Day 2 (I should make this a habit)
After much research, the advantages of a bike as a means of transportation seemed to outweigh those of a longboard. It goes faster, and it tends to get stolen. The latter is a burning concern if youâre living in the ghetto-ass outskirts of Fort Lauderdale, where dead bodies show up on the river and smoking weed is still considered a crime. So I first browsed through a branch of the Wal-Mart empire, I was rather excited to see that the price range did not exceed 250 bucks. Sweet, my broke college ass said. They were Wal-Mart bikes nonetheless, presumably made of outsourced misery, a rather cheap and non-durable material. So as any good American citizen should do I embarked on a quest to find a small independent retailer nearby in order to foment the local economy. Ergonomics 101.
Jewieâs Bike Shop. So I will call it, for protection of the actual shop. Upon walking into the store I noticed a flashing menorah. My wallet did its best to signal me away from such financial slaughterhouse, but I really wanted a fucking bike. I walked below dozens of hanging bicycles, specifically looking for a fixie to reinforce my hipster persona. Mr. Bike-Selling-Jew came up to me just as my defenses were coming up. I pretended to listen as he pushed me through rows of bikes that were âon saleâ. Come on man, I was a salesman. Reading âThe Art of Persuasionâ will really come in handy now.
I walked out with a matte fixie, and a 200-dollar debt.
He read me like a fucking book. A fucking childrenâs book, with illustrations and rhyming prose. How else was he to know about my huge dislike towards shiny thigs? A matte fixie was just the bike for me to sit my credulous ass in. Being the scientist I am I took it out for a test run as soon as I got home: 14 minutes. Thatâs how long it took me to cover 3 miles. So I ran in, picked up my loyal chodeboard (regular skateboard/longboard wheels) and went out to slide through those 3 miles. 14 minutes. A real bang for my buck. Iâm a firm advocate of not buying anything I donât need. What was it that I wanted? A way to get to class without burning gas. That I already had, but while looking for optimization of my time I ended up wasting more cash than I had.
Being the outstanding procrastinator I am I waited more than a week to gather up my nerve and show up back there to return my fixie. When I finally did walk in the owner was conveniently not there, and only HE could take in returns. The next day as I was reciting him my pathetic excuse I noticed him reading me once again, before I could finish he already knew how to take down my defenses. He pointed at the small print in the receipt âAll sales are finalâ, written in what many would hesitate to call handwriting. Long story short, I walked out as a happy bike owner.
A couple of days later I smoked the roach my new friend Phillipe left me and rode my fixie to the tune of Trap Doors, by Broken Bells.
I rode as high as an Asianâs SAT scores.
[Dalai Jamma out]
