Why can't People

Why can’t People
just share a space?

My bike was here
now, it seems
someone else
shoved it, there
without speaking

spoke, bent over
kick-stand still pointed out
leaning
to the side
caught, in a perpetual state
of falling
arm-out, aiming back
at the other bike
slid nicely
into place beside mine

rage
injustice
delusions of grandeur, unfolding
a vigilante
rising up from inside
deputized, all-at-once
writing new frontiers, rambling
over "New Adventures in Mundane Tantrum"
the Limited Series
playing out, now, in my mind

with two hands, I lift
fingertips
palm, underlip
thumb, pressing down
firm, on plastic saddle
handlebars
feel similar, yet
lighter than mine
with ease, I remove
the perpetrator
relocating them, elsewhere
for now

with heave and flourish, I toss
strong enough, to send a message
to whom?
thoughts breeze, in flight
gears turn
click-spinning, out
waiting to find ground

wheels
thunk down
bouncing, gentle off back-wall
sound
of rubber absorbing
what felt good to me
at the time

“and that’s what you get for parking in a famous musician’s spot!”
my daughter, 9
looking on, with glee
I try to explain, “I’m not famous…”
“…it’s not my spot..." and
"they shoved…”
my explanations, fall flat
child-like
stopping, right where they started
They wait, gracefully, for me to finish
then reply:
“Soon-to-be famous”

Back of the Page

On the way to drop my kids off at school this morning, I noticed something odd about my bike.

It was lying, sideways…handlebars contorted back in on themselves, brake lines twisted and wrapped around its neck. My baby had been strangled, tossed aside, and left for dead. The frame had crumpled over, leaning into the row of other bikes parked to its right for support. In its final moments, it must have used the last of its energy to keep its kick-stand pointing straight out at the perpetrator: the dull-silver menace that had been slid neatly into the space mine had slept peacefully in the night before.

In recounting the story to my partner, Zanni, later that morning, I found myself gesturing wildly, opining about shared space, courtesy, and justice. Anthropomorphizing a bike with the kind of soapbox-verbal processing that thrives (and wears) on the love and patience of a sympathetic audience. I had to speak quickly, knowing this petty of an issue would only deserve 60 seconds of consideration, at best.

“Why can’t People just…”

This bike incident was not a big deal, in the grand scheme of things (if you believe in the Grand Scheme). But, it had touched an exposed nerve, hadn’t it?

What started as a feeling of being harmed and insulted ended up taking some turns. I could have calmly picked my bike up off the floor, left the person’s bike that had so forcefully taken my spot alone, and went on with my day.

I could have done that.

But instead, I was deputized by some greater force for justice, and imbued with the strength of 10 men, only to pull the bike out of it’s neat little slot and toss it, wheels spin-clicking, as it soared through the air and bounced, gently, into the open space behind me.

I was mad.

What gave this person the right to shove my neatly parked bike over, and place their bike in that weird little tire holder space that my bike was resting in? Was this indicative of some pervasive energy that seemed to follow me - knocking over my tower blocks? Why do people do inconsiderate things, like lie about important transactions, or try to get one over on me? Why does it feel like I’m constantly setting and enforcing boundaries for things that should be common decency?

Well, I think most of that ran through my head while the bike was in mid-air, and when it landed, my 9 year old daughter saw my frustration manifested. What a Fatherly Moment (and so soon after Father’s Day!), as I bouncer-ejected an inert object like it had insulted and hurt me deeply. Granted, it really was a gentle toss, and only 2 ft. away from where I stood - how far can you really throw a bike? But the spirit of what I was doing was seen, and sensed, by them.

“That’s what you get for parking in a famous musician’s spot!”

Oh, to unpack the layers in this one. I went right into explaining mode: I’m not famous, and wait - it’s not my spot, I was just parked there last night. I guess it could have been accidental…but even then, if they wanted that spot so bad, they could have gently moved my bike somewhere else rather than knock mine over.

After I got it all out of my system, “Soon-to-be famous” is all they said, as they wheeled their bike outside, to the street.

I wonder where that came from? I don’t talk about becoming famous, or any of that. Maybe, in the moment, the deeper truth was that I looked entitled, contemptuous, and petty - over something that really didn’t matter all that much. Like a musician raging over the color of M&M’s in the green room. I have so much to be grateful for, and here I am taking it out on a stranger’s bike?

Before leaving the shared garage, I went over to the bike I had moved. I carefully put its wheel in the wire cage, lifted the back tire by its seat to adjust the angle, releasing some tension from the spokes at the front. I checked the back wheel to make sure I didn’t damage it, and took a deep breath.

“Alright, let’s go to school” I said, alone, as I turned to my bike, which was actually fine, save for a few new scratches. I wheeled it calmly to the door, gear-clicks echoing off bare concrete walls, the only sound in the room coming from me.

I wonder: what will my kids remember of this, later?

Have you had something really touch a raw nerve that goes deeper than you expect, recently?

How did you feel, and what was it like recovering and realizing what it was about?

What’s it like realizing when kids have witnessed you at your Not-so-Best?