The Bicycle Repair Man

Today is a day where my tether is too short, I am tied to an electrified fence, and feel like little children have been baiting me. It is a day when I could hurl my computer through the air to smash against the wall simply for being too slow. It is a day where I could look in the mirror and shout at myself for staring. It is a day where I could scream at the birds for singing or break car door mirrors just because they exist. It is a day of rage for me. And why? Because of the fucking bicycle repair man, that’s why!

First, he took my bike hostage Tuesday last week, while it was helpless with a puncture outside his shop. He said I could have it back Friday for an undisclosed ransom. How much, I asked, but he just shrugged his burly shoulders and laughed manically. Then, on Friday, he said it was not finished, it needed extra parts – definitely tomorrow, he said, his eyes swivelling away from mine. And how much, I asked, a quiver in my voice. Again that wild, manic look of the kidnapper who could do anything – who knows, he said, depends on the bike…

Saturday comes. And goes. A little problem getting the tyre, he says. And any idea of the cost. I hear him smiling over the phone. Perhaps a hundred, but who knows. But it will be ready Monday? No – we’re closed. Tuesday? Definitely. And a hundred? Probably…

Tuesday comes. In my weakened, excited state I approach the shop. But to no avail, he shakes his shaggy head sadly. The hostage had not cooperated, a wire broken somewhere. And the hundred? That was on Saturday – we’ll have to see. Inside I am simmering, but what’s the point in losing it? They’ve got me where they want me and they know I’ll pay. I simmer on, and try to make the best of the rest of the day, but my tether has been shortened, drastically shortened…

Suffice to say I wrote a poem about it, and you can read it
here.