(Conte’s Bicycle and Fitness Store, Arlington)

Fred died twice yesterday, and I am sad, but a little numb. He is still so fresh in my mind, and I have to finish packing to go to another funeral in North Carolina.
 
Fred actually only passed once, of course, but there was something lost in the translation, and notice of his demise was passed a few hours before he actually did. Consequently, there was a retraction that flew out on the Internet that left me confused as to whether I was waiting or already in mourning.
 
I liked Fred a lot. He was kind, in his gruff way, a big man who had served in the Air Force and the Phone Company before he split up with his partner and washed up here at Big Pink. He had an impeccable sense of style, and a wonderful little Dachshund who passed away last year aged seventeen.
 
Fred looked a little like Mr. Clean, with an arch sense of humor, and he got things done. He was the human center to the vast building, and utterly essential to civilized living in Big Pink. He was back in the office last week, and told me he was getting better.
 
He was thin and a little stooped. I told him I would be happy to do any heavy lifting he needed, or bring the truck up from the farm to move things if he needed. He seemed to appreciate it.
 
The knowledge that he was really gone compounded a surreal feeling of separation from life. I am off this rainy morning. I feel the season changing beneath my feet, or under the impossibly narrow wheels of the fancy bicycle. A strange but happy circumstance had resulted in my possession of a few American Express Traveler’s Checks as compensation for sustained continuous respiration.
 
The event came in handy, since cash has been flowing out at an alarming rate. I had bought a bike to try to get fit, or fitter, since there have been way too many people passing away lately, and it seems to be the prudent thing to do.
 
The bike seemed like a way to get aerobic exercise without pounding the knees, which twitch and ache even after a moderate stroll.
 
But the first time the weather and the hours of daylight permitted me to try it out, I realized painfully in the crotch and palms that the wheels and pedals and gears were only the start. More padding than my weak flesh was required, and that meant those shorts and gloves with the pads in strategic places.
 
I stopped on the way home from work to by a pair of those ridiculous bike shorts that have a cushioned insert in the crotch to make the ridiculous narrow saddle more tolerable. The whole thing reminds me of fetish wear, but I need to have an exercise activity, and this seemed (at the time) to be a good one.
 
I bought a machine way too far over my head, but it is so appealing you can’t believe. It hits all the buttons on tech and looks. I should have gone with a hybrid road bike, one of the ones with the flat handlebars rather than the downward curly ones that do not require you to ride hunched over like a pretzel, but you live and learn.
 
It is a wonder of technology, light as a feather, and now that I found the gear shifters (which double as the brake levers), quite agile and capable of acceleration even powered by my ancient legs that astonishes.
 
The last time I rode a bike in any sort of competitive event it was a steel-framed Raleigh with the shifters located on the middle bar, and metal rat-traps on the metal pedals.
 
It is a new world, and I found that out in an interesting generational contretemps at the bike store.
 
Conte’s is an upscale bike dealer located in an old auto-sales office in the classic low art nouveau Arlington-manner. Across the parking lot is a Gold’s Gym, housed in another old car showroom, and thus you can imagine how young and fit and focused the people are wandering around.
 
A pert and engaging saleswoman walked me through the options on the absurd Spandex options for the shorts, and some practical applications for the gel-palmed gloves to relieve the stress on the hands from the posture.
 
It was fun bantering with her, and eventually, with $130 worth of merchandise in hand I was delivered to the cashier. She was a winsome brunette, the yoga type, and clearly was not impressed with my sardonic banter with the sales lady when I observed that riding the bike demanded a posture that was positively painful.
 
With a somewhat haughty air I found odd in someone so young she explained it was “about the center,” and like equestrian pursuits, one was supposed to build a set of abdominal muscles that enable the rider to naturally hover hunched forward with the need of support by the arms.
 
Apparently, my sense of center does not match the bike. Her air of disapproval intensified when I fished out the Amex checks to pay for the garments intended to mitigate the pain. She did not know what to do with them- that was the generational thing.
 
In our time, the precious things were good as cash and were required for the first big trips of our lifetimes. They were insurance against the wild vagaries of travel; a bulwark against pick-pockets or loss. Comfort that in the worst of situations, the Amex office would provide comfort and redress against an uncertain and sometimes hostile world.
 
