It was a year ago this week our bicycle shop was burglarized.
The Lady of the House and I imagined they were two kids, let’s call them Fred and John. John is the smaller of the two, probably the leader and a little mean.
They should’ve been in school.
But they weren’t.
They were going down Grand Avenue, breaking windows in broad daylight right across from the police station. They threw a rock through our bike shop window, lifted it up and they were in.
That was the easy part.
We imagined they dashed around the shop grabbing our best BMX bicycle and rims. We figured they’d been in our place before scoping things out. That was kind of sad because I probably treated them friendly-like.
So they head for a quick escape via the back door, or so they thought. Fred grabs the doorknob, wrestles with it and the rims and yanks.
“C’mon, open it up,” hisses John.
“I can’t,” squeaks Fred.
The boys struggle with the double locks on the door while holding tight to their ill-gotten booty. Finally the steel door swings open to reveal the security door, also double locked. Fred drops the rims and wrestles with the locks.
“Hurry up, hurry up,” barks John.
“I’m trying,” whines Fred. “Ouch,” he says as the double locks pinch his fingers.
“Idiot!” yells John, dropping the bike and shoving Fred out of the way. John opens the door, grabs the bicycle and runs outside.
Oh, I forgot to mention the 2-by-4 that lies in the doorway to keep the rain out. It sends John flying through the air and tumbling across the cement.
We know it must’ve been comical. We imagined John snarling at Fred, “That’s not funny, man, that’s not funny” as the two scurried down the back alley like a couple of rats.