Bicycle

Summer 1995

When I was 7 years old, I fell in love with riding my bike. I’ve been riding for the last two and half years but it wasn’t until the summer of ’95 that I truly took the simple action of riding my bike to a whole other level. I don’t entirely remember what it was, or how it came to be, but as a seven year old a euphoric sense of creativity found itself into my soul. I’d start daydreaming about miniature battles happening at the edge of my school desk, or ninja’s hopping from one tree or pole to the next as I sat in the passenger seat of my parent’s car. While jumping they’d unsheathe their swords incredibly fast and chop down the pole they just jumped off of. My toys suddenly developed personalities and back stories, ancient roman battle commanders riding on the back of a Transformer fighting a ninja turtle flying around in a spaceship. It was a great time in my  young life, and my bike became my personal bat mobile or Tron battle cycle. 

It was a particularly wet summer that year. With every bright and beautiful day, a torrent of rain showers would pass through days at a time. It allowed me to live in my fantasy worlds at home, making forts and fighting off villains with my Nerf gun, but what I really missed was the joy of riding my bike. The feeling was freeing. I’d have total control of every twist and turn, pedaling as fast as I could down my block. I’d imagine chasing down enemy bikers who stole jewels from the local jewelry shop, or flying a spacecraft through an asteroid field. I’d ring my neighbor’s door to ask if my friend Dave could come along so we could race each other in the park, which offered us a more winding path and obstacles like ditches or low hanging branches.

I’d typically win those races. I didn’t know if it was because I was particularly big for my age, and my robot like legs were working with the utmost efficiency, or if it was my booster engines that helped me fly through the course. A child’s imagination could come up will all kinds of reasons. 

Today the sun was out, puffy clouds floating slowly along the stratosphere and a cool breeze whipped through the leaves. I put on my cool Kansas City Chiefs jacket (I liked the red color mostly, only real reason I could come up with living in Chicago at the time) and went to the porch to grab my bike. My mother and sister wanted to go for a bike ride too, but I didn’t really plan on riding with them. No today I was going to fly and zip around the block, waiting for no one and leaving them in the dust. 

We all unloaded our bikes from the basement. As my sister and mother were getting on their respective cycles, my sister’s pink with long tassles on the ends of the handlebar, and my mothers a sky blue with a grocery basket on the front, I noticed something not quite right with mine. A concrete brick fell on my front tire, and bent one of the support wires near the middle of the wheel. I opened my mouth to complain to my mother but she was already outside, maybe around the corner already. It didn’t matter, I looked it over carefully, decided I could just bend it back into place with my thumb and everything would be fine.

I’m a child engineering genius, or so I thought at the moment. All it needed was some elbow grease, some careful guessing and my wheel is as good as new. I rev up my imaginary dual turbo racing engine and begin pedaling down the block. I see my mother and sister farther down near the end of the block and I decide to test how fast I could go. I start pedaling, wind rushing past me, sun shining, trees buzzing by, the feeling is exhilarating. It just so happened that it wasn’t the trees that were buzzing by, but a giant bee tailing me. 

I couldn’t believe this was happening. I was being chased down by a bee. All of a sudden I’m dodging and looking behind me trying to find and outmaneuver this deadly flying foe. I’m riding as fast as I can, looking behind still unable to see where the bee went. My fear, my adrenaline, my excitement rushed out of my body as my bike comes to a stop. I’m now flying through the air bracing for full facial impact with the front lawn of someone’s house. The instance went by incredibly quick, and by the time I knew it I’m lying face down in the grass. I hear my sister crying in the back and my mom yelling profanities. My vision is hazy, and their cries are coming in muffled as if a grenade exploded nearby and I’m caught in the residual after effects.

I squint my eyes and try to see what just happened. My bike is laying on its side with the wheel bent and broken, next to my sister who is crying from what seems to be a scrap on her elbow. I’m not entirely sure how my sister only received a minor scrap on her arm after I slammed my bike full force into her and my mother. My mother, who continued yelling profanities was covering her knee, blood dripping down her leg and through the hand that was covering the gaping hole. My heart started to beat faster knowing that I’d be in big shit back at home, being asked why in the hell I wasn’t looking where I was going.

To be honest, the event happened so quickly. I think I went in an out of consciousness for a few seconds. The one thing I did remember, was the smell and the following fear and disgust that followed. I turned my head the other way, towards the putrid smell of feces, and when I saw what was before my eyes, I couldn’t believe it. To my horror, my whole right arm was covered in what appeared to be the biggest, freshest piece of dog shit I have ever seen. If it wasn’t for the fact that we lived in a populated Chicago suburb, I would’ve believed that I so happened to fall directly on top of feces left over by a horse or small elephant. Immediately I began screaming, and crying. All pain went away as the smell enveloped my nose. As I began wiping my arm on the grass I could hear my mother laughing her heart out and my sister giggling. Imagination can get you into some wild adventures, you just need to know how far you are willing to go blindly before you end up paying for your stupidity. My sister ended up being ok, my mother had to get stitches on her knee, and still has a scar the size of a silver dollar, and sometimes I can still smell the embarrassment on my skin.

