Z
Zoot Katz
Guest
This story, sappy as it sounds, genuinely depicts the spirit of
cycling folk as I know them.
----
There was a bike shop in small Quebec town that was usually busy in
the run-up to Christmas however this year business was slow because
the local mill had been shut down. There were far more repairs than
new sales. One day, a young boy wandered in, dirty-faced, poorly
dressed and obviously from a not very well-to-do family. Although at
first the staff were worried about shoplifting, it soon became clear
that the child was harmless enough - he would just come in, look
closely, one at a time, at the new bikes that were being brought in
for the Christmas sales, and then stand out of the way in the corner
of the room and watch the men work. Whole mornings would pass this
way: the staff wheeling old and new bikes in and out, doing repairs,
joking, having coffee, laughing, working - all the while the young
boy watching silently and intently. And then, without warning, the
kid would just walk out and away to wherever he was from. But the
next day he'd always be back.
This went on for some time. He seemed to spend more and more time
watching the repair part of the shop. And then, one day, after a
large group of customers had just left, the young child made a
beeline over to where some of the men were working. He laid a rusty
old bolt on the counter in front of them.
'Excuse me,' he said politely, 'would you be able to put a bike on
this bolt?'
The men laughed. It took a child - a bike on a bolt instead of a bolt
on a bike! They hadn't realised how young the kid was. The boy wasn't
yet skilled at instrumental thinking. He'd grasped the thinking that
connected two objects, but didn't yet know the proper progression
between them.
Their laughter, even though it was not intended to be mean, stung the
boy. He didn't understand, but he knew something he had said must be
wrong. He backed away, looking up. They caught themselves and felt
badly but by that time the kid was gone. The men ran outside after
him. But he had disappeared like a flash and didn't return.
About a week later, with as little explanation as always, he was
back. This time, however, he was even more reluctant to make contact
with anyone at the store. He looked carefully at every new bike on
display, as always, carefully scrutinising each in turn. But this
time he kept his head down whenever anyone else came near. Then he
took up his accustomed place at the wall of the repair area, as if
he'd never left. But now his head was down, as if he were
embarrassed, or had done something wrong, and he kept fingering the
hole in his pants.
As the kid was making his silent exit, one of the men repairing bikes
called to him: 'hey kid!' He looked back. The men and women who
staffed the store were all there.
'You forgot your bolt.'
And with that one of the staff wheeled out and presented to the poor
child a freshly painted red bicycle made entirely from salvaged
parts that the mechanics had assembled on their own time.
-----
--
zk
cycling folk as I know them.
----
There was a bike shop in small Quebec town that was usually busy in
the run-up to Christmas however this year business was slow because
the local mill had been shut down. There were far more repairs than
new sales. One day, a young boy wandered in, dirty-faced, poorly
dressed and obviously from a not very well-to-do family. Although at
first the staff were worried about shoplifting, it soon became clear
that the child was harmless enough - he would just come in, look
closely, one at a time, at the new bikes that were being brought in
for the Christmas sales, and then stand out of the way in the corner
of the room and watch the men work. Whole mornings would pass this
way: the staff wheeling old and new bikes in and out, doing repairs,
joking, having coffee, laughing, working - all the while the young
boy watching silently and intently. And then, without warning, the
kid would just walk out and away to wherever he was from. But the
next day he'd always be back.
This went on for some time. He seemed to spend more and more time
watching the repair part of the shop. And then, one day, after a
large group of customers had just left, the young child made a
beeline over to where some of the men were working. He laid a rusty
old bolt on the counter in front of them.
'Excuse me,' he said politely, 'would you be able to put a bike on
this bolt?'
The men laughed. It took a child - a bike on a bolt instead of a bolt
on a bike! They hadn't realised how young the kid was. The boy wasn't
yet skilled at instrumental thinking. He'd grasped the thinking that
connected two objects, but didn't yet know the proper progression
between them.
Their laughter, even though it was not intended to be mean, stung the
boy. He didn't understand, but he knew something he had said must be
wrong. He backed away, looking up. They caught themselves and felt
badly but by that time the kid was gone. The men ran outside after
him. But he had disappeared like a flash and didn't return.
About a week later, with as little explanation as always, he was
back. This time, however, he was even more reluctant to make contact
with anyone at the store. He looked carefully at every new bike on
display, as always, carefully scrutinising each in turn. But this
time he kept his head down whenever anyone else came near. Then he
took up his accustomed place at the wall of the repair area, as if
he'd never left. But now his head was down, as if he were
embarrassed, or had done something wrong, and he kept fingering the
hole in his pants.
As the kid was making his silent exit, one of the men repairing bikes
called to him: 'hey kid!' He looked back. The men and women who
staffed the store were all there.
'You forgot your bolt.'
And with that one of the staff wheeled out and presented to the poor
child a freshly painted red bicycle made entirely from salvaged
parts that the mechanics had assembled on their own time.
-----
--
zk
