Acquisition

We pulled up with the old bike rack clinging to the trunk like a mosquito. The rubber pads had long since been levered off. The sharp corners of the pipes and swivel feet cut right through the old balled up socks.

We were meeting my friend Rod at the Treehouse coffee shop in Collingswood, New Jersey. He had trash-picked an old ten speed when he found out my Lemond frame had cracked. He was giving it to me today.

"Here," said my wife, Mimi, handing me a batch of cookies she had baked to thank him for the bike. She had made letters out of the cookies and they were all jumbled up inside a freezer bag.

"Thanks, babe," I said.

Rob texted me, "WHERE THE EFF ARE YOU, PUNK?" He never abbreviated.

"He must be inside," I said.

We went around to the front door. He already had a table. His bike was leaning against the wall at the back of the stage and there was another bike on the wall behind his. Apparently he had ridden his fixed gear and pushed my new bike all the way from his apartment in Barrington, six miles away.

I set the bag of cookies on the table in front of him. "Payment," I said.

He picked up the bag and inspected. The letters had expanded so much in the oven that they no longer resembled letters.

Mimi put her hand on his shoulder. "They're supposed to spell, 'Thanks Rod for the bike,' but I ran out of cookie dough. It just says, 'Thanks Ro.' Sorry."

He gave her a coy look and then looked at me the same way. "Payment? Payment is unnecessary. Taking care of confused kids is my j-o-b." He worked at a school for the mentally disabled.

We bought coffees and rolled the bikes around back.

"Nice rack," he said. "It's gonna' scratch up your new ride." For a thirty year old bike, it was unnaturally shiny.

"You trash picked this?" I asked.

"I was on the inside track. I knew the guy who used to own it. It lived in his mother's garage since forever. Then one day he challenges me to a drinking contest and it ends at his mom's place, with him crashing this mo' fo' into a dumpster. Maybe ten feet. He was like, 'This crazy bike sucks!'" and Rod waved both of his arms over his head, in a sloppy body slamming motion.

Then he reached in for the letter O, which looked like a normal cookie with a dimple.

"So it's like, brand new," I said, "from the seventies."

"Word. Check it out, cub scout. This frame is double butted. The insides of the tubes are hourglass shaped." He gave the universal sign for the female form. The word Shogun slanted down the down tube.

"Nice," I said.

"It was made in Nippon, bro. That's hot."

"Hot like a ninja sword, man."

Then Mimi said, "Wow, thanks, Ro!"

"Dude," he said, "you gotta' take care of this bike like it's your best lady." He pointed to the part of the bike rack that was cutting through the sock and into the paint job. "At least better than this."

"He will," said Mimi. "I'll make sure."