getting chained to a streetlight beats being locked in a basement. i’m not sure how long it took between being assembled and becoming aware. when i came to my brakes were already rickety. dust had fused with the grease of my metal links. my tires deflated. they weren’t even punctured. my first signs of life were the sounds of creaky floorboards, dialogue from a television upstairs. it was rare for the owner to come down. boxes grew mold. flies buzzed in hectic patterns. they bumped into each other and other objects before vanishing, only for smaller ones to take their place. when sun came through the tiny window, it made the air look wavy. for many commercial breaks, i had no words and couldn’t move. episodes of divorce court, cop shows and local news taught me to navigate language. the TV was never off. out on this congested street, i wait again, now with greater purpose. the delivery guy hurries out of a glass spiral. he uncuffs me. his sunbleached bag bounces like a cubed shell on his back.
outside every restaurant, fast food place, dinner cart, and hole-in-the-wall, there are delivery guys biding their time. their backpacks thwack into passersby and the long cords of their phone chargers get tangled up, tying two or more of them into an awkward dance. they have bikes as well. most with batteries attached for greater speed. when he’s done freighting dumplings, the delivery guy triple clasps my frame and wheels to a railing popular with other riders. it’s outside a video game store and the 24 hour coffee shop. from time to time men in masks creep by with bolt cutters. they use the fluorescence of the cafe to seek out worthwhile loot. there are always better options. as long as theirs isn’t missing, delivery guys are none the wiser in the morning. i’ve tried to have conversations with what company remains. the only gears they have turning are the ones that need pedaling. it’s not just bikes stuck in their efficient silence. parking meters and traffic lights. they control this city without saying a word. the delivery guy and i glide past a cabbie having a conversation with his empty seats. flakes from his cigarillo wisp from the driver’s window, sticking to the delivery guy’s sweaty thigh, dissolving into his skin. swerving around potholes takes the slightest tilt of my handlebars. the back of his legs harden, release, harden, release, pumping life into my wheels as we get a ping for our next trip.
“turn left in 600 feet.” the delivery guy’s phone speaks with a stiff cadence and is only capable of talking through direction. when he bikes blind, we get lost. he knows these streets well. they’re just full of long shortcuts. i know more than anyone the need for a push forward. before every bump, the delivery guy’s finger twitches over my brakes, ready to clamp down. he has learned to time them well. my left one needs to be wiggled. my right needs a tender touch. his lower body makes small contortions, balancing us between the mirrors of gridlocked vans. his bag hits one of them. the driver blows his horn. “your destination is in 800 feet.” we run a red light. cars accelerate. a truck whizzes past so close the rubber of my handlebar chafes. an exhaust pipe coughs smoke. being on the road is a long state of near collision. “you’ve arrived.” we hop the curb by a crumbling diner.
in spite of any almost accidents, the delivery guy stays composed. always until after parking. when we get a moment without motion his legs wobble. he lassos me around a bus post. hands trembling. the work continues. carbon fiber or otherwise, there seems to be a limit on how much bodies can take. no wonder delivery guys rush. there are so many doors. so many to feed. at the entrance of the diner, the delivery guy and another delivery guy struggle to break their knot. it would be easier if they did it without shaking their fists. those on the periphery are knocked back by their shells. untethered, the delivery guy bursts inside, shoving his phone in a cashier’s face. civilians nurse their cups as he paces. i once heard a headline: food delivery is the most dangerous job in the city. oily bag and beverage in tow, the delivery guy returns. beads of soda fizzle out on the sidewalk. inside the delivery guy’s backpack are small shelves for every shape of styrofoam takeout can arrive in. plus a cup holder. as well as his locks and tools, the same ones he’d used to patch me up.
