Back from the Dead, or Blue-Eyed Bike Angels
Or something like that. More like back from the flu, which made me want to be dead.
Riddle me this; why is it that now that my little darlings are in school not one, but count ‘em, two days a week, I cannot find the time to write? And when I do, I write clichés like ‘riddle me this?’
It’s the flu, right? I can blame that.
Hey…lookie lookie, though. I’ve found an old, abandoned postling that never made it up here. Poor thing got tucked away about the time O’s dad went into the hospital.
He’s fine now, by the way, thanks for asking. Back home with a portable can o’ oxygen, tired but alive, and wondering at how he beat the odds. 98 percentage points said he’d never make it.
And O’s beating a dead sale. Seriously. His mailing company gave him an ungreased love-hug by sending the hey-we’re-having-a-sale! letters out AFTER the sale was well underway. The email list however – God love every little bugger I typed into Excel – those people, THOSE people, have shown him their rich, green love.
So, without further ado, I give you my little abandoned post-thingy, which just happens to be about a specific breed of used bookstore customer:
The Blue-Eyed Bike Angel.
They bring their bikes in, after asking politely of course, and lean them against the front table, to nudge against the glass display case of manuscript leaves, scripted and illustrated by their opposites; monks who stayed in one place, in dark, smoky rooms, dedicated to their dogma.
No, the Blue-Eyed Bike-Angel needs air and sunlight and long roads through cities and deserts and hills. Their dogma is all about freedom, wind-etched on tumbleweeds.
Blue-Eyed Bike-Angels all have blue eyes; clear and bright and excited. They all have curly hair, mostly deep brown or black, sometimes sun-kissed to a sandy blond. They are shaggy ponies, helmet-free, spandex-free. Blue-Eyed Bike-Angels ride old bikes that weigh more than they do. Vegans they are, to a boy.
Their skin is clear so you know their getting plenty of sex. And it glows, so you know the sex is heavenly. They break strings of hearts mainly by stumbling over them. They really mean no harm as they roll away.
Blue-Eyed Bike-Angels will tell you they’ve crossed this continent and at least one other several times now on their bikes.
And they love the bookstore. You’ll find them roosting in paperback lit, They sit crosslegged thumbing through Hesse, Steinbeck, sometimes Lopez. You’ll find Blue-Eyed Bike-Angels in philosophy too, but not as often as you’d think. And they never leave without laying their books on the counter and digging through their dusty backpacks for crumpled dollars and eagle-backed quarters, sometimes pulling out a stray peso or Euro. They look at it for a second, bat their eyes at memories of Machu-Piccu sunrises, lavender fields, rain on their upturned faces, the pump and pace of winding roads through cypresses, past warm sleepy cows, tumble-down farms, languages spoken in orange and yellow. Finding love all the same, books all the same, bread, wine, late night conversations, all the same. All good.
They smile. They pay. They roll away.