The Compulsive Bike Stealer

Our tale begins on a staycation with my friend, Caroline. If you’re unfamiliar with the term “staycation” it’s when people who are too poor or busy to go on a real vacation spend the night at a hotel nearby because there’s something special about sleeping on a mattress that thousands of other people left their dead skin cells on. STAY-CAY-SHUN!

{Just to be clear, this was a staycation, not a lovers’ gettaway, but I can see how this picture may have confused you}

After some flatbread pizza in the hotel restaurant –excuse me– BRASSERIE, Caroline and  I went out on the town with buckets–simply buckets–of red paint.

We ended up in line at Mija Cantina, where a gaggle of greasy men behind us started trying to engage us in conversation. I maybe talked to them for a second, but they were rude, and I wasn’t sure if that was a vile of GHB in their pocket or if they were just happy to see me.

One of the guys invaded my treasured personal space and whispered, “you’re giving off this whole bitchy vibe and I think it’s so sexy.” To which I replied,

and turned around before I spewed feminist vitriol all over historic Fanueil Hall, Boston.

Then the group of men in front of us commandeered our attention merely by looking less like sex offenders. They were nice, and we talked for a good 20 minutes, but when we got inside and they offered us a drink we pulled the trusty “bathroom escape” because 1. I just wasn’t feeling the guy who was talking to me and 2. I’m not saying he was as small as me, but in a pinch we could have probably shared pants.

I really did have to go to the bathroom, and on our way back into the bar on our quest for greener pastures, Caroline’s friend from college intercepted us. He was with a friend, who was cute, but it was no Wayne’s World “Dreamweaver” moment.

His friend and I talked, and it was fine. Until. UNTIL. We realized we had the same birthday. And then we started talking about astrology. And then he said something about how inappropriate men can be in bars and how he worries about his sisters, and then this, and then that, and then,

This could be it, you guys. This could be The One. The one that I would give my phone number to AND almost surely, probably definitely end up texting back.

As we talked more, it seemed like he had the soul of a hippie in the body of a distant relative to the Kennedy’s, which is kind of the dream because I loves me a hippy, but hemp jewelry is the adornment of Satan. At this point, it was all A-game. My voice was suddenly a full octave higher (and one octave lower than my waitressing voice), hair was being tossed in all directions, everything I said was through a freshly Crest white stripped smile.

I. was. on.

It was all going so well. As the four of us walked outside in search of cabs, DW (Dreamweaver) mentioned something about stealing a bike, which was confusing. Surely, this happened one time, when he was drunk, and he returned the bike with an apology note the next day. We all do crazy things under the influence.

{Not exactly bike stealing}

Then the bike stealing came up again. But this time it was “bicycles.” As in plural.

Wait, wait, wait. HOW many bikes are being stolen?

A: “8… to 10… to 12…”

 {Rubber ducky from our staycation. This was the face I made in regards to the bike stealing}

With that, my voice dropped down 1.5 octaves, or into my Olivia Benson range, which I use to suss out potential murderers.

DW thought I was getting the wrong impression of him, but I don’t know. He sees a bike on someone else’s property, has an overwhelming need to take it, rides it away, and dumps it in a designated patch in the woods. Why was my impression wrong? Is he leaving out that he gives these bikes to orphans in need of reliable transportation and/or fun leisure activities?

These bicycles are chained to wood on someone’s porch, “wood that you could so easily snap, and then the bicycle would be all yours.” He said this with a dreamy look in his eye that somehow made the word “wood” sound like “human bones,” and also suggested that he might have a promising future as a staff writer on Criminal Minds.

We finally got to the hotel. For some reason they had ended up following us there, and as we walked into the lobby, I reassured Caroline in my dedicated detectives of the elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit voice that they weren’t coming upstairs because, “I got this.”

Then it was just three of us. DW was outside talking to the door men, which his friend said he does all the time. Like, he’ll just talk to doormen for an hour. Just out of curiosity I asked his friend if DW was crazy.

“Like, he’s fun and stuff,” he said.

“No, I mean is he unstable.”

“It sounds like you want to marry him or something.”

As if even after an hour of this kid telling me about his bike stealing compulsion, my dainty lady brain would be so awash with baby hormones that I would want to marry him.

How is it possible that after this kid went on and on about how he can’t help but steal bikes- nothing else, just bikes (which he referred to only as “bicycles,” which somehow makes it more insane) that I am still the crazy female?

This needs to be said to any male reading this blog. If you are not a male, please pass this message along to the nearest male: we don’t all want to marry you! In fact, I’m guessing, the vast, incredible majority of females do not want to marry you. Oh, and on a separate but related note, that gay guy isn’t hitting on you, either, so just calm down.

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7 thoughts on “The Compulsive Bike Stealer

  1. I can’t help but wonder why “No, I mean is he unstable?” would prompt him to think you wanted to marry his friend. I mean, it’s as if you had a checklist and “crazy but not unstable” was on the list and once that was established you could drag him to the drive-through chapel.

    Back in the day, if a girl had asked me about any guy with whom I was willing to either have as my wingman or be wingman for if he’s unstable, I’d be answering “No” truthfully. On the other hand, if she had only asked if he was crazy, I would have preserved our chances over telling you that “Yes, he is is as likely to pocket your underwear as a prize and never call you again as he is to propose in 3 hours.” Fortunately, I no longer need a wingman, so I’d probably let on since I’d only be there to make sure he didn’t land in jail that night.

    This guy sounds unstable – he needs an audience for his crazy and that never works out well in the long term. On the other hand, he might be fun at the wedding of a random cousin you don’t particularly like because she’s a princess. Just be careful that weird Uncle Larry doesn’t decide to either adopt him or string him up in his front yard.

  2. Pingback: Oops: When People Find Out I Blogged About Them | brunch for every meal

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