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.
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?