My Cross To Bear

Should I had been carrying a lunch box, iPhone or coffee cup tagged with a green mermaid there would be no discussion. But carrying the Thule sixty-five pound swing-out four-bike two-inch receiver bike rack, I was the albino whale in the pod. Having made the decision to walk aboard the ferry in order to save forty bucks and meet the Craig’s List seller of the rack it was a situation that I was prepared for. The circumstance that one of my High School buddies in town for a day and his availability to meet for lunch added another layer of opportunity. 

Prepared for a couple of ‘out-of-comfort-zone’ hours, I committed to a ‘focus on the now’ tactic. That rack is going to be cumbersome at best and lunch with Barry could extend into dinner, but with a pinch of humor and a dash of defiance, we might get it done none the worse for wear. 

I meet the seller at the curb and we exchange bios on the walk to his truck. Nice enough guy, special needs son, former Amazon exec, moving to New Jersey for a cushy job, but my eyes are on the rack. It is a giant mass of black steel, looking like a mad engineer’s Lego project for the robotics fair. He starts the explanation of its many features but I am already feeling the weight of its bullet-proof mass  on my shoulder. I must walk to the restaurant to meet Barry, back to the boat and on the other side to Whitey, inconveniently parked a mile from the ferry terminal. My cross to bear. 

I pull out the three bills in my pocket to close the deal, wanting to get the ordeal started, and hence ended as quickly as possible. I wish him, his son and his plan success. He seems confused in re-counting the bills totaling one hundred and twenty five for the third time. I say one twenty five right? He says dead panned one fifty. Oh fuck, I’m sorry and reach again into Levi’s pocket for an additional pair of bills. I’m sorry, my bad, I stammer in cheap self-defense. Cool he says transferring the five bills from his fingers to the zippered pocket of his REI vest. 

I am walking away trying to find the sweet spot on my shoulder to bear the comically shaped weight of the bicycle rack that I just traded one hundred and fifty dollars for. Construction workers are already looking at me and I can almost hear them thinking…hand-truck, dolly, crane, another set of gloved hands, pickup, foolish civilians. 

I struggle across the street and towards Ivar's where we’ll meet for lunch. I am already tired. My shoulder is aching from the sheer weight of the rack. Sweat is starting to pour down like the fall Seattle rain. I can feel my heart working just this side of palpitation. I see Barry standing out front.

‘Looks like you could use a beer.’