The Messenger In Me

As a messenger, I had the pleasure of wrangling all sorts of objects. When I still wore Lycra for cash and took tips in my waistband, there were objects that were made from processed tree’s that early man scribed on. I hated blueprints. You couldn’t fold em into your satchel, because some suit or neatly “Dockered” gent would complain that his work came all wrinkled and what not! Clients complained about anything back then. Liquor on your breath, was ok, so long as it was of a premium variety. The prints were usually rolled to the diameter of a “CD” (another ancient device that bands used to house their shitty tracks about human despair, world strife and getting bad smack) and placed in a god-awful rectangular box that felt great when its pointy-most edge found its way to the small of your back.

A guy came in today looking to upgrade his tires. No problem. He wanted to keep his old tires. No problem save for the fact that they had a wire bead making them un-foldable. Once the sale is made, the responsibility of the owner to schlep his or her own shit is out of our hands. That’s just not right though. I see the guy with the tires fumbling about trying to figure out how he was going to manage riding and carrying a set of tires. Pathetic. I never had that kind of time to figure out the most efficient way of transporting goods. I used my front bars, placed huge flats on my back pedaling into the wind, pinned stuff to my body, whatever. That $5 oversize charge was good for 2 pints during happy hour. I wasn’t always sober taking on such tasks, but grinding a 15% hill with somebody’s dry cleaning tends to detox you quickly. Our creed was to get it done fast and whine about it later at the bar.

I rigged the rookie up the best I could. I let him know that sex appeal takes a back seat to transporting your load. Transporting your load, sex appeal? Normal conversation at the bike shop.

The Hunter

We are a varied group of individuals. I guess that’s why people shop with us. A guy and his wife came in to finish outfitting a bike he had purchased from us. His wife looked as if she could ride him off her wheel fairly quickly and not even think about letting up off the gas. No shame in that, just wouldn’t be me. I would fake a flat or grab my hamstring and rile in pain like a Brazilian footballer before admitting defeat.

Hubs got into a conversation with a staff member about killing stuff in Montana. I have no idea how the conversation went from Shimano’s lion share of the market to shotguns, bullet preferences and the best places to kill shit in the big sky state. I could tell that our staffer wasn’t really trying to push the conversation; he was just along for the ride and I guess the sale. You never know who you could be offending, when you start up with the John Rambo parlance. I had to walk away because my patchouli was starting to emanate through my pours as I was getting heated with the topic that wouldn’t go away. I did a few “ohms” and returned.

It takes all kinds in this world.

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