Comfort

I wake up anticipating my alarm about to ring at this ungodly early hour. I turn my body over and see there is another 30 minutes before it rings, loud enough to wake up my neighbors below me, I’m sure. I try going back to sleep but I can’t. I’m tired, dead tired, but knowing what I have to do soon keeps me up. I’m anxiety ridden. I’m not entirely sure why but I have some idea.

It’s no use. I toss and turn, bundle myself in a cocoon of thick blankets and try to find a comfortable position but I can’t. I lay there, eyes open, wrapped up and in the fetal position staring at the wall. The sun still slumbers beneath the horizon, lulled by the sounds of passing cars and a lone bird chirping.

I take this time I have, this limbo between the deep night and the beginning of dawn, and cherish what I’m about to lose. I let myself sink into the mattress, close my eyes and try to hold on to this moment. A cool breeze blows through the kitchen window and finds me on the living room floor. A refreshing gift, and with it, I fall asleep…

…and as if a minute passed by, my alarm screams and vibrates on the hardwood floor. I barely think about my neighbors down below, wonder if they would be waking up too, before stretching my arm and ending the unnatural sound that pierced the peaceful night. I force myself to stay awake, widening my eyes and taking deep breathes as I labor to get on my feet.

Standing next to my bed, the blankets that once covered me from head to toe fall to the floor leaving me half naked and exposed. That cool breeze suddenly feels like a sharp cold stab sending shivers up my spine. A sense of emptiness pours over me, starring at this bed on the living room floor. A lone street light a block away finds its way through the trees and into the apartment, casting a small glow into the empty room. Pictures taken down, couches, tables and chairs taken away, rugs removed. Just myself and the mattress. The emptiness within me solidifies with memories of the last two years.

I saved enough money two summers back to buy this mattress to help with my back issues. My former mattress just wasn’t cutting it and I was becoming a cantankerous person throughout the first half of my days. It was an experience I was ready to do away with. A bed is something to rely on after a long day at work, a long trip away from home, or after a being in a fight with a friend. You know that your bed will always be there.

It’s where I hunkered down in the winter, under thick blankets watching great films and reading some fantastic books. Or how about that time I hosted a party with my roommate and offered my bed to two girls who were too drunk to drive back home. They instantly fell asleep and I tried, without much success, to sleep on the rug next to my bed like an obedient dog. I’ve given up my bed to more than a few drunken people, so long as I knew they weren’t leaving drunk.  Eventually I would share my bed with my girlfriend, embracing her and being comforted knowing that we can grow closer by sharing this space together. Of course there was also the time where I plopped myself too hard onto my bed after a very long day of work, and broke part of the frame, which sloped the left side of the mattress, the best side of the mattress.  I continued lying on that side regardless, because I felt a sense of comfort and security on that side.

Looking down at the mattress, I breathe in, let out a long sigh, and grab ahold of the mattress pulling it up and through my front door. I forget how heavy it is, and my grip slips as I pull the bed harder across the carpeted hallway. I see my destination at the other end of the corridor, a tunnel that only seems to stretch further the more I walk through it. Pushing and pulling I finally drag my mattress to the end of the hall. I look through the window and see the black sky turn a dark blue, hints of the morning sun preparing to peak through to welcome a new day. I prop my bed on its side against the wall and look at it one more time.  That sadness still whirling inside of me one final time. Then I remember I’m upgrading to a king size bed and sharing it with the woman I love, that same girlfriend from before.  Better comfort, same sense of security and a chance to make new memories.

Everything will be just fine.

Absolution (Post #2)

Continued from Part 1
...

There was a whisper in the wind, from behind the bars and underneath the door that said a man called the Monarch was looking for a few good men to accompany him on an expedition across the seas. It was supposed to be kept a secret, hidden away so the officials wouldn't get suspicious about a stranger taking citizens of the city on a trip towards imminent death. Only a few knew, most likely people who were associated with the Monarch himself. Of course I would think it obvious that he knew it would be hard to find anyone who would want to venture out into the free seas, to see a world unlike any other. Most of the people are quite content with sitting behind their desks, working from dusk till dawn and sitting in front of their television until it is time to sleep.

I'm not one of those people, not anymore. I cannot stand the drab dreary excuse of a life that I am standing in any longer. Tonight I will go seek out the Monarch and escape the pitiless backwater of endless monotony. It is the willpower and courage that I have built up for so many years that will help me break away from these chains.

