[We open in darkness. Suddenly, a spotlight clicks on, illuminating RANDY, a converted Centurion fixed gear bicycle, leaning jauntily against a wall, smoking.]
RANDY: [Gruffly] What are you looking at? [Pause—then drops cigarette, crushes it with his front wheel, and rolls to center state.] I said, what are you looking at?
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, [in a mocking tone] Here’s another fixed-gear conversion with all the standard trimmings—the white Velocitys, the Oury grips, the riser bars, and the Brooks. You’re probably also thinking, How does that thing stop with no brakes and platform pedals? It must not go very fast.
Ha, ha, ha. Real goddamn original.
[Lifts pedal and takes a drink from the glass of water under his left pedal. Puts glass back on stage and lights another cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke into the spotlight’s beam.]
You know what Jesus said? Besides “Peter, I can see your house from up here,” and “What, you’re going to arrest me, here, at my own seder?!?” He said, “Judge not lest you be judged.” Think about that, douchebag.
[Takes another pull on cigarette.]
You know where I’m from? Ontario, California. You know where that is? Neither do I. But I know this. Before I got pulled off the scrap heap and powdercoated, a good day was being locked to a pole outside of a bar for six hours by my old owner while dogs pissed on my bottom bracket. Then, after last call, he would come stumbling out and ride me home. If we were lucky we’d only crash once. Then he’d bring me inside, beat me up, and make me watch taped episodes of “Dynasty” with him until he passed out on the couch. Eventually he’d wake up to vomit, down a nightcap (usually a mouthwash cap full of isopropyl if he had worked that week and there was money), and then throw me out the window before going to bed. This continued until he pawned me to buy a used sleeping bag, a can opener, and eight bottles of Robitussin.
I’m not some pampered Marinoni from Brooklyn with perfect teeth, intentionally mixmatched grips, and a stripey saddle who gets ridden to trendy bars and gets to wait inside loft apartments while my owner tries to score with chicks in studded leather belts and Chrissy Hynde haircuts. (By the way, pretty boy, you’re missing your right crank bolt dustcap.)
I’m not some Pacific Northwest latte-slurping trendoid who gets straddled every night by someone with skin-tight capris, an artificially distressed t-shirt, a liberal arts education, lofty musical ambitions, and a guitar he can’t play.
And I’m definitely not some pervert with a freaking dildo stuck through his stem.
What I am is damaged goods. I'm a bike who didn't know what it was like to have more than 30psi of air in my tires, or what it felt like to have lube in my chain, until my new owner came along and gave me back some dignity. Yeah, sure, once in awhile my old owner would eat a can of sardines and pour the oil on my chain, but it's just not the same, you know?
RANDY: [Gruffly] What are you looking at? [Pause—then drops cigarette, crushes it with his front wheel, and rolls to center state.] I said, what are you looking at?
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, [in a mocking tone] Here’s another fixed-gear conversion with all the standard trimmings—the white Velocitys, the Oury grips, the riser bars, and the Brooks. You’re probably also thinking, How does that thing stop with no brakes and platform pedals? It must not go very fast.
Ha, ha, ha. Real goddamn original.
[Lifts pedal and takes a drink from the glass of water under his left pedal. Puts glass back on stage and lights another cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke into the spotlight’s beam.]
You know what Jesus said? Besides “Peter, I can see your house from up here,” and “What, you’re going to arrest me, here, at my own seder?!?” He said, “Judge not lest you be judged.” Think about that, douchebag.
[Takes another pull on cigarette.]
You know where I’m from? Ontario, California. You know where that is? Neither do I. But I know this. Before I got pulled off the scrap heap and powdercoated, a good day was being locked to a pole outside of a bar for six hours by my old owner while dogs pissed on my bottom bracket. Then, after last call, he would come stumbling out and ride me home. If we were lucky we’d only crash once. Then he’d bring me inside, beat me up, and make me watch taped episodes of “Dynasty” with him until he passed out on the couch. Eventually he’d wake up to vomit, down a nightcap (usually a mouthwash cap full of isopropyl if he had worked that week and there was money), and then throw me out the window before going to bed. This continued until he pawned me to buy a used sleeping bag, a can opener, and eight bottles of Robitussin.
I’m not some pampered Marinoni from Brooklyn with perfect teeth, intentionally mixmatched grips, and a stripey saddle who gets ridden to trendy bars and gets to wait inside loft apartments while my owner tries to score with chicks in studded leather belts and Chrissy Hynde haircuts. (By the way, pretty boy, you’re missing your right crank bolt dustcap.)
I’m not some Pacific Northwest latte-slurping trendoid who gets straddled every night by someone with skin-tight capris, an artificially distressed t-shirt, a liberal arts education, lofty musical ambitions, and a guitar he can’t play.
And I’m definitely not some pervert with a freaking dildo stuck through his stem.
What I am is damaged goods. I'm a bike who didn't know what it was like to have more than 30psi of air in my tires, or what it felt like to have lube in my chain, until my new owner came along and gave me back some dignity. Yeah, sure, once in awhile my old owner would eat a can of sardines and pour the oil on my chain, but it's just not the same, you know?
My new owner cared enough to clean me up, put some new clothes on me, and love me for who I am. And one day, with a little help, I might learn to love myself again too. Thank you, and screw off.
[Lights out, curtains.]
[Lights out, curtains.]
