Bugtussle's Bike Bags (Part 4.5)

-    Intermission (Poetic Interlude)    -

My Dearest Wishing to Belong to Another, Edithion:

Mr Bass asks, “Isn’t it customary to excuse oneself before trying anything as absurd as to what you have suggested?”

“But I thought,” replies Mrs B, “that you would see that I can’t go on living with this cursed condition hovering over us.”

“Impatience. 

Immanent. 

Immateriall
Immovable. 

Immense. 

Immeasurable. 

Immodest. 

Imminimms.”

“Don’t talk to me like that – it makes no sense. You’re just blathering off words that start with ‘IM’ as far as I can tell and it has nothing to do with our relationship. You might as well hang up a sign that says: Closed IMdefinitely."

“Don’t try to belittle my felicity. Don’t nullify this electricity. The Federal District is full of Morons who cross the eye and dot the tea.”

(Play that saxophone)

The Rook chimes in, “I’d like to climb up inside your soul and ransack to my heart’s content or maybe take you on a trip to Louisiana. I’ve got no leeway – got no moderator – no expectancy – I’m spent. I’d like to amble but I’m suffering from disamblease.”

“Your observation of my obscurity is more than clear to me. It’s one of the things I live for.”

Yours without the normal feelings of regret,

Alphonse (Lost While Cycling Across Madagascar) Baroovra



(Back: Part 4  -  Sherry)

(Next: Part 5  -  Shredded Styrofoam Cups)

Bugtussle’s Bike Bags (part 4)

  

-    Sherry    -

  

The terminating endpoint of Interstate 20 lies about 75 miles east of Columbia, South Carolina - right where Interstate 95 skirts the northwestern edge of Florence. About fifteen miles south of there, on Highway 52, is the peaceful little town of Coward – population 600 or so. Approximately twenty percent of the population of Coward works at Clevenger’s Skate and Ball Bearing – down off of Friendfield Road just across the railroad tracks. It used to be just Clevenger’s Ball Bearing until Nathan Clevenger married Kate Barfield – whose daddy, Howdy Barfield, owned Kate’s Skate-O-Rama (named after his favorite daughter, naturally) on the north end of town. A year or two after Kate and Nathan were married, Howdy came to them with the idea of expanding the ball bearing factory. This was in 1939, a couple of years after the Roller Skating Rink Operators Association (RSROA) was formed and Howdy had the insight to know that roller skating had no place to go but up. He convinced Nathan that they should start manufacturing roller skates in addition to ball bearings. So they did. Needless to say, the business boomed. In addition, as far as Sherry Castle is concerned, the business is still booming and going as strong as ever today.

Sherry is the current office manager for Clevenger’s Skate and Ball Bearing. She’s a pleasant woman - somewhat tallish and slender, with long, blonde hair on top of a good head for business.  Nathan’s grandson, Edithion (named after his grandmother), makes sure that everything out in the shop runs smoothly – but it is Sherry who has a handle on everything in the front office - except maybe for today. Today Sherry seems to be in a trance – just staring at her computer screen.  Every morning, when Sherry comes to work, she gets a pot of coffee going in the break room then checks the glue trap wedged between the fridge and the wall to see if any unwanted visitors had been nabbed overnight. Next she heads into her office to read the news on the internet while she waits for the coffee to be ready and for the rest of the office staff to show up. The headline that stopped her dead in her tracks this morning: J.P. Bugtussle Shot Dead!

Sherry sat there, just staring at the computer monitor. Her senses numb. Her mind started to wander – wander back to a time nearly fifteen years ago…

---------------

Meanwhile, in an overly chilly room down in the basement of the Alphonse Baroovra Memorial Hospital, Dolores Bugtussle prepared herself to identify the body laying under the sheet on the gurney. It had been eight years since she had last actually seen her son – although he called her at least twice a week on the phone and they would talk for hours. No one would have ever guessed that they lived in the same town – eighteen point seven miles apart.  It wasn't an estranged relationship – it was just strange – as had been so many things about J.P. Bugtussle's life – especially those thirty-seven beginning years of his life. As Dolores stood there, nervously staring, waiting, so many of those phone conversations with her son flashed through her head – primarily the ones over the last year or so – after his change. Those latter conversations were full of life and happiness and joy and – downright fun. Tales of all the interesting people he had met and helped while riding his bicycle around the country. Not the tedious, monotonous, hum-drum, callous business-like conversations that she dutifully listened to in times prior.

