First off, it's the elevator that is gnarly, not you. I've walked in and witnessed bodily fluids sloshing around on the floor and other unsavory situations, but dammit it was hot as balls yesterday and I just couldn't face the stairs after a long day. I was attempting to make a call to my chiropractor because my neck is jacked up, and feeling sorry for myself because someone stole my scooter last year, something that I had saved up for a long time and felt I deserved because I rode public transit for the past 5 years. You were trying to get me to get off of the elevator so you could adjust your bike just so, but I refused. You tried to tell me that "This is how it works" and I wasn't buying it because I've done it so many times myself. You got frustrated and ranted and railed, but only when I told you that you need to "...figure your shit out and get on the fucking elevator" did you finally figure your shit out and get on the fucking elevator. I love you as a person in that Portland free-to-be-you-and-me way, but shit; when it's hot, don't ask me to wear your spatial relation inefficiencies as my own burden.
Dear Gnarly Hollywood Transit Elevator Bike Dude
The views expressed in these submissions are from anonymous, unverified sources and do not necessarily represent those of the Portland Mercury.