A Passion Play, Or Why We Should Never Leave The House

I was driving up NW Glisan the other night (a fairly major one-way thoroughfare, for those of you who aren't PDX OGs) and a cyclist was riding toward me. In the middle of my lane. So I honked, and he looked at me like I was Hitler. Maybe it was the mustache. Maybe the armband.

Anywho, not being one to behave in a sane manor, I hit the brakes and opened he door of the Sandwich-mobile for a bit of repartee / clarification of protocols. Here's the dialog:

Me: What the fuck?

Bike guy throws his bike down. Like he means it! A huffy tuffy on a Huffy.

Me: The next time you read about some cyclist getting killed by a car think about why. And I'll be hoping it was you.

(The Sandwich hates to waste time, ladies and gents. We get straight to the point.)

Him: I'm a New York City bike messenger. I go to two funerals a month.

Me: Good. Keep 'em coming.

And... scene.

I'm no drama critic, but let me make an attempt. If what he says is true, why do you suppose he attends funerals twice a month? Rule out Hep C and let's say that's 1 funeral per month. I'm no physicist, but... .

And, as thrilled as we all are that you've got a paper route to support your heroin habit, isn't it time for a real job, Quicksilver?