“your destination is in 2 point 8 miles. go straight, then, in 600 feet, turn right.” the delivery guy’s phone talks more than he does. what is there to say? we go where we’re told. on my first day out, he held me in his arms, speaking to a voice i only started hearing when the TV got turned off more. they didn’t know how long i’d been down there. my last owner had brain cancer. i knew that was bad from how often cures were advertised. a tower nearby was covered with metal dishes. it radiated beams that phased through the delivery guy. aside from empty plots, a graffitied stop sign, and this home, we were alone. an outline of the city blurred into the horizon. he asked if i was still free. his forehead twitched. after a short pause, they said yes, slamming the door on us. now at top speed i’m freer than ever. the delivery guy no longer pedals. we roll down a hill of skyscrapers. our momentum not broken in blocks. every light turns green to greet us. he moves while staying still. let me do this. i try swerving down a shortcut. nothing happens. he nudges my handles. we drift around jaywalkers.
however fast we go, no matter how long, the delivery guy has to brake eventually. there is always a red light, bottleneck or police cars and ambulances cutting circulation to a street. we stop almost fully, shimmying through a barrier of flashing cars. sirens blare. other delivery guys bump up behind us. this would have been the quickest route. we back away. bikes collide with box shaped bags and dangling phone chargers come close to twisting.
""""yourdestination600feetisinturnleftturndestinationisin.”””” phones echo alternate routes. blood drains down a sewer. a fallen man is painted red. his limbs are twisted into each other. the delivery guy wipes sweat off his brow. it drips into his eyes. he winces, running a wet palm through his hair. the skin on his face is not yet chipped. as we set off on a different path, i see spokes popped from their sockets; a seat nearly wrapped around its frame; an uneven wheel ripped off its axle, collapsed next to a dozen garlic knots. pigeons swoop in, picking at what they can. traffic continues elsewhere.
“your destination is on the left.” the delivery guy pulls hard on my right brake. he uses his foot to keep us from tipping over. a metal dish is on the high-rise roof, releasing waves that bounce downward off its windows into unsuspecting bodies below. colors melt. cars honk. mustard drips onto a bus bench. cigarette butts get scavenged by dirty fingers. flocks ‘oooh’ and ‘ahhh’ at flashes of sun. the delivery guy groans. he rubs his temple. every inch of this avenue is covered with bikes. except the stem of a gutted calling booth. it’s wobbly, but strong enough to quickly trust. as he rushes to a revolving door, i notice he hadn’t pushed my lock in enough. a guard in a suit shoos the delivery guy away, pointing to an alleyway entrance. it’s next to a dumpster. one with coated in flies. the delivery guy kicks a piece of litter. it tumbles in front of an electronics repair place. he doesn’t stop to check on me. he usually stops to check. while by the trash he looks over his shoulder. digging into his shell, he pulls a burger from that oily bag, letting bugs crawl on the meat, then rewraps it as if nothing happened.
the inner wall of this calling booth is covered in symbols, nicknames, and numbers i don’t recognize. a fly lands on a drawing of a floppy pump. my seat knows that part of anatomy well. on muggy days, unfortunately so. the buzz continues down the side of my frame. a bright orange stripe was once there. what was left before deliveries has boiled off into a blotchy silver. it’d be nice to go to a park after this. we’ve passed nice ones. as i wait, weird hands take hold of me. a loose watch thuds against my handlebars. my lock slides right off. it gets left behind. the bezel’s golden sheen peels with the breeze. that calling booth sways back and forth. i’m pushed into traffic, swaying between cars, scratching the sides of them. these knees crackle. we take an erratic turn on yellow. a truck beeps while backing up. with deliveries i knew where we were going. while stashed away i thought i’d never leave. my front wheel lifts off. that grip is pried off. cars weave around me. the truck driver opens their hatch, nearly stumbling into the road. whoever that was couldn’t have known about my rickety brakes.
DEDICATED TO THE GREATEST BIKE REPAIR GUY I EVER VISITED
— plasticbagger is in his POLAND era. his cormac mccarthy tribute album can be found here.