Free Bikes!

June 7, 2006

"It's a big fucking city," Fee said over the phone as he was driving to pick me up in Brooklyn.

After missing the entrance to the BQE and not wanting to deal with twenty minutes’ worth of traffic to turn around, Fee continued along the surface roads. "I'm in Fort Greene," he said, which put him about five miles beyond where he needed to be. Five miles at rush hour may as well be a million.

"Okay," I told him. "Whenever you get here."

An hour later, he arrived. "Meet me downstairs," he called to say. "We have to boogie, Patty's gonna kill me. She needs the car to take our daughter shoe shopping."

Although Fee and his family technically live within the boundaries of New York City, only ten miles from the industrial badlands of my neighborhood in Bushwick, their community is strictly suburban. Single-family homes tucked behind grassy front yards along winding, tree-lined streets. Driveways filled with cars, bicycles, and boats. Apparently, this is a place where shoe shopping can be an emergency.

His eleven-year-old daughter is going on a cruise with her class to celebrate the end of the school year. Nothing fancy — at least not as fancy as the parties the private school kids in the neighborhood are planning — just a group of kids cruising around Little Neck harbor on a party boat, drinking soda and dancing on the deck. His daughter had finally decided what to wear and was all set except for her shoes. Fee's wrong turn meant he might not make it home before the store closed. We hopped in the car and bombed to Queens, hoping we could.

Patty called.

"I know, sweetheart," said Fee. "I'm doing the best I can. We're in traffic on the LIE. We'll be there as soon as we can."

With less than half an hour before the store closed, Fee had a brainstorm and called in a favor. "Nancy? It's Fee. Can you do me a huge favor? Can you drive Patty and Sophia to Payless? It closes at eight, and I'm tied up with the car."

He hung up the phone, relieved. "It's a neighbor of ours. I'm helping her out with an addition to her house. She owes me big time. It's not really how I wanted to cash in my chips, but what can you do?"

The reason Deborah and I were going to Queens was to pick up a couple of bicycles that Fee wanted to unload. When he first told me about them, they were "Perfectly good bikes, in great shape," but the closer we got to his house, the more his description began to fall apart. He found them in the garbage, old matching brown bikes. "The tires need to be replaced. I'm not sure how well they hold air," he said. A mile later, "The brakes work pretty well—I think—" And then, "They're beater bikes. But at least you won't have to worry about anyone stealing them." It seemed as though, if we didn't get there soon, they'd disintegrate into a pile of rust.

When we finally arrived, we dug the bikes out of the garage, pumped up the tires, adjusted the seats, and took them for a spin. Perfectly good bikes. "Sold," I said, even though we were getting them for free.

"You're a smart one," Patty said to Fee as she and Sophia walked up the driveway with a bag full of buy-one-get-one-free shoes. "Very clever."

I felt as relieved as Fee did. If Fee hadn't come up with the solution for getting them to the shoe store in time, the greeting would've been very different indeed and would've made for an awkward visit. Instead, it was smiles and kisses all around.

Before getting back in the car with the bikes, we discussed local politics and neighborhood gossip over dinner. Patty and Fee's fifteen-year-old son ate quickly and then jumped on the family computer nestled in a nook between the kitchen and dining room. His typing was furious, punctuating every string of tapping with a solid whack on the Enter key.

"Are you playing a game?" Fee asked him.

"No," he muttered, distractedly. "IM-ing."

"Who are you chatting with?"

He named a few names that I can't recall, but let's say "Tim, Sarah, and Caitlin."

"Who's Caitlin? Is that you're new girlfriend?"

"No."

"Don't you have a new girlfriend? What's her name?"

"Hopefully, Caitlin," he said.

"He's working on it," I said.

"Yeah," said Deborah. "Stop interrupting, Dad."

A few minutes later, we somehow learned that he was also chatting with his 26-year-old female teacher. "I don't know about that," said Patty. "It seems a little inappropriate."

"Maybe, a little," said Fee. "I'm sure it's fine.

"Remember what happened with that teacher in Washington."

"Oh, c'mon," said Fee.

"He's at that age, honey."

They were talking about the infamous case of Mary Kay Letourneau, a teacher in the Seattle suburbs who had an affair with one of her 13-year-old students. I'm not sure of the timeline, but despite going to prison for it, she managed to have his baby and ended up marrying him. They're planning to have a second baby, too, it seems.

Fee cocked his head and thought about it for a moment. He grimaced slightly. "Oh," was all he said.

Fee had been storing my old Schwinn Stingray as a favor to me. I gave it to him when I moved from my previous apartment and wasn't sure where else to put it. It was buried under plastic buckets and sheets of pegboard in the back of his garage, behind his Ford Falcon convertible that's waiting for its engine to be replaced. The Stingray is a relatively small bike, but it's deceptively heavy, and its extended front fork makes it unwieldy. Fee took the front end, while I took the rear. "Watch the bucket," Fee said, as I backed out of the garage.

"This old thing?" I said, tapping the faded rear quarter panel of the Falcon. "I see it."

"I mean the plastic bucket at your feet, wise guy."

I took the Stingray for a spin, up the hill to the top of his street, turned left, and rode for a while along the smooth, newly paved road. At the next intersection, where the road widened, I turned around and coasted back. Slamming the coaster brakes at the bottom of the hill and skidding out like a little kid. It's a fun bike, but riding it made me feel like someone suffering from a midlife crisis who can't afford a red Corvette.

"You gonna take it with you?" asked Fee.

"Yeah," I think so,' I said. "Maybe I can sell it."