____ the Famous Bike Messenger
15th May, 2010I’ve been riding my bicycle to The Paris Review. It’s been great. It’s the perfect distance, and I’m so happy my commute no longer involves Times Square. Canal Street, in comparison, is like a breeze. (And I always identified with the protagonist’s wife in “Netherland.” She felt a dread about commuting to Times Square after 9/11; the recent bomb attempt only makes that fear feel more real.)
Recently, I’ve been experiencing what I’ll call encounters on the Lafayette Street bike lane on my way home. The first is not worth mentioning. The second I found pretty funny.
It was late, maybe eight or eight thirty, and as I’m hauling myself up Lafayette, this white guy on a track bike with massive dreadlocks coasts next to me. “Shit,” he says to me. “It’s not raining, is it?”
I look up and see the clouds in the sky; I feel a little fuzz of rain in the air. “Think so,” I say. We’re pedaling in tandem.
“Just what I needed,” he says. Then he pulls ahead and calls out, “See you later!” He pedals off.
A little farther along, I catch up to him.
“Damn,” he says. “You’re fast on that old clunker.”
“Yeah,” I say. I laugh. It’s true–it’s a heavy bike.
“What’s your name?”
“Thessaly.”
“What?”
“Thessaly. Like with a T.”
“Thessaly. Cool. I’m _____. The famous bike messenger.” We pass Astor Place now, and some pedestrians are standing in the street. “WATCH OUT,” I scream at them. We’re moving quickly. The pedestrians jump back onto the curb, startled.
“Man,” he says. “The best is when they have shopping bags and their arms are raised, and you just go right under them and say, ‘OlĂ©!’ They love that.”
I concede that would be a good trick. He’s got me laughing.
“Well,” I say. We’re by 10th Street. “I’m turning off soon. Nice to meet you ______ the famous bike messenger.”
“Do you live around here?”
“I do.”
“If you ever need some pot,” he says, “I do a door-to-door delivery service.” He reaches into his messenger bag. “Here,” he says, handing me a card as we’re both pedaling up Fourth Avenue. “That’s my buddy’s number but if you ask for me, he’ll be cool.”
I’m a little nervous I won’t be able to take the card as I’m pedaling–we’re both moving pretty quickly–but somehow, I manage to do it without looking like a dork. “Thanks,” I say.
“Later!” he calls, and he pushes off and bikes away.

I’ve started to use Google Wave on a daily basis, and already I have a list of complaints. I’ll probably update this, but for now: