BANG – my bike fell. I could tell it was my bike simply by the sound of its clunk. I looked out the window and yes, there it lay: on its side, like a dead whale. The children’s seat had clearly taken a serious blow. In part, it had slipped under the car parked next to it. I considered whether my bike may have damaged the car. Or maybe the car’s owner might kill my bike by driving over it upon leaving.
In order to reach my bike, I was to walk through two long hallways, past three safety doors, then down four floors. But I had only just started writing a new paragraph. So I decided to finish that first. While doing so I glanced at passers by: would they do it for me? Of course not. Would I do it for them? I’m not sure.
One of the creatives that rents office space here stepped out of the building. He is the rough bearded, ernest type of guy. He intently studied my bike while crossing the street and seemed to be heading straight towards the zone I was in. I caught myself thinking, “hey, maybe he’ll turn out to be a really nice guy.”
But he walked past it, and kept staring at it while unlocking his own bike in the rack. He left my bike to die a slow death. Clearly, I could no longer delay rescuing it. And what do you know? On exiting the building I discovered someone had done it for me. After all.
I hereby solemnly vow to pick up the next fallen bicycle I see.