On not getting what you want

Other people’s bikes

Poetry

Here’s “What We Want” by Linda Pastan

Journeying

I had locked my bike to the wooden porch railing at our Airbnb, during a weekend trip to Minneapolis to visit our daughter and celebrate her birthday. On the last morning of our visit, my partner and I went to maneuver the bike back into car. We wondered how we were going to fit it, my daughter, the dog, and our luggage into the vehicle for the short trip to her campus. The bike was gone. My partner said, “at least we don’t have to figure out how to get it in the car.” I looked down at the broken porch railing, then at the baseball bat, blue folding camp chair, and plastic bag with two forty-ounce bottles of Pepsi left in place of the bike. The baseball bat had a blue bandana tied around the handle. Was the thief worried about fingerprints? Had he or she left the chair, bat, and pop in exchange for transportation?

The neighborhood was quiet, tree-lined, and like so many urban neighborhoods, deceptive. Unhoused people frequented the nearby park and busy intersection a couple of blocks away. The day before, we had witnessed an altercation between a security guard, a grocery store manager, and a woman with a large duffle bag on her back. The woman, whose shoes and clothes were worn and stained, told the security guard, “I just want to buy a sandwich!” The store manager came around the corner and said, sharp and clipped, “Denise!” I did not hear the full conversation between the manager, a middle-aged man wearing a neat button-down shirt and black khakis, and Denise. They were too far away. I was in the bakery section, trying to decide what kind of bread to get for French dip sandwiches. My daughter had requested French dip and the chocolate mousse cake for her birthday dinner.

“But aren’t there any second chances?” Denise asked. The manager responded with a list of infractions that included something about spitting on food. “But I was upset!” said Denise. “Let her buy a sandwich!” I muttered to the bread loaves. Denise’s question and answer, child-like in their honesty, had no effect. Neither did “I don’t have anywhere else to go!” The security guard escorted Denise and her duffel bag out of the store. The manager walked past me with a tight smile. He went back to where he’d been, the Health and Beauty aisle, before Denise decided she wanted to buy a sandwich. I had noticed that aisle earlier. All the shampoo, toothpaste, and body lotion were locked in glass cases to prevent theft.

We purchased our dinner for that night along with some bacon and eggs, then headed back to our Airbnb. As we pulled out onto the main road, we passed Denise walking toward a busy intersection where two people held cardboard signs out to passing cars: “anything helps,” “down on my luck.”

Without the bike, the car was spacious. Before a farewell breakfast, we visited the grocery again. We needed a Styrofoam cooler to store the bacon and eggs we bought and didn’t eat. But late September in Minnesota is not the time to buy any kind of cooler. We drove across the street to the Walgreens so that my husband could continue the search. My daughter and I waited in the car and listened to marching band music pouring out of a speaker we couldn’t locate.

Three men, each with bikes, none of them mine, gathered in the parking lot next door. One of the bikes had a trailer attached to it. An orange tarp covered the contents. We’d spotted another group of men, also with bikes that weren’t mine, in the grocery store parking lot. I told my husband, “I wish one of these guys had my bike because then I would go tell them it was mine. I would tell them to give it back.” My muscles tightened; adrenaline rushed in my ears. I have been in a few less than safe confrontations. When I chose them, I did so because of this rush brought on by certitude. I didn’t think about safety or consequences. But those are stories for another time.

Luckily, on this morning, I didn’t get what I wanted. Instead, I got breakfast with my daughter, a warm carton of eggs, and package of bacon we had to pitch. I don’t know what Denise got. Maybe she found another establishment willing to sell her lunch. Maybe she has my bike. If I had to choose its new owner, I would pick her. The seat is wide and comfortable, the brakes new. She could strap her duffel bag to the bike rack and go.

Gardening and Making/Mending

Stored apple, land and sky

This past week I’ve been staying at small house in an even smaller town in North Dakota. My garden has been the land, the sky, and the offerings of my friend’s fridge and freezer. These include paper wrapped apples from her tree stored in the vegetable drawer, and in the furthest reaches of the freezer, some chokecherry syrup. Chokecherry syrup and pies and jams and wine weave a sticky sweet thread through the Montana portion of my childhood. To drizzle the red syrup on my oatmeal and taste it’s sharp sweetness was a gift of these broad landscapes in which I feel both held and free.

We’ve arrived at the second quarterly A Thin Space Handmade Item Raffle. Four times a year, I raffle off a handmade-by-me item to one of my paid subscribers. This time, I’m giving away these beautiful crocheted coasters.

I’m so grateful for paid subscribers and am excited to send these coasters off to a new home. So without further ado, the winner is:

SHERYL B.

I’ll be in touch to get your address and get these in the mail!