Tell Me It's Real(70)

“Who are you, Paul?” she asked me, looking as if she was trying to peer into my immortal soul. I wondered briefly if bike-riding hippies had some kind of Wiccan voodoo magic that they ascribed to.

“I just want a bike,” I assured her. “Not to be defined.”

“Hmm,” Jenny said. I didn’t know what that meant.

“Did you take a picture of the bike?” Sandy asked. “That could have made this easier.”

“Of course I did,” I scoffed.

“Well, then show it to her.”

“Well, after I took the picture, I accidentally deleted it while trying to download an app that allows you to take pictures of guys and then tells you if they’re a top or a bottom.”

Sandy looked interested. “Smart phones are way smart,” he said astutely. “Does it work?”

I shook my head. “I think it’s broken. I took a picture of myself with it and it told me that I was asexual. I didn’t even know it could do that. Wait. What if it was insulting me?”

“Technology hates you for some reason,” Sandy said. “Maybe you should get a shack in the wilderness in Montana and live off the grid.”

I tried to picture that. “Would I have to grow a beard? I don’t know if I can, and even if I could, if it’s something I could pull off.”

“No, I don’t think you’d need a beard. But one of these days your toaster is going to become sentient and stab you. I just think it would be easier if you didn’t rely so much on technology.”

“But what would I do in my Montana wilderness shack? I can’t just live in the middle of nowhere without being able to provide for myself.”

Sandy thought for a moment. “You could always start a small business that only a crazy person would have. Like making earmuffs for cats.”

I frowned. “But wouldn’t I need a small business model that included some kind of online plan? I don’t think if I’m living in a shack in the middle of nowhere that people would come buy my Cat-Muffs, no matter how good they were.”

“Man,” Sandy mused. “Technology is a vicious circle. You can’t escape it, no matter what you do. Even if I were to take care of the Internet side of it for you, how would I tell you about the orders that you have? I can’t call you on the phone because it might try and electrocute you. But I like the name Cat-Muffs.”

I grinned. “I thought you would. I even thought of a jingle already.”

“Lay it on me, baby doll.”

“If your cat is cold and its life is tough,” I sang, “all you need are Paul’s Cat-Muffs.”

“Testify!” Sandy exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

“So, are you guys going to buy a bike or something?” Jenny asked.

“That’s why we’re here,” I reminded her.

“I just wanted to make sure,” she said. “It sounded like you were about to make a foray into domestic terrorism.”

I scowled. “How are Cat-Muffs domestic terrorism?”

“I think they’re amazing,” Sandy said, just as baffled.

“Most people who live in the middle of nowhere in a shack are looking to blow something up,” she explained.

“Do I look like I want to blow something up?”

“You probably shouldn’t answer that,” Sandy interrupted. “Paul, why don’t we just look around at the bikes and see what we see?”

It was probably better than nothing, though I was sure I wasn’t going to be able to find the right one. There literally had to be at least eight trillion different bikes in the shop, each with a different sized frame and tread. I saw one that I thought was perfect, but Sandy said he didn’t think Vince would appreciate a pink bike with streamers and a basket on the front that had butterflies on it. “Besides, that bike is for eight-year-old girls,” he said, pointing to a sign next to the bike that said, Perfect for eight-year-old girls!

“What is this world coming to?” I sighed. “Little boys are going to fall into these predetermined gender roles and never be able to choose the bike they want to ride? We haven’t come as far as we like to think we have.”

“His dad bought him a butch bike when he was a kid,” Sandy told Jenny. “He’s never been the same since. You should ask him how he knew he was gay.”

Obviously unable to stop herself, she asked, “How did you know you were gay?”

“I was eight years old when I realized that my G.I. Joe and Optimus Prime were more than friends,” I told her. “Theirs was a forbidden love that dared not speak its name.”

“Optimus Prime is a robot,” Jenny said. “Humans and robots can’t be in love.”