The coroner pulled the sheet back to expose J.P.’s head and chest. Dolores looked, quickly turned her head away, and then slowly returned her gaze to her son. She cupped her hand to her mouth. She nodded her head, acknowledging that this was indeed her son. Then, a puzzled look came across her face – her brow clenched tight over her eyes. She focused on some sort of a – for lack of a better word - a port. A port about two inches in diameter surgically implanted in his chest directly above his heart.

“Yes,” replied the coroner to her wordless question, “we are a little puzzled about that ourselves.”



(Back: Part 3  -  Mel and the Young Man)

(Next: Part 4.5  -  Intermission - Poetic Interlude)

Bugtussle's Bike Bags (part 3)

-    Mel and the Young Man    -

Jackson’s Pawn and Jewelry sits at the corner of Peach Street and Bishops Lane. When the building was first built back in the mid-1910’s, it was the local, neighborhood grocery store - owned by Fanny Gilbert - who had moved into town with her two young children after her husband had gone off to war. She actually kind of lucked into the deal at the time even though she never really had any grocery store experience, let alone actually owning or managing one. But anyway, she gave it a go and both of her children helped her run it when they got older. Fanny passed away in the early 70’s but they had sold the store back around ’55 or so. It had stayed a grocery store for about another five years but then was turned into a women’s clothing store for a couple of years - Mabel’s or Martha’s Dress Shop - or maybe it was Mavis' Dress Shop. Whatever it was called, afterwards it sat empty for quite a while. A couple of odds and ends type businesses were in there off and on but none ever took hold - that is until Jerry Ray Jackson bought the place and opened up a pawn shop right before the turn of the new millennium.

On this particular day, in the back room of Jackson’s Pawn, a young man, shaking and practically in tears was confiding to Mel Jackson, Jerry Ray’s son, the current manager of the shop.  Seems that the young man (young, as in somewhere in his early 20’s) was a good friend of Mel’s and had come to him a couple of weeks earlier to buy a pistol. He wasn’t really sure as to what kind he wanted so Mel had told him that he’d let him borrow a few guns, one at a time, and try them out over the next several days to see which one he liked best. Once he had decided on a particular model, they would settle up. Let’s just say it was not the smartest move that Mel could have ever made in the situation. Let’s also just say that the young man wasn’t the smartest or most coordinated being to ever walk the face of the earth - or the luckiest. Well, maybe he was the tiniest bit lucky in that, just prior to leaving the store earlier in the day, he took the gun out of the waist of his pants where he had originally stuck it, and stuffed it into the outer pocket of his backpack. Unlucky in the sense that the safety wasn’t on. Unlucky in the sense that he didn’t always pay attention to where he walked. Unlucky in the sense that he didn’t see the broken grating at the edge of the curb. Unlucky in the sense that when he stepped off the curb, twisted his ankle on the grating, fell sideways to the sidewalk and landed on the backpack, heard a pop louder than any noise a backpack should have even made when hitting the ground, and actually felt the breeze of a projectile as it whizzed past his shoulder (well, okay, that might be pushing it just a little), he still hadn't grasped the reality of what had just happened. But oddly enough, at that exact same moment - some guy on a bicycle across the street slumped over his handlebars and then fell to the road.

Meanwhile still, back at the police station, Detectives Bass and Salamander were staring at four piles on the squad room table that made up the contents of J.P. Bugtussle's bike bags. One stack consisted of enough shorts, shirts, and underwear to last about a week without having to do laundry. The second stack consisted of half a dozen paperback books, a few road maps, and a couple of notepads with absolutely nothing written in them. The third stack was more cash – exactly $20,500 in bundles of hundred dollar bills. And the fourth stack - the one most puzzling no matter how they looked at it – eight little matching wooden boxes about four inches by three inches by three inches – each one containing a  glass eye.