I don’t remember the last time I bought any of the things. Since the rise of ATMs, I have been able to trot the world, oblivious to the money-changers and the exchange desks at the airports. Pop your ATM card in the slot and out comes the disposable currency appropriate to wherever you are.
 
The brunette had clearly never seen a Traveler’s Check. She looked at then with suspicion and called her Boss. I chatted with the sales lady, who with Paul the fitter, is way over-educated to be doing this. Paul is a sports kinesiology grad from UVA; Andrea (that was name on the tag on her shirt) is an independent international economics consultant who works at the bike store in between gigs with USAID.
 
I had a feeling before that this was more a cult than a sport, but now I knew.
 
We talked about opportunities in the consulting game for a boyfriend engineer who was fleeing the disaster of the auto industry in Detroit as my checks lay on the counter and the cashier busied herself doing other things.
 
I wanted to get a short ride in before the rain and dark came on, so presently I asked if I could conclude the transaction. Andrea summoned her back, and the Brunette said she thought we were chatting and the sale was in some indeterminate place. She made a phone call asking a manager to pick up and had an exchange I did not catch.
 
I had signed both the top and bottom lines of the checks but not the middle line indicating the payee; some places, you will recall, have stamps or other official names for the beneficiary. I was told to write something there, and I did, and then I was told to produce my driver’s license after a glance at my retired military ID was deemed insufficient.
 
She handled the transaction as if I were producing a personal check, I realized, which was fine by me. Then there was the matter of the total; the two $50 checks were not sufficient to cover the amount. I thought I had selected $50 shorts and $35 gloves; that was not the case. The shorts were $90, and my funds as presented were insufficient.
 
I fished out another $50, only to have to then re-produce my drivers license.
 
“I can’t give you change,” she said curtly.
 
“Of course you can,” I responded. “These are Traveler’s Checks.”
 
I could see the blush on her cheeks and it looked as though her fingers were hitting the wrong keys on the electronic register.
 
“Don’t get flustered,” I said in what I thought was a kind manner as she seemed to have a problem sliding the check into a little slot in the register, which enabled the cash drawer to open.
 
She glared back at me. “I am not flustered,” she said starkly, and I realized she was quite right. She was enraged with me.
 
I wondered for a moment if she was going to throw the bills and coins across the counter.
 
One of those generational things, I suppose, or maybe social-religious. I was pretty sure that she had passed some sort of judgment on me. I was not taking this sport as seriously as it is supposed to be, and there is nothing worse than an irreverent and irrelevant old white guy in a suit.
 
I got back to the building and there was enough light to take a ride and see if I could figure out the gears on the bike. Amari, the swing-shift concierge, had a sign on the desk that said Fred, the Building Manager, had passed away.
 
Due to the earlier confusion, I thought this might be old news. My God, he was alive last week and back at his desk after a brief stay at the hospital.
 
I asked or if this sad news was from the real event, or a left-over from the first notification. Amari is Ethiopian, and sometimes things get lost in translation. He told me I didn’t have any packages behind the desk and it was very sad.
 
I walked across the polished marble floor of the lobby and checked the mail-boxes. Nothing worthwhile there, and I saw Jeremy getting on the elevator.
 
I saw on his Facebook page that he had not had a cigarette in six days, and I asked him how it was going.
 
“Day Seven,” he said as he held the door open on the middle of the three doors.
 
“What a sad day,” I said as the door closed.  He pushed the buttons for “4” and “5,” which is where he and Chad live.
 
“We were with Fred when he died. Me and Chad and Death Junior. It was not pleasant,” he said distantly. “He didn’t look good at all. Cancer riddled all through his body.”
 
Chad and DJ work at Murphy’s funeral home with Mardy 1. She is a greeter, DJ a full-time Mortician Tech, and Chad is part-time, apprenticing to be a funeral director some day. They are a good team. They took care of old Jack, last year, since he was alone at the end, and my friends John and Rex just in the last couple months.
 
Based on the alarming string of events, I have made arrangements that they will take care of me when the time comes.
 
“Chad and DJ are handling the removal of the remains.” I realized that must have been one of the reasons they were there, since Fred had no family, only an ex-partner who lives across town.
 
“I’m glad you guys were with him,” I said as the door slid open and I got out. “It is the closest thing to family.”
 
Jeremy said he was going to get drunk, but not smoke. I agreed with him, though I probably would smoke. I need to do something about that this year. I thought I would ride the bike first, though.
 
Weird season this has been. I wonder who is next?
 
Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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