The Bum and The Bike

 

So now Manhattan is a lawless hell hole, especially by Times Square and The Port Authority — skell and weird bum city.

One evening I was on 41^st street and 8^th Avenue by Schnippers returning a CitiBike.  They never seem to click in the first time when you try to jam them back into the return spot. So as I’m fucking with that, a weird, fucked up, crazy bum approaches me.  I’d seen him just minutes before, wandering in the middle of the street, in his socks.  

“Some guys’s trying to shoot me, can I get a ride?”  Okay.  There’s really no one there but me and the crazy bum.  

“Nope.”  I’m thinking to myself, does this fucking creep really think I am really going to give him, this bike and incur the $1,200 penalty for doing so? 

So I keep trying to jam this bike back into the rack.  I’m hoping this nut job doesn’t have some type of knife or improvised cutting or slashing weapon.

“You really can’t buy me a bike?”  He’s not in closing distance, but too close for comfort as I can’t afford to run and leave $1,200 on the table and I would always prefer not to fight a crazy person, who is likely covered in Cholera.  

“Nope.”  Click.  I check the app, while keeping my eye on Crazy.  The bike is safely returned! “Not really, bro.”

I speed walk to the port authority, checking my six all the while.  He didn’t pursue. 

I went on with my life.