(Back: Part 2  -  Dolores)

(Next: Part 4  -  Sherry)



 

Bugtussle’s Bike Bags (part 2)

-   Dolores   -

It was truly amazing how many people were outraged at the tragedy that befell J.P. Bugtussle. For someone who had basically lived a lifetime as a recluse – with just a smidgen of blossoming towards caring about his fellow man (and woman) in the last few months/days/moments of that life – his death really seemed to have left an impact in nearly every part of the world. Newspapers everywhere were emblazoned with front page headlines documenting the horrific incident. The assassin quickly rose to the Number One spot on the FBI's Most Wanted List - even though no one had a clue as to who this person was.  The flags at every bank and roller skating rink were flown at half-staff. The coffee shop where J.P. had been having breakfast the last few weeks of his life had a sign on their front door: CLOSED INDEFINITELY. Suffice it to say, the entire world was in a state of mourning.

J.P. Bugtussle’s body was tucked neatly away in the morgue while the authorities investigated the case. J.P.'s mother, Dolores Bugtussle, had been visited by two officers from the police department the morning after her son had been killed. They had offered to take her to the morgue so she could officially identify the body of her son. Dolores declined the ride and told them that she would drive up in a few minutes on her own. The officers asked her if she'd like them to stay awhile - make sure she was okay. She assured them that she would be fine. She just needed a little time to put it all together in her head. 

Dolores watched from the front screen door while the police car pulled away from the curb, then she turned and walked back toward the kitchen. She filled a watering can at the sink then made the rounds throughout the house, visiting all of the potted plants to make sure that they were all adequately nourished. She checked the food level in the parakeet cage hanging by the breakfast room window and determined that it was okay for the time being. She picked up the plate and coffee cup from the kitchen table and set them in the sink. She turned on the switch to the garbage disposal and watched trance-like as it swallowed the two strips of bacon, scrambled eggs and a half-eaten piece of toast that had  all gone cold while her morning had been interrupted by the police officers. She took the dish towel from the refrigerator door handle, wiped the trail of a tear that had begun flowing down her cheek, and then headed down the hall to her bedroom to change clothes.

A few minutes later, Dolores pulled her front door shut, checked to make sure it was locked, walked to the end of her porch, down the steps and got in her car. Sitting behind the wheel, she turned the key in the ignition, rolled down the driver's side window, lit a cigarette then backed out of her driveway. She swung much wider than she normally would have – just barely missing nearly taking out the neighbor’s mailbox – put her car in drive and headed south on Elm Street toward uptown.

When Dolores got to 15^th Street, she turned right. She made a mental note of the sale items advertised in the windows of the grocery store. She’ll need to stop by there on her way back home. About two-and-a-half miles later, she turned left on Knob Hill Drive followed by another left on 14^th Street. At the point where 14^th dead-ended into Lanark Drive, she pulled into the drive at the back of the hospital and parked next to the canopy by the doors. She opened the car door as she took one last drag on her cigarette. As she inhaled, the hot August air mixed with the smoke and nicotine and she felt her lungs ignite with fire. She thought to herself, “Wonder if I should switch to menthol?” Crushing the cigarette butt to the pavement, she walked through the rear entrance and pressed the button to the basement elevator.

Meanwhile, back at the police station, a couple of detectives were sorting through the items in J.P.’s possession when he was killed. His wallet was a basic kind of wallet that one could pick up at any department store – and not even real leather at that. It contained an ID card (no driver’s license), a Social Security card (NOT laminated as clearly instructed in fine type on the card), a photo of his mother, and $2,100.00 in hundred dollar bills – along with a ten and three ones. Tucked in one of the slots where one would normally put credit cards was a toothpick – used – one end used so much that it was pretty much useless any more as a toothpick. From his pants pocket they retrieved a ring with three keys on it, some change, and a small notepad – with nothing written on it. Someone had said he had been wearing some sun glasses, but they were nowhere to be found.

Then the detectives started going through J.P.’s bike bags…



(Back: Part 1  -  J.P.)

(Next: Part 3  -  Mel and the Young Man)

Bugtussle’s Bike Bags (part 1)

-   J.P.   -

People say, to do well in life, one must be in constant contact with other well-to-do people – to learn the stepping stones to success, so to speak. J.P. Bugtussle didn’t think so. He started life as a child – which a lot of us do. But he was a different kind of child – which most of us are. So what was it exactly that made J.P. Bugtussle so different?

