“Oh, really?” I asked her. “I wouldn’t have guessed since the sign outside says ‘Bike Shop’.”
“Forgive my friend,” Sandy said smoothly as the bike chick stared at me oddly. “He’s not normally so rude. He’s just a little flustered. Wonderful, exciting things are happening in his life, and he doesn’t know how to deal with them quite yet.”
“Oh?” she said, recovering slightly. She looked me up and down. “Have you decided to make some healthy lifestyle choices and become a bike rider?”
Before I could scratch her eyes out, Sandy spoke for me again. “The bike is for someone else.”
“My boyfriend,” I said, quite loudly, sure she would also be a homophobe and wanting to stick it to her good. “I hit him with my car and broke his other bike.” Oh sweat balls.
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Is that so?”
“It was an accident,” Sandy said. “Look, this probably wasn’t the best way to start this. Hi, I’m Sandy, and this is Paul. We’re here to look at bikes.” He shook her hand, but I didn’t, because I had convinced myself the little biker chick was evil since she thought my “lifestyle choices” included shoving my face with lard. I didn’t want her evil to rub off on me in case I became a weed-smoking hippie who went to music festivals in a skirt made of hemp.
“I’m Jenny, and I think I can help you,” she told us, but really speaking only to Sandy. I had a tendency to alienate people with my mouth. You’d think I wouldn’t have been let out into public as much as I was. “It’s probably a good idea if I knew what kind of bike you’re looking to replace.”
Sandy looked at me. “What?” I asked him.
“What kind of bike was it?”
“What do you mean? It was a bike.” How hard was that to understand?
Jenny looked at me with bemusement. “There are many kinds, Paul. Was it a mountain bike? A road bike? Touring bike? Racing? Time trial? Triathlon? Track? BMX? Freight? Roadster? Cyclocross?”
“It was blue,” I said hastily, not even remotely impressed by her listing off bicycles. “I think. Maybe a little bit gray.”
“Were the tires thin or thick?”
“Paul’s a size queen,” Sandy said. “That’s probably not the best question to ask him.”
I glared at Sandy before looking back at Jenny. “Does it really matter what kind it was? I just want to get him a new bike.”
Jenny nodded. “It’s very important. It’s almost like a way of life. The type of bike a person has can define who they are.”
“I don’t think that’s a real thing,” I told her. “I don’t have a bike and I know who I am.”
“Who are you, Paul?” she asked me, looking as if she was trying to peer into my immortal soul. I wondered briefly if bike-riding hippies had some kind of Wiccan voodoo magic that they ascribed to.
“I just want a bike,” I assured her. “Not to be defined.”
“Hmm,” Jenny said. I didn’t know what that meant.
“Did you take a picture of the bike?” Sandy asked. “That could have made this easier.”
“Of course I did,” I scoffed.
“Well, then show it to her.”
“Well, after I took the picture, I accidentally deleted it while trying to download an app that allows you to take pictures of guys and then tells you if they’re a top or a bottom.”
Sandy looked interested. “Smart phones are way smart,” he said astutely. “Does it work?”
I shook my head. “I think it’s broken. I took a picture of myself with it and it told me that I was asexual. I didn’t even know it could do that. Wait. What if it was insulting me?”
“Technology hates you for some reason,” Sandy said. “Maybe you should get a shack in the wilderness in Montana and live off the grid.”
I tried to picture that. “Would I have to grow a beard? I don’t know if I can, and even if I could, if it’s something I could pull off.”
“No, I don’t think you’d need a beard. But one of these days your toaster is going to become sentient and stab you. I just think it would be easier if you didn’t rely so much on technology.”