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Every time
Frank visited my flat he couldn't tear his eyes away
from the trophy on the mantel. A long-shot in a field
of battle-hardened competitors, I'd won it in '97, before
he'd even started commuting... but that didn't extinguish
his jealousy. "You just got lucky," he'd say,
squinting quizzically at the scratch marks which nearly
obliterate the nameplate, but he couldn't possibly understand
the anguished silence which always greeted his taunt.
Until
one day he finally pushed me too far.
"You
don't know what you're talking about!" I exploded,
surprising him with my bitter rage. "So just...
just listen. I'm going to tell you a little story. And
when I'm done, I don't want to hear any more about how
'lucky' I got. Do you understand? Do you?"
He
backed away from the trophy, which I could never keep
untarnished no matter how much I obsessively polished
it, and sat down without a word. And waited.
That
spring had been a revelation for me. I'd emerged from
University, snagged a prestigious job in the city, buckled
down for the long road to the good life. I took the
cattle car in every morning, just like everybody else,
and hated it, ditto. Except for the guy in the cubicle
next to me. He always arrived looking alert and exhilarated.
"So,
what's the deal with you?" I finally asked him,
a bit ill at his relentless good cheer. He'd just pointed
to the helmet on the corner of his desk. Funny, I'd
always thought without really thinking about it that
it was some kind of weird modern art paperweight. I'd
even asked him once how much he wanted for the 'Giro',
but he'd just shook his head and laughed.
"I
cycle in," he said innocently. "You should
try it sometime."
"But
isn't it dangerous?" I'd countered. |
