Suitable For Framing

July 15, 2009

There were about five guys at the motorcycle shop when I stopped in to hand over some money to Hugh so he could order parts to complete the repair to my bike's front end. Some of the guys were wrenching on bikes, others were just hanging out. One guy, a fifty-something biker in classic garb — black sleeveless T-shirt (with something printed on the front in white) blue jeans, a wide leather belt with a big, brass buckle, and what looked like brand new Frye boots kept pulling his long gray hair into a ponytail and then letting it flop around his shoulders. His weather-worn-face cracked an easy, genuine smile when he saw me walk in. "Is that your wreck downstairs?" he said.

"The 500? Yeah, that's me."

"Did you see my artwork that I hung up next to it?"

"No," I said. "What is it?"

My bike is in the shop's basement garage space, down a short but steep driveway that's too difficult for me to navigate on crutches. (I haven't picked up a cane yet, though it would be a risky trip even if I had one.)

"Hold on, wait here, I'll get it for you."

He ran out the front door, down the front steps, and made a U-turn into the shop's basement.

In the meantime, I took care of business with Hugh. "It's really amazing that more things weren't bent or scratched on your bike, Jamie," he said as I counted out the cash. "Those bikes really know how to take a fall."

"I wish I could say the same for me," I said. (Although, really, if I think about it, the bike and I both came away in similar condition — marvelously unscathed save for one relatively minor part.)

"Take your time with it," I said, as Hugh handed me a receipt. "I can't ride it right now, anyway."

"No, Jamie, I can't have deposits hanging around here, y'know. We'll get started on it straight away. I understand if you can't pick it up. I'll let you know when it's done, and we'll take it from there."

"Sounds good," I said, and started to leave. As I made my way down the front stoop, the old biker emerged from the basement, waving a piece of white paper in his hand like a flag of surrender. I'd almost forgotten.

"Here it is," he said.

A childlike cartoon scrawled in a shaky line with a black marker on the back of a flyer for a Carpenter's Union barbecue. In it, a motorcyclist lay in the street next to a crushed bike while a cop stood nearby questioning the driver of a car. "Of course I saw him, officer," the motorist was saying. "I hit him, didn't I?"

"Perfect," I said. "Can I keep this?"

He waved his hand to indicate it was a silly question.

"Thanks."