Thursday
It's just a Thursday night. There is a layer of clouds in the sky, too low to be proper clouds, too high to be a mist. As I ride my bike through the deserted streets, the cloud-mist parts, like ghostly pale curtains at a theatre, to reveal the almost-full moon. I'm told it's almost full. At this point it all looks the same to me. It illuminates the mist-clouds from above while the orange glow of the street lights of downtown illuminate it from below. In between is a sort of swirling inky blackness that can't be described to those who haven't seen it for themselves.
It's just a Thursday night, but the sidewalks, normally as deserted as the streets, are filled with ambling drunks. Perhaps its in anticipation of the upcoming Canada Day celebration, or perhaps it's the cool ocean breeze that's drawn them to the district of Esquimalt, but they're everywhere.
I push on the petals and roll along the windy deserted streets. It's Thursday, and this means I worked today. My shift just ended, and it was a shift I almost didn't get to on time.
My bicycle works wonderfully when it works, much like some of my co-workers, and, like some co-workers, when it doesn't work, everything goes to hell. I was half way to work and just speeding up to catch a green light when my back wheel froze up and my bike skidded to a halt. attempts to make it move yielded no results, the wheel was completely stuck. There was a time when this wouldn't have bothered me, in my younger days, when my bicycle got used daily, I would carry a set of tools on me at all times. Today my riding was a last resort, a trick to get to work on time during a day that had already had the timing thrown off.
I parked my bike against a signpost and tried to formulate a plan. I wasn't about to carry my bike all the way to work, and leaving it here, in the welfare strip-mall of central Esquimalt, was bicycle suicide.I needed to fix it, and for that, I'd need tools. I took a look at the wheel. my first guess was off... it wasn't the axle. the gear shifter had come loose and jammed its self against the gears. Undoing the bolt that held it would require a proper wrench.
The word echoed in my head. Wrench. An image came to mind of a store front, with rows of different sized wrenches hanging from hooks. I'd seen it recently, and I'd seen it nearby, but all that I could see around me were restaurants and corner stores. And, hidden between the corner store and a run down shack of a duplex, a pawn shop.
Thursday afternoon finds me in a pawn shop, of all places. The groundlings browsing the discarded junk for deals eye me like some sort of alien invader, and I might as well be dressed up as I am for work. The only buttons these people want to deal with are made of fancy metals and have a trade-in value approximately equal to the price of a cigarette. One person was incredulously inquiring about the availability of an air-rifle, asking if it required a permit to operate. I wondered if he realized it wasn't an actual rifle.
I bought the wrench and hurried back to my bike. I wasn't afraid of it being stolen in such a short time, but I was running out of time. I'd have to get it fixed quickly if I was going to make it. The bolt came off easy enough, and after a bit of fiddling the bike was whole again, running better than ever. I hopped on and continued riding, waving to the man in the pawn shop on the way. I make it to work with a minute to spare, not enough time for a coffee. Thursday afternoon and I won't get a drop until my first break.
That was earlier. Now it's Thursday night, and I'm half way home when my bike skids to a halt. The damned tire is stuck again, and not an open shop in sight. It's a good thing I've already got my wrench.
It's just a Thursday night, but the sidewalks, normally as deserted as the streets, are filled with ambling drunks. Perhaps its in anticipation of the upcoming Canada Day celebration, or perhaps it's the cool ocean breeze that's drawn them to the district of Esquimalt, but they're everywhere.
I push on the petals and roll along the windy deserted streets. It's Thursday, and this means I worked today. My shift just ended, and it was a shift I almost didn't get to on time.
My bicycle works wonderfully when it works, much like some of my co-workers, and, like some co-workers, when it doesn't work, everything goes to hell. I was half way to work and just speeding up to catch a green light when my back wheel froze up and my bike skidded to a halt. attempts to make it move yielded no results, the wheel was completely stuck. There was a time when this wouldn't have bothered me, in my younger days, when my bicycle got used daily, I would carry a set of tools on me at all times. Today my riding was a last resort, a trick to get to work on time during a day that had already had the timing thrown off.
I parked my bike against a signpost and tried to formulate a plan. I wasn't about to carry my bike all the way to work, and leaving it here, in the welfare strip-mall of central Esquimalt, was bicycle suicide.I needed to fix it, and for that, I'd need tools. I took a look at the wheel. my first guess was off... it wasn't the axle. the gear shifter had come loose and jammed its self against the gears. Undoing the bolt that held it would require a proper wrench.
The word echoed in my head. Wrench. An image came to mind of a store front, with rows of different sized wrenches hanging from hooks. I'd seen it recently, and I'd seen it nearby, but all that I could see around me were restaurants and corner stores. And, hidden between the corner store and a run down shack of a duplex, a pawn shop.
Thursday afternoon finds me in a pawn shop, of all places. The groundlings browsing the discarded junk for deals eye me like some sort of alien invader, and I might as well be dressed up as I am for work. The only buttons these people want to deal with are made of fancy metals and have a trade-in value approximately equal to the price of a cigarette. One person was incredulously inquiring about the availability of an air-rifle, asking if it required a permit to operate. I wondered if he realized it wasn't an actual rifle.
I bought the wrench and hurried back to my bike. I wasn't afraid of it being stolen in such a short time, but I was running out of time. I'd have to get it fixed quickly if I was going to make it. The bolt came off easy enough, and after a bit of fiddling the bike was whole again, running better than ever. I hopped on and continued riding, waving to the man in the pawn shop on the way. I make it to work with a minute to spare, not enough time for a coffee. Thursday afternoon and I won't get a drop until my first break.
That was earlier. Now it's Thursday night, and I'm half way home when my bike skids to a halt. The damned tire is stuck again, and not an open shop in sight. It's a good thing I've already got my wrench.