I am to meet a contact at the bar Fisherman's Horizon, down by the docks, near the anchorage. Getting to my destination however might prove to be difficult. Believe it when I say that there are very few people who roam the streets at night. Mostly workers going home from a late shift, or people with a sense of shadiness about them, stalking the corners away from the lampposts. There was an armed guard at every crossroad, whether it be for protection or fear I do not know, both seem like plausible explanations.

Heavy clouds covered the city tonight, a thick fluffy soup of pollution and ocean water whirled in the sky above. It was never a wise choice to go traversing about the streets when it was raining out, especially with such filthy water dropping from the upper atmosphere. The rain wasn't coming down very hard tonight, a mixture of mist and light fall splattering the stone cobbles of the streets. I am wearing a hooded raincoat that covers my head to about my mid thigh, a trusty piece of equipment when I had to go home after a late night working in the coal mines of the Southern District. There is no love attached to my profession, and I will not miss the sulfur infused caves one bit. My lungs, already poisoned by inhaling sulfur for five years has had enough, and so did I. I am ready to take in the freshest of air, swim in the cleanest of waters and live the life of an adventurer at sea. First I must find my way to the Fisherman's Horizon.

With my backpack filled with canned foods, a flask of whiskey and official papers identifying me as who I am, I was ready to leave this place forever. With my backpack under my raincoat I tip-toe to the corner of the street that I grew up on my whole life. Street number 145 of 520, the same looking street as the next one hundred. Each house, each front lawn and the fences that separated them the same as the next, for as far as the eye can see. Nothing standing out of the ordinary but myself, huddled under a tree behind the corner lamp post, ready to make my escape out of this world and into the next. The pier where the bar was located was about a mile west of where I lived. All I had to do was follow street #140 until I hit the Naval Academy building, then sneak my way around and make myself towards the pier.

Half way there and I was surprised at the ease that it took to get as far as I did. The armed guards were sparse tonight, only one on every third or fourth crossroad. Perhaps the weather kept some of them inside instead, sipping on tea and looking out from a window inside a cozy home. The enforcement of the city wasn't very strictly coordinated. The officers would do as they wished, so long as the job was done. Nothing stopped an officer from patrolling the corners so long as he had his eyes on it. Whether that meant pacing the streets back and forth, or entering the home of a stranger and sitting by their front window as the rain continued to pitter-patter on the pavement. I was also being very careful with my steps, creeping quickly from one corner to the next, my feet gliding ever so softly across the silk water covered streets. My backpack kept tight and my raincoat flowing with the grace of my body made me appear as an apparition in the night, not exactly certain whether what you saw was really there or not. I felt a surge of excitement and relief the closer I got to my destination, but I was quickly brought back to a fearful reality when I felt a poke on my shoulder and a voice from behind me.

Absolution (Post #1)

For fifteen years I have wanted to travel the seas, to marvel at the beauty of the vast blue emptiness. To feel the mist, to breathe the cleanest air, to open my mind and body to a world that defines the freedom of nature. I've wanted to ride the waves on a majestic white ship and sail for days and days with no destination. The water would be the bed I slept on, the road I traveled with and the wind my guiding direction. My tethers would be cut and I would be unraveled from any worry or responsibility.

Instead for the past twenty years I've been land ridden, to live in the filth of a dirty city, inhaling the never-ending smog of corruption and glutton. Chained to the desk, only able to imagine the world outside my deadpan window. People tell me to learn to love the city for that is where I am destined to spend my life. Have they been brainwashed to accept the perception of this city as something more than a prison, a tomb? I see the truth, the single ray of light cutting through the heavy clouds, shining down at the sea as the only exit to a new life.

Ever since I was born, the city was black and gritty. Corruptive politics and law breakers owned the city, controlling the essence of the market, forcing many people to work horrible jobs for a meager life. Those lucky enough to be born in the higher caste lived a false life of fame and fortune, but only at the price of despicable greed. I was told a long time ago, the city used to be much different than it is today. I was told to believe that the sun shined through the smog, that people had smiles on their faces. Is this believable?

If I was a painter I would paint this city all sorts of shades of gray, with shadows occupying most of the canvas. There would be no trees, no animals, no real sign of life at all, just a bleak gray brick wall, preventing those with aspiration and dreams to keep them hidden inside, until the wall broke apart.

Is there no room for the inspired, for the creative and the bold in this world? I refuse to believe that such concepts exist, and that my chained existence must be broken free. Those individuals who have built the ships that sail the seas, did they realize the barrier of absolution they would break? Is it possible to separate that which I have fallen upon to that which I long to fly to? I must escape the tyranny that befalls the weak-minded and corrupt, and find my place in the world that bestows the chance to explore my passions and zealous nature.

To be continued...