.

 

4 Days, 4 Police Officers

Giving up on bicycles, etc.

After stealing two bicycles on Saturday afternoon, they came back this afternoon, broke into the building again, and stole the wheels off a third. They couldn't get the frame because it was UBolted to the banister. I was about 7 feet away, behind my apartment door, as they did this.

The police came once more - officer Gonzales, a medium-height man with a strong jaw, and his partner. Officer Rodriguez came on Saturday, a smallish woman with long hair, also with a partner. Today I told the same story to Officer Gonzales I'd told to Officer Rodriguez, and signed a report. “A lot of them have been stolen lately in the neighborhood,” he said.

I called the landlord and told him I'd withhold rent unless he secured the doors. Giant rats, thieves, estimated taxes, all lurking. Open sewage in the basement. Junkies, skulls wrapped with blue wire then layered with thin skin, shooting up in the foyer. Five or six friends suggest, helpfully, that I move to something nicer - oh, fucking genius, thanks - but on what? On the hope of more advertising work? With the Dow going down faster than Linda Lovelace? On my prospects? Because the world needs an obsessive document theorist/fiction experimenter. Thank God I can fill that niche, by which I mean to say, God, I had the new bike, the one given to me to replace the old ones, for 3 and a half days before they stole the wheels from the hallway. I rode it twice, once to get it home from the friend who gave it to me out of sympathy, and then, for 10 miles, nearly 3 times around Prospect Park, and back to 9th St. I was very excited about this bike. Now I have another $200 to spend on the wheels, or more if I decide to buy another bike outright. And I simply can't swing it.

So, ah, I give up on bicycling. I am tired of broken bikes, stolen bikes, borrowed bikes, getting bikes on trains. They won't steal my shoes, so I'll walk.

So many things are going slightly wrong, aggregating: not enough work, a sense of increasing futility with the work I get, difficulties writing anything that goes deeper than a single layer of skin. Health insurance at $380 a month, for coverage that the doctor hates to honor. My pitiful retirement fund, of which I am proud - look! I'm 27 and self employed and saving - fading to nothing. Clients who stretch projects to a full month of work, then don't pay for 5 months. Under it all, an increasing understanding that my abilities and talents are being squandered, due to my own inability to pull together the 30,000 disparate threads of my interests. And then there's this Web site. Why couldn't I love a form of writing that wasn't considered the bastard child of the bucktoothed computer nerd and the self-published poetess? Why couldn't I be good at something reputable, like Defence Contract Proposals?

What can I do? Advertising, finance writing, brand consulting, PowerPoints. Back to the banks for me, if they'll have me. So much for the prose, the agent, the editors; my inability to finish makes it hopeless, so back to the finance and trading firms. Teach myself once more that I am overjoyed to be a merry mechanism in the grinding wheel, happily keeping my mouth shut and my ideas to myself as I write: “This object is a listener on signature LOW_MARKET_TRADES and is called by com.giantbank.util.listeners.” And, “And that's why you need Filno's Hand Chomper - because, today, Chomped Hands Send the Signal of Success.”

Time to get back on the hustle, which means dropping the guiding principle, which is “diminish the amount of bullshit in the world.” No one pays for anti-bullshit; they pay for more bullshit, they pay $75 an hour to hear me tell them, with style, about the effective nature of our new payment system, or, for God's sake, about the advantages of our new customer resource management flow process as it applies to the manufacturing vertical, 100s of pages adding to the noise, leverage, implement, exceed expectations, a fire hose of unnecessary adjectives and nouns forced to become verbs, nouns in drag. Ideate. Brandstorm. The companies steal your heartbeats, the rats steal your sleep, the girl steals your heart, the thieves steal your bike. Of course, I must be stealing something, too, telling myself I earned it. If I just hadn't wasted all that time....Well, there's an epitaph, anyway.

So I sit and count off the value of lost property in my head. I'm going drink a glass of water and go to bed, and think of death and intruders. I'd say fuck them all but six, and save those for Paulbearers, but in the interest of consistency, fuck the six, too, and cremate me instead. Right now.

.  .  .  .  .  

See also: News of a Ratproofing, about predators, and Catalogue of Bicycle Rides, about bicycles as a thread throughout my life, both at The Morning News.


[Top]

Ftrain.com

PEEK

Ftrain.com is the website of Paul Ford and his pseudonyms. It is showing its age. I'm rewriting the code but it's taking some time.

FACEBOOK

There is a Facebook group.

TWITTER

You will regret following me on Twitter here.

EMAIL

Enter your email address:

A TinyLetter Email Newsletter

About the author: I've been running this website from 1997. For a living I write stories and essays, program computers, edit things, and help people launch online publications. (LinkedIn). I wrote a novel. I was an editor at Harper's Magazine for five years; then I was a Contributing Editor; now I am a free agent. I was also on NPR's All Things Considered for a while. I still write for The Morning News, and some other places.

If you have any questions for me, I am very accessible by email. You can email me at ford@ftrain.com and ask me things and I will try to answer. Especially if you want to clarify something or write something critical. I am glad to clarify things so that you can disagree more effectively.

POKE


Syndicate: RSS1.0, RSS2.0
Links: RSS1.0, RSS2.0

Contact

© 1974-2011 Paul Ford

Recent

Recent Offsite Work: Code and Prose. As a hobby I write. (January 14)

Rotary Dial. (August 21)

10 Timeframes. (June 20)

Facebook and Instagram: When Your Favorite App Sells Out. (April 10)

Why I Am Leaving the People of the Red Valley. (April 7)

Welcome to the Company. (September 21)

“Facebook and the Epiphanator: An End to Endings?”. Forgot to tell you about this. (July 20)

“The Age of Mechanical Reproduction”. An essay for TheMorningNews.org. (July 11)

Woods+. People call me a lot and say: What is this new thing? You're a nerd. Explain it immediately. (July 10)

Reading Tonight. Reading! (May 25)

Recorded Entertainment #2, by Paul Ford. (May 18)

Recorded Entertainment #1, by Paul Ford. (May 17)

Nanolaw with Daughter. Why privacy mattered. (May 16)

0h30m w/Photoshop, by Paul Ford. It's immediately clear to me now that I'm writing again that I need to come up with some new forms in order to have fun here—so that I can get a rhythm and know what I'm doing. One thing that works for me are time limits; pencils up, pencils down. So: Fridays, write for 30 minutes; edit for 20 minutes max; and go whip up some images if necessary, like the big crappy hand below that's all meaningful and evocative because it's retro and zoomed-in. Post it, and leave it alone. Can I do that every Friday? Yes! Will I? Maybe! But I crave that simple continuity. For today, for absolutely no reason other than that it came unbidden into my brain, the subject will be Photoshop. (Do we have a process? We have a process. It is 11:39 and...) (May 13)

That Shaggy Feeling. Soon, orphans. (May 12)

Antilunchism, by Paul Ford. Snack trams. (May 11)

Tickler File Forever, by Paul Ford. I'll have no one to blame but future me. (May 10)

Time's Inverted Index, by Paul Ford. (1) When robots write history we can get in trouble with our past selves. (2) Search-generated, "false" chrestomathies and the historical fallacy. (May 9)

Bantha Tracks. (May 5)

The Moral Superiority of the Streetcar. (1) Long-form journalism fixes everything. (2) The moral superiority of the streetcar. (3) I like big bus and I cannot lie. (May 4)

More...
Tables of Contents