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The worst thing about the convenience store gig was that it was in that wonderfully irritating area of being too far to walk and too close to take the subway. So you’d gotten a bike. Had a bike. Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary except for the distant sound of fighting that your coworker had waved away. And then you’d strolled to the end of the street. Because that’s where the bikes were supposed to be but where the bikes were supposed to be, there was nothing. It was like it’d never been there, sucked up by a particularly enterprising street cleaner. A few others were standing around too, some in similar states of disbelief. Others just seemed resigned. Strangely, there were cops already rounding the corner.
You got a new bike. And locked it in a different bike rack, even though they’d replaced the old one. Lightning never struck twice and all that but you can never be too sure - then your bike got destroyed again. Just sucked straight off the pavement because you saw not knut or bolt of the dang thing. The fuzz showed up again and were about as useful as the first time so you bought a new bike and the store owner seemed to be getting a little suspicious and charged you more which couldn’t be legal but you couldn’t exactly afford a lawyer so you hauled the bike into the store and hid it in the break room and dealt with the stares from people who watched you finagle the thing around the displays until one day you got a little tired of that and locked it up outside. It was gone and as you sank to your knees on the curb, cursing indiscriminately, you wondered if perhaps it was time to give up and just start taking the train or something.
You considered it for a second before stiffening your upper lip and deciding that you would successfully own and use a bike. Which is kind of nonsense but you’re operating only half on logic and the rest is pretty much just spite. So you get a bike and lock it up and peer through the wall to wall windows, bending and stretching to see past the newly painted advertisements for seasonal flavors of cup noodles for the better part of your shift. And it’s fairly uneventful and you think you’re gonna get written up but your coworker ain’t no snitch. So you stand and stare and you’re just about ready to give it up but then someone eye catching walks past the window. He’s wearing a white suit and you wonder if he’s part of one of those host bars or whatever they’re called because he has a kind of vibe going on and you toss that around thoughtfully in your mind before the familiar sound of a fight starts breaking out and normally you’d ignore that but it’s in the direction of the bike racks.
“Berightback!” You yell to Coworker (you’re half certain the name tag had been something starting with…a letter) and trip out through the sliding doors, narrowly avoiding face planting into the glass, and dart out to what has to be the most dictionary perfect real life example of pandemonium. Barely halfway down the black four guys are teaming up on guy-who-might-be-a-host and that seems a little unfair but then white-suit-guy glowers and grumbles and fast walks over to the bike racks and you feel a primal fight or flight instinct deep in your hind brain rear up as he tears. your. bike. from. the. rack. The chain is left on the ground, broken, and you’re left gaping for all of two seconds before you see him raising your. Goddamn. new. Bike. Over his head.
“HEY!” You scream and your voice cracks, which is pretty embarrassing and you’re already resigned for this New Core Memory to keep you up at night for the next rest of your life, especially when it somehow halts the fight. “THAT’S MY BIKE!”
You point too, just in case there were any misunderstandings. Bike-mafioso-male-gigolo stops, glances at your bike, and motions to put it down. You sigh in relief. But the movement catches the attention of the four other people you just remembered were also here and they all, collectively, take a step toward guy-who-was-mistaken-to-think-white-suits-were-still-in-fashion and one of them has a gun and he, having nothing in immediate arms reach besides what’s already in hand, raises it back above his head. And brings it down. And the goon folds like one of those cheap tables with swing-lock legs. And your bike explodes in a puff of twisted metal and broken dreams.
“My biiiike.” You whimper. A single tear slips down the curve of your cheek and you reach a hand out dramatically (beseechingly you think to yourself) as Suit Guy lays the pain down on the guys who might-probably-definitely are part of the yakuza. He’s pulling all sorts of moves you’re sure must be fatal but in the end all four goons are left groaning on the pavement so they’re probably alive. They’re breathing, at least.
Having yen literally explode out of your body can’t be healthy, though. You hope it’s not contagious.
White Suit Guy pats himself off and is about to go moseying away into the night but you’re already in front of him.
“You.” You say, voice hoarse.
“Yes?” He responds, equally monosyllabic.
“My. Bike.” Suddenly, he seems a little more contrite. It looks a little funny on his face, which can’t have been made for anything less than stoic, smoldering intensity. You wonder if he came out the womb like that.
“Ah. Yeah.” He glances at what used to be your bike. “Sorry.”
“SoRrY.” You mutter under your breath, and you want to be a little more petty but the apology does seem genuine at least.
One of the goons groan. A now uninterested onlooker steps over him and continues walking.
“Look, have you wrecked three other bikes that were this make, model, color, looked similar to that one at all?”
“Uh.” He seems confused at this sudden line of questioning. “I’m not sure. They all kind of look the same at the end.”
“Whuh.” You make a face. “How many bikes . . . “
“Not sure. I can’t really decide when someone picks a fight.” He looks a little guilty at that too, now that he’s actually thinking about it, and you don’t know why you’re suddenly being so cool about him absolutely being the reason why you’ve been single handedly funding the bike shop near your place.
“You’ve destroyed three of my bikes.”
“Oh.” His brow knits. A few moments pass in awkward silence. You hate him.
“And you’re gonna pay me back.”
“What?”
“Atonement.” You hiss.