I left my bicycle by a movie theater overnight, locked to a No Parking sign, as it was raining when the movie let out. Today when I went to fetch it the seat had been stolen. Everything else was intact. To remove my seat required Allen wrenches, but I guess the thieves carry those. It was a good seat — cushy, with a hydraulic support, nice for those bumpy New York streets. Damn.
Riding home standing was no fun. On the way home I got a call on my mobile, so I hopped off and chatted, walking the bike. When I hung up, there on the sidewalk by a trash can was a bike frame, wheelless, rusty, but with a leather seat on it. The seat had a quick release, so I flipped it and yes! it fit my post (badly) and though I couldn’t tighten it — it was low and swiveled around — I at least could sit down. I felt like a truly lucky guy. A little miracle.
Went to an art opening and dinner for Sophie Calle, the French artist and writer. She has an art show here that details her break up with a lover — abandonment is more like it — followed by a kind of self therapy — in which others tell her their stories of pain — as a way for her to get over him.
At the dinner she introduced me to a detective friend of hers. whom she claims is a fascinating wonderful person, as the guy from Talking Heads. A little later she took me aside and apologized, saying “I apologize — you must get that all the time, your life condensed to something you did years ago, it happens to me too — I’m the girl who follows people. We will never escape these things.”
Gee, I guess I am just used to it — I didn’t much notice, it happens all the time — I realize it has become a kind of shorthand even though I do squirm a bit whenever it happens, but I also accept it. At least it’s something I’m proud of. Sophie mentioned a friend of hers who has been kidnapped and another who was kidnapped some years ago — one is a well known and respected journalist, but from now on will inevitably only be known as “the kidnapped journalist.” So at least some of us are known for something we ourselves did and not just something that happened to us — the poor journalist, if she survives, will have to deal with being known less for her writing and courageous work than for a nasty bit of circumstance.
