Helmet Zealot

The short distance I ride my bike from my car to my building is all sidewalk. All sidewalk. The only times I'm on the road is crossing at intersections. Which means I am on the street less than pedestrians, since it takes me no time at all to cross, whereas the walkers take considerably longer.

That said, I don't wear a helmet. Why should I? Right? I mean, if it's so goddamned dangerous, why don't pedestrians wear helmets as well? After all, they are on the road, exposed to dangerous cars, much more than I am, right?

So I arrived at my building, rode the bike up the ramp and hopped off of it in my customary way. As I negotiated the double doors of the building, working my bike through the awkward entrance, I noticed one of those bike couriers standing at the security counter, delivering a package or something.

The security guys said hello to me, in their customary way. I said hello back, pulling out my wallet and waving it in front of the magnetic security scanner. I heard the familiar beep that indicates, yes, I'm (still) allowed in the building (this time).

As a side-note, I prefer to carry my bike up the stairs. I'm way too impatient to wait for the elevator; plus, whenever I have used the elevator, it never fails that a dozen people always manage to come up behind me, wanting to cram themselves into the elevator with me; I hate that.

Before I could turn and make my way toward the stairwell, the bicycle courier guy said to me: "No helmet huh?"

A bit stunned by the massively insinuating question, I replied, "Nah; I don't go that far really." I started walking away, wheeling my bike along, thinking he's got places to go, other deliveries to make, and I needed to get upstairs and start working.

But just then, the Helmet Zealot spoke again: "Got nothing to lose then?"

Normally, I would humor such a statement with: "Yes, that's true. I mean, think about it. If I had anything to lose, would I be so stupid as to ride around without a helmet? So obviously, the fact that I do not wear a helmet should indicate to you that, no, I do not have anything to lose." Upon further reflection, my plan for any similar future encounters will be to play dumb, just to make the zealot feel even more important. I will respond with: "What do you mean, 'got nothing to lose'? Should I be wearing a helmet?"

I anticipate the exchange would go a little bit like this:

Me: "What do you mean, 'got nothing to lose'? Should I be wearing a helmet?"
Zealot: "Uh, chyeah! You should always wear a helmet when you ride."
Me: "Really? Are you serious?"
Zealot: "Uh, chyeah! Don't you realize how dangerous it is?"
Me: "Seriously? What do you mean? Like I could hit my head or something?"
Zealot: "Uh, chyeah! You could fall off your bike. Or be hit by a car. The helmet could seriously save your life."
Me: "Wow. How would it save my life?"
Zealot: "Come on, man. If you're wearing a helmet, that keep you from getting a head injury."
Me: "Are head injuries bad?"
Zealot: "Ok, I detect the sarcasm. I guess maybe your head is already hard enough. Good day."
Me (to myself): Thank you, Jesus.

But I didn't any say that. For some reason, perhaps it was a particularly annoying ride that day, and I was in no mood to play along. So instead, I rejoined: "No, I'm just not on the street very much ..."

"All it takes is just one car, ya know?" the Bicycle Saftey Evangelist responded.

Suddenly I found myself supremely irritated. I don't know why. He just caught me at the wrong time, I suppose. So I replied: "Sure, and all it takes is for one piano to fall on me, too, ya know? Or a plane, ya know? Or an anvil, ya know?" I gave him my best "So-why-don't-you-just-shut-your-meddling-pie-hole" expression. As I turned to continue on my way, I could see him shaking his condescending and self-righteous head at me.

Now I look for him whenever I'm downtown. One of these days, I'll see him again, and when I do, I will holler at him and point up at the sky: "Look OUT! That anvil is about to fall on your head!" When he looks, I will laugh and push him off of his sissy-ass courier bike. Don't worry, he'll be fine. After all, he'll be wearing a helmet, right?

THERE SHOULD BE A NAME FOR IT

I was walking along the River Trail, carelessly putting one foot in front of the other. I say "carelessly" because, as an upright organism adept at bipedal locomotion, I do this sort of thing all the time, and it does not seem to require special attention.

As I out looked out over the water of the Allegheny River, minding my own business, pondering the profundities of bipedalism, the flow of river water and what-not, I heard a sound that I'll never forget. I listened carefully and soon realized that I was hearing a song. It was eerily beautiful and sublime, although those words fail to adequately capture its ethereal quality. As I drew nearer to the source of the singing, I realized that it was coming from a massive white bird. It was lying on the shore of the river, half out of the water. It was apparently dying. And singing.

I wondered to myself. I say "to myself" because I could have wondered aloud, but what would be the point? That big white duck (or swan maybe?), despite its bipedal prowess, was probably not capable of the higher brain function of language. And even if it did have language skills, chances are that it wouldn't be very keen on speaking and understanding English, given its lack of lips, and the difficulty such a lipless creature would have pronouncing consonants such as P and B and F.

I wondered to myself, "Why would a huge white goose (or swan maybe?) lie here in its final moments of life and sing such a strangely beautiful song, instead of calling for help (in its own lipless language) or perhaps quietly reflecting on its existence as an aquatic fowl?"

It really was a nice song, though. Which I said to it: "Hey; nice song there," momentarily forgetting my earlier reasoning about not talking to it. At that moment, the bird picked up its head slightly. Without missing a note, it looked at me with its cloudy black eyes for just a second. Then it put its head back down and, apparently, died. I assumed it died because it stopped with the singing, and then made this phlegmy "errrrrghkkkkgggggkkkklllllgggglll" sound.

While I remember well that gurgling death-sound, it was the song that was most memorable. It haunts me to this day. There should be a name for it.

They've come to take me home

He climbs up on a small flat-topped rise above the village of Batheaston in Somerset, England. From there, he sees the glittering lights of the city. He feels the gusts of wind and time seems to stop.

Strangely, despite the late hour, he sees an eagle flying. The eagle is an amazing sight, as it flies toward the man atop the hill. The eagle approaches, and the man hears a voice. He strains to understand what is being said to him, and is compelled to listen all the more intently. It seems unbelievable to him, and he wonders if he is merely imagining this voice. But he decides he must trust his imagination. He feels his heart beating as the words become clear: "Son, grab your things I've come to take you home."

Upon reflection, he decides that he cannot go about speaking of this experience. His friends would surely conclude that he was out of his mind. To dare to speak of such an event, like witnessing the miracle at Cana, would cause others to reject him, to slam doors in his face.

But he endures this from day to day, despite his life foundering, until it occurs to him what he must say and do and the conduit he should sever. He realizes that he had blended into his surroundings. He decides to distance himself from the gears and cogs of his existence. These thoughts cause his heart to pound, as once again, the eagle's voice comes to him and says: "Hey, grab your things; I've come to take you home."

He had been bewitched by an illusion spun about him, never exactly where he wanted to be. Freedom seemed to do an elusive dance, and when he now thinks that he is free, he senses the scrutiny of others; blank backlit outlines of people, who watch him although their eyes are not open.

But these shadowy outline people were not taught how to behave. The man decides that he will show another self; that he needs no one to take his place. When he attempts to explain the reason for his smile, his heart again starts to race. This time, he doesn't wait for the eagle to speak. Instead, he says to the outline people: "Hey, you can keep my things, they've come to take me home."

~ James Hilston, July 15, 2007, with apologies to Peter Gabriel.