it had been part of a wedding favor. A pair of underwear.
My dad gestured at the guy's bike. "Where'd you get that one?" he asked. My mom and I looked at my dad like, Don't ask don't ask don't ask.
The guy shrugged. "Found it." And he glared at us, like, How else does one get a bike, exactly?
We all nodded a lot, like, Okay, of course, that's how we get bikes too that's how everyone gets bikes.
We went back and forth a few more times. The guy tried to explain to us a few other ways why he should be allowed to steal the bike. We countered with some pretty persuasive arguments about how stealing is just, like, against the law and stuff. He mentioned his flat tire again. We tried not to mention that it wasn't really his flat tire to begin with.
"Well," said the guy at last, resigned, "I'll come back to this address later and get this bike."
"Okay," we said, like, Okay, that's a good idea.
And then the guy left.
And then the white bike's owner came back and I got to say to him the thing I'd been dyyyyyying to say to him for the past thirty minutes.
"Hey, how's it going?" I said. I pointed at the bike, which my mom was still holding onto, "Some guy just tried to steal your bike. Probably shouldn't leave it in the middle of the street like that."
Learned his lesson, he did.
And I went back to my spot in the window to guard the neighborhood and judge the kids for trying to be funny, as is my duty.
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