Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Le Singe Monte Une Bicyclette

A man rode his rusty Schwinn down the tree lined, suburban street, early in the morning. It was cloudy and cool. He was naked. It was a banana seat bike. He always said he rode this way because he like to feel the wind against his shins. I reminded him shorts would do the trick, even spants, but he just scoffed and pulled a wheelie. The neighbors didn't mind. Only the paper boy was up that early, anyway. It's actually quite sight to see a man riding a banana seat bicycle, while reading the paper. On odd numbered days he would smoke his pipe during the morning ride. Unless of course it was a leap year, then it was a cigarette and a unicycle. All of this was done without the modern convenience of clothes. Now, believe me when I say, he was far from a nudist or a naturist. In fact, if you were to ask him his views on such folks, he'd spew a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush. Our cyclist believed in the usual higher powers, journalism, and pastries. However, like most well informed citizens was distrustful of cats, shopping carts, and left socks, accusing them of attempting to pass for the right. This is turn confusing his shoes, so forth and so on. 

For so many years had this man been riding his bicycle in the morning that he could do it with his eyes shut, had it been possible to read the daily news in such a fashion. His pipe, this being the 3rd of the April year of our lord 2006, was letting off puffs of sweet smelling tobacco from behind the paper, giving him the look of a locomotive. When on this dreary morning, it began to drizzle.

"It's like all the angels of heaven are spitting on all the cats of this world, good riddance" he grumbled.

Quick as a whip the old man folded up his newspaper into a pointed captain's hat and placed it on his head. 

"Wouldn't want to catch a cold, would we Sammy?" he proclaimed.

Now, I'm not sure if the man's name is Sam, or if the bike's name is Sam, or if my name is Sam, but he has a point, none the less.

The old man wheelied through the puddles singing a song that began like happy birthday and ended like The Who’s "Baba O’Riely” and he was without a care in the world. As he rounded the corner onto his street, already being 2 minutes late for toast, he was struck by a lime green Volkswagen minibus, and sent sprawling onto the lawn.

The paper hat was in the gladiolas, the pipe was in the mailbox, and somehow the banana seat made it to the roof of the car port. The old man was on his back, looking at the rain falling straight down. The paper boy rushed over.

"You alright, mate?"


"Sir? You alright? If you die, they'll sure as fuck fire me."


"Hello? Aw Christmas and crackers, I killed the naked bastard-"

The old man muttered something that sounded like "Bears fly kites."

"I beg your pardon?" asked the paperboy.

"Where is my pipe?" repeated the old man.

The paper boy ran about looking for the old man's pipe grumbling about his job, a girlfriend's birthday, and seeing the old man's shame. He looked in the gladiolas, he looked up to the roof, and as he was about to shove the remaining papers in the mailbox and bugger off, he found the pipe and returned it to Sammy, or whoever was still on the grass, motionless. The old man great fully accepted the pipe and pulled out a bag of tobacco, packed the pipe and began smoking.
 "Where did you get that?" asked the paperboy in shock, referring to the bag of tobacco that seemed to appear out of thin air.

"From the tobacconist" said the old man.

"Right, right. Well then, if you're all set, I'll be off."

"Out here in the fields. I fought for my meals. I get my back into my living
I don't need to fight. To prove I'm right. I don't need to be foooorgiven!" sang the old man as the paperboy hopped in the rectangular limey looking vehicle and sped off.
The old man was left smoking and singing in the rain.

The moral of the story is make sure you put your socks on the right feet, be on time for toast, and the falling rain won't hurt you, it only exists to piss off cats.


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" "The difference between a madman and a professional is that a pro does as well as he can within what he has set out to do and a madman does exceptionally well at what he can't help doing.” ― Charles Bukowski