I wrote about it. Here's an excerpt. There's more on my blog. Hope you enjoy it!
Bruce the bike messenger was kinda tall and very skinny; he wore red tights that hung to his knees, and chopped-off gray sweatpants over them. His t-shirt was old enough to see through, with various rips and holes. He carried a duffle bag over his shoulder that weighed about what he did. His blond hair was hacked off short in odd angles, pointing toward the sky. He wore thick smudged glasses in black plastic frames; his face was all stubble and windburn, his hands two callouses.
“Here,” he offered with a voice like gravel, reaching into one of his various pockets and pulling out a picture. It showed a red Ferrari with the windshield broken on the passenger side, gouged out in the shape of handlebars and a head. “I hit this in the rainstorm when it was parked – flipped over once right off my bike and landed on my feet.” Blood oozed from his knee as he spoke. That was Bruce, always landing on his feet. I looked at his knuckles and didn’t see a scratch. The metal plate he had in his head had also helped.
Bruce disappeared into the kitchen without warning, then came back out shoving his bike before him. He flipped it over onto its seat and proceeded to remove the tires, which took him about 30 seconds. He produced a wrench from his shorts and banged the bike frame back into place. Every day required some bike maintenance, and he did it expertly, religiously, stopping only to bark out some ear-shattering coughs, hack up some phlegm and spit it over the railing of the porch, but missing his target like usual. Some of it ended up on my bare feet. “Eww!” I exclaimed. “Oh, sorry,” he said, whipping out a handkerchief and dabbing my feet with it.
Bruce the bike messenger was kinda tall and very skinny; he wore red tights that hung to his knees, and chopped-off gray sweatpants over them. His t-shirt was old enough to see through, with various rips and holes. He carried a duffle bag over his shoulder that weighed about what he did. His blond hair was hacked off short in odd angles, pointing toward the sky. He wore thick smudged glasses in black plastic frames; his face was all stubble and windburn, his hands two callouses.
“Here,” he offered with a voice like gravel, reaching into one of his various pockets and pulling out a picture. It showed a red Ferrari with the windshield broken on the passenger side, gouged out in the shape of handlebars and a head. “I hit this in the rainstorm when it was parked – flipped over once right off my bike and landed on my feet.” Blood oozed from his knee as he spoke. That was Bruce, always landing on his feet. I looked at his knuckles and didn’t see a scratch. The metal plate he had in his head had also helped.
Bruce disappeared into the kitchen without warning, then came back out shoving his bike before him. He flipped it over onto its seat and proceeded to remove the tires, which took him about 30 seconds. He produced a wrench from his shorts and banged the bike frame back into place. Every day required some bike maintenance, and he did it expertly, religiously, stopping only to bark out some ear-shattering coughs, hack up some phlegm and spit it over the railing of the porch, but missing his target like usual. Some of it ended up on my bare feet. “Eww!” I exclaimed. “Oh, sorry,” he said, whipping out a handkerchief and dabbing my feet with it.
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