Past embassies
and the lines at bank machines, past pornographic bookstores and through
the smoke of incense wafting up from vendor's tables they ride. They ride
through the blank stares of tourists disembarking from their buses on the
mall and they ride into those tunnels that lead only to the highway. They
ride through the fenced in and bombed-out areas of this city and around
the Capitol and they ride across Key Bridge when the winter wind burns the
faces of anyone caught between their office and their cab. The cycle messenger
works in all the weather that comes across the gridded days on our calendars
that most of us only watch from the windows of buildings. Windows that are
not even designed to open. When radioactive detritus from secret military
explosions in outer-space drifts down through the atmosphere like ashen
snow, it settles on the spokes and saddles of the messenger's bicycles which
might be momentarily chained to a street sign while a delivery is being
picked up or dropped off. They ride between veering news vans and behind
those cement mixers that shake out little rocks of concrete as they bounce
over the ribboned asphalt or churn through one of the myriad potholes that
describe Washington DC as a world capital. I know each one of us in this
life has asked themselves, "Black Star of bitterness blooming inside my
body, will you be able to take me all the way?" but for the cycle messenger
there can only be one answer: Yes. There really is no question. It is a
necessity.
This private flower is there when a near crash is avoided and the adrenaline
rushes through the body of the courier as he continues rapidly down the
avenue, and it is also there to appreciate the late sun cutting between
the dark architecture at the end of the day, when February and March begin
to thaw out a little bit in those difficult weeks before the Cherry Blossoms
come out and the tourists return. I don't know where to begin or what to
say to this breed of stylish maniacs and fire-eaters with their own parties
and races and codes other than ride on. Ride on through the dirty haze of
August into the chill mornings of October, and ride on through the winter
and the spring. Ride on through red lights and never stop for any Stop sign
(and in this way you will resemble your enemy: the automobile). Ride on
between dump truck and eighteen wheeler and ambulance. Ride on past those
worried and meek huddled under awnings and umbrellas. Through the 33 degree
rain that falls on evening rush hours that sometimes resemble war time evacuations,
ride on. Ride on to the Kingfish's voice as he sings the "Cars! Cars! I
hate cars !" song over your radio airwaves. Ride hard to deliver the important
packages for your important company's important clients. Deliver quickly
to the Organization of Turnstile Adjudicators. Pick up a rush from the Chamber
of Cellophane Sealers. The League of third and Fourth Class Postal Inspectors
is looking for their documents ride on. Ride on and drop off at the National
Gazebo and Arboretum Foundation ride on. Ride on and on and on. |
