Most of the time, it’s a waste of time expecting answers from a person on a bike. “How do I get to this bar?” “Where does that path lead?” or, “Do you got a cigarette?” When a bicyclist is in motion, they’re on their way to being gone by the time you finish your sentence. But when I’m on my bike, people still have questions, and the other night I was asked “Hey man. Uh, like, which way’s 28th?”
I tried being polite. “It’s that way-” I said, pointing forward.”
I’d already peddled past the confused looser with a skateboard in his hand, and had to turn my head to yell backward, “It’s in the direction I’m heading!”
I rode a few feet further, steering into to my driveway, and dismounted.
The scrawny millennial came up behind, asking again from the sidewalk, “This way?!?”
To make the bike go, I had to use adrenaline... the same substance I was pumping all day at work in a fast-paced restaurant.
“YES!!!” I yelled, fumbling with my keys. And to my surprise, the shabby sponge wearing pants around his ankles yelled back.
“Hey man! Like, don’t yell at me! I’m high as fuck!”
I don’t know what he was high on, but I do know that regardless of the defense, being a clueless stoner in no excuse for being a selfish jackass. Even if he was just high on life, it still didn’t make him the center of the universe. And when you’re irritating someone by being a dopey twit, they can yell at you as much as they want.