Damsel and Knight

Once again repelling the social stereotype of polarized masculinity/femininity where ability and helplessness are concerned, I succeeded this evening in proving my self-diagnosed schizophrenia.

I was both damsel and knight.
No, really.

Let me start this at the beginning (a very good place to start).

Picture me: a meek, demure, kind-hearted, virginal, and incredibly understated lad.
Picture the rest of the world: harsh, uncaring, obtuse, cruel, barren, hateful.
(Perhaps this is a bit generous in its caricature.)

Alright, allow me a new beginning, it's all Elizabeth Taylor ever asked for.
God knows my eyes are almost purple and my drug use is almost as crippling.

I worked this evening.
Not for a terribly lengthy period, only opening through happy hour.
After clocking off I was in sore need of a Red Velvet Cupcake from Cupcake Jones, (my favorite local cupcakery...yes, I coined that term for myself just now. Please hold your applause for later, more deserving accomplishment).

Riding my bicycle over to the shoppe (Yes, I chose the classic spelling to add depth and sophistication to my story, please take note.) it occurred to me to that I had the opportunity to donate a new sense of hope to some tragic soul by providing them with a cupcake of their own.

Now, I don't know how familiar you may or may not happen to be with Portland, but it's something of a cornucopia for tragic souls. It's like they congregate here to
a) find happiness and renewal,
b) seek out hip, young scenesters who drink coffee, smoke too much, listen to "really deep" music, get a lot of tattoos and say words like "Kantian" to compare themselves to and say "wow, I'm not so bad", or
c) gather with numerous other tragic souls and listen to Elliott Smith while bemoaning life's hateful injustice and cruel irony. They smoke, too.

Typically c (or some combination of both b and c) is the most popular choice.
The important part is really the smoking.

The tragic soul I carefully selected is irrelevant.
The salient point is that they work with me therefore requiring a hasty return to my place of employment.

After purchasing and quickly consuming my cupcake, I bought a second and had it wrapped to go. I then pedaled back to the restaurant, all the while smiling and considering just how marvelous and wonderful I was for being so thoughtful as to grace someone with my sugary cadeau. I felt like a bike-mounted, cupcake-bearing Mother Teresa. (Incidentally, this feeling is much better than drugs and should be explored by those who choose to embrace choice b from above.)

I arrived at my destination, cupcake in hand. Venturing only a momentary visit, I neglected to go through the hassle of locking my bike and prepared to experience the effulgent glory of selflessness. As I strode toward to door I was halted by a smiling brunette with a flattering and cheerful bob haircut. She asked to take my photograph.
"Your outfit is just fabulous," she broadcast. I'm quite sure neighboring tables couldn't help but hear her complimentary effusion. This made my narcissism entirely complete and I posed boorishly, cupcake on the pedestal of my upturned palm, and a look of asinine pride smeared across my admittedly smug face.

After I finished channeling Christy Turlington, I walked inside, delivered my uplifting confection, and performed a stoic exit, the gravitas of my goodness weighing heavily upon my now-sainted shoulders.

My bike was missing.

"Shit,"

I thought to myself, envisioning the unused bike lock inside the bag on my back.
Disappointment began sliding its black fingers around my kidneys and through my intestines.

Suddenly Elliott Smith sounded very tempting.

Just then, I stole a longing and somewhat despondent glance down the sidewalk and to my surprise saw my bike riding off without me.

Queen Latifah's voice reverberated off of the walls of my skull,
"Aw, HEY-AL NO!"

Without so much as a second thought my legs began to carry me in a tackle-happy tilt toward the fiend who had absconded with my vehicle of choice.

Everything around me blurred into a 45-second tour of impressionism as I felt an surge of adrenaline coursing through my every fiber. With my bike and its rapist steadily gaining speed, I increased my own velocity and realized with a new sense of championship that I was actually gaining on the bastard.

He approached the end of the block and made a left, slowing a little to execute the turn.
I bent my head down, cutting violently through the light breeze as if it were a menacing headwind and continued to draw closer and closer.
I rounded the block myself only shortly after the bike and its miscreant rider and flew past a small number of unwitting passers by, ignoring their incredulous gasps as I robbed them of their boring evening. (They really should thank me for giving them just a bit of excitement...apparently I was in a giving mood all around this evening.)

Reaching the end of the current side of the block, I observed the kidnapper and my baby making their way once again to the left. By this point my incredible athleticism had made my victory all but imminent thus I craftily slowed just enough so that he wouldn't catch sight of me in his peripheral vision as he turned yet a second left in his journey of flaming sin.

As I rounded the turn myself I noted that the upcoming sidewalk played home to a number of small cafe tables outside of a petite bar, effectively adding a minor set of obstacles to further slow the idiot who dared upset the recently-titled "most selfless person in Portland."

I saw the faces of the patrons sitting at the outdoor tables go from casual to quizzical as they first saw the bike approach and then realized the talk, dark, and ridiculously handsome Mother Teresa cum gazelle careening after, his jaw set in unwaivering determination.

Mind you, I'm still running faster than Prefontaine, inwardly contemplating my first meeting with the vicious captor. I had several scenarios occur to me in my haste:
1. "The name is Buck, Noah Buck. I believe that is my bike."
2. "You spineless little bottom-dweller. Return my bicycle this instant!"
3. *blunt elbow to the side of the face*

I really, really wanted to do 3.

I felt myself get to that point of pre-orgasmic anticipation approaching climax as I came within an arm's length of the bike-stealing douche and with one final burst of speed came up alongside him and went into captive action.

Slamming my hand down on his fetal back, I gripped a handful of shirt, yanked him to a disciplinary and ramshackle stop, and shouted,
"Get the Fuck off of my ride, dude!"

With the desperation of a crazed mongoose, his beady, sub-human eyes grew large as a bull's testicles as he came to a harsh realization: he was as screwed as a nympho's date.

"I'm- I mean- I was- um-" he stuttered in shameful recoil.
"I don't care, ass hat. Get off of my bike," I replied in a tone reminiscent of scolding a pooping dog.
A very, very bad, thieving, pooping dog who stole my bike.

He seemed too drunk/stoned/tweaked to really come to grips with the full consequence of his present demise and yet somehow managed to muster enough cognizance to coherently utter,
"I was just bringing it back. I swear, I was just riding around-"
"Save it," I flatly replied while reassuming my proper place as resident navigator of my own vehicle.
Seeing as how I was slightly winded while simultaneously feeling a sense of victorious euphoria, I decided not to paint the sidewalk with his useless entrails and left him to slither back to the trailer park he thought he would escape in stolen-bike induced freedom.

As I rounded the, yes, third corner of the sizable block around which the hot pursuit had taken place, I heard the vomit pile behind me call out,
"Wait, come and talk to me."

I continued to pedal and blatantly ignored the innocuous blather of the newly-orphaned gutter snipe behind me.

"I'll give you a hundred dollars!" His voice sounded pained and slightly hurt as he gave his position one further attempt at credibility.

"For what, loser,"
I retorted in final farewell as I settled back into my familiar relationship with the freedom between my thighs.
(God, I hope I'm never separated from it again.
The bike, that is.)

If there's one thing to be learned from my harrowing and timeless ordeal it is that with hard work and determination, a person can do anything!
Unless they're a tragic soul...in which case I could recommend some great cigarettes and coffee shops.
Or perhaps a cupcake.