Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Old Man Winter Stole My Bike.

This may be the prettiest picture of the most disgusting thing I've ever seen.

Yes, I am the rightful owner of those keys. And yes, the one in the center is undeniably broken.

That key belonged to my bike. My mode of transportation. My long-walk saver.

To students who live on campus, those words might not mean much. But to those who rest their weary heads somewhere else in Cleveland every night, losing transportation can be a devastating thing.

My bicycle was tied up to the same rack it usually is at precisely midnight every evening, except this time the deathly chilled air had taken advantage of the fragile lock that fastened it to the metal fence.

When I went to turn the key inside the lock, it wouldn't budge, and finally, the metal snapped in my hand like a twig, leaving the remainder of the key inside the lock, hopeless and forlorn.

Now, this wasn't at all like all of those other times over the past three and a half years at Lee. The key may have twisted and turned and gotten bent out of shape over the smallest of things, but it was rugged. At least I believed it was rugged.

I believed that it would survive a nuclear apocalypse. I was wrong.

And so I stood, nub of key in hand, dangling off my key chain like an eyelash clinging to a cheek before its fall.

Worthless.

Pointless.

Unforgiving, I started my walk home. In the dark. In the cold.

Striding toward a townhouse seemingly miles away, and then I was reminded– the irony.

The same scenario befell one of the three other Lee guys I lived with just two days before.

And then I had laughed.

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