When Janiculum Peropavlovsk Bugtussle (See why everyone called him J.P.?) was eight years old, he began his career. He practiced hard at the art of conceit, deceit, and stinginess – majoring in egotism. His teacher was so proud of him that at one point he burned one of J.P.’s eyes out in order to give him a “gimmick” later in life. By the time J.P. was thirty-five, he was well on his way to millions. His tall, skinny body served as a standard by which he stacked all of his cash – right down to his quarter, dimes, nickels, and yes, even his pennies. Although he didn’t believe in banks, he had bought a total of 132 of them by the time he was thirty-six. But oddly enough, he kept all of his money hidden at home – with a good healthy amount of it stacked in the panniers of a bicycle that he had never ridden. In addition to his bank purchases, he had made several other real estate acquisitions – including a roller skate and ball bearing manufacturing plant in Coward, South Carolina. He was a bit eccentric – to say the very least.

By the time J.P. was thirty-seven, he had met only a total of three people – his mother, his teacher and a famous folk singer who was the son of some other famous folk singer. Due to this little fact, it was obvious that J.P. had never married – he figured it would only lead to financial problems. But, in fact, it only led to worse problems. Since he didn’t go out into public, he didn’t have a wife to pick out and buy clothes for him. He didn’t have a wife to be his companion when nobody else would have anything to do with him on a personal level. Obviously, he was lonely.

One day, out of the clear blue, he jumped on his touring bicycle and went out into the world to make friends. Right away he was nice and kind and friendly to everyone he met. He started giving huge amounts of money to charity. He was like a new man and he loved the new life that he had found. One morning, as J.P. Bugtussle was riding his bicycle to his favorite coffee shop for breakfast, someone shot and killed him. 



(Table of Contents)

(Next:  Part 2  -  Dolores)

The Question for April

So tell me, how far would YOU ride YOUR bicycle for a Bombstik?

Well, that's just about far enough.

Enjoy the ride!

ASK BERTHA - CHAMOIS TALES

It’s time once again to dip in the old mail bag and find out what kind of cycling-related dilemmas our loyal readers are currently dealing with.  So let’s end this opening paragraph right now and dive directly into the pending query.

Dear Bertha,

I have always had a problem with the chamois edges on my cycling shorts. Pardon my bluntness, but the edges really cut into me.  I have tried different brands of shorts with all different sorts of chamois and padding, as well as all kinds of lotions and ointments and such – but the results always turn out the same. I was wondering if you could suggest anything that could possibly help with the chaffing that I suffer after several hours and/or miles on the saddle.

Pain in the Butt, Sandy Bottom, NC

Dear Pain in Sandy Bottom, 

Even though I may have forsaken cycling for my newfound love of running until my legs bleed (yeah, right!), I don't mind at all sharing what I found to work best for me during my many cross-state cycling journeys.

First, I completely soaked my shorts in Wesson Canola Oil (you'll need about a gallon in a big pot because you'll want your shorts to really soak up the oil). It is rich in Omega 3 so your heart will also benefit from wearing these specially treated shorts. Prior to putting your shorts on, you need to pour 1/2 cup of Bertolli's Extra Virgin Olive Oil all over the padding. I'm sure there's some sort of joke to be made here about the "virgin" thing but this is a serious matter so I'm going to just keep it factual and not be sucked into some sort of childish, 6th grade humor.

Now, just before you pull your shorts completely up, use some Trader Joe's Canola Oil Spray all over your rear end and naughty bits. Be careful during this process because the Canola Oil Spray is highly flammable - you don't want to be smoking a cigarette (or anything else) at this point. Go ahead now and pull your shorts completely up and walk around in them for a few minutes before starting your ride. It will be a little strange and somewhat slushy feeling at first but you will get used to it.

When you're ready to start the ride, use a healthy portion of the Hain Safflower Oil directly on your bicycle saddle. You can just rub this in by hand for about two or three minutes to get the best results. This has a lot of Vitamin E in it so it is really best suited for real leather saddles - plus, it has enhanced fresheners in it so you will be really glad you used this at about mile 80 - as will anyone else riding within twenty feet of you.

I’m sure once you follow this simple procedure, you will be more than able to…

Enjoy the Ride – mile after mile after sloshy mile!

(Note: All products mentioned in this article are just regular items that you should be able to find in your friendly neighborhood grocery store or truly “alternative” bicycle shop. More On Cycling does not receive any monetary compensation for mentioning these items nor does it receive any percentage of the profits once these products fly off the shelves at lightning speed after thousands upon thousands of cyclