What a romantic moment I stole from them on Flushing Avenue by the Brooklyn Navy Yard. My camera is sick and in the shop as you can tell from the focus on this.
Here’s the latest installment of Kiko’s Tale, and he’s back. I’m self conscious about dialog, and this one really should end up on the cutting room floor, but the life of a delivery person is full of these sort of observations. They give the tale its space and breadth, though I wish I was just rushing ahead to where he races and wins, but I’m trying to tell a fuller tale, and I’m enjoying it. There’s more the pipeline, though if I don’t start getting some feedback… (It’s hard to keep going without hits and feedback, of course it is possible that it sucks.)
And of course, if you want to start from the beginning, go here.
Since he had met Ke-vin on Calle Canal, he had been more interested in bikes. To avoid looking at her t-shirted childless breasts he looked over the woman’s shoulder at las bicicletas flacas that hung from the ceiling like stalactites as she collected the food and paid for the egg white and feta omelets con cebollas verdes. As she overtipped she followed his eyes to their bikes and told him something too quickly to understand. Clare slowed down and explained “these bicycles are our racing bikes,” noting his curiosity, “our everyday bikes are outside on the pole.”
“Bicicletas carreras—racing bikes: they are so much thinner than mine.” He thought as he walked down the corridor and stairs that hadn’t been painted since Koch was the mayor, “like the man on the bridge, straight line, thin, light.” Outside in the bright light of the day, which always shocked him when he came out of old dark buildings, he saw two bikes locked up with strong chains inside of black logo fire hose material. He went over and looked at them and neither had suspension or una silla gordo, they were both thin, without writing though they had think rims like his bike, there were no knobs or bumps on the tires. Las gomas were thin and bald, and other than that the bikes looked like his, chipped, nicked and dirty-dinged. But they had those bikes on their ceiling. This was a mystery that Kiko was having a hard time unraveling: “Why would they have such nice bikes and bikes outside that looked like his?”
Kiko, being a quick study, figured out the logic of having beater bikes outside as he admired their locks and the bicycle chains in a short circuit beneath the crossbar that kept their seats attached. He figured out how and why they locked the bikes at some distance from their loft, which being in the middle of the block, offered too much privacy and shelter for thieves to work on the locks, cables and pole that wove their bikes to the city. The bikes didn’t look like much spray painted a basic dark blue, they were the opposite of the shiny stickers and logos that the months of chaining his bike had chipped, ripped and eroded off of the frame that was so flashy when Señora Choi had brought it to him. They looked like the taxi cabs that have had their medallions taken from them with yellow paint covering the stickers that they owner couldn’t pull off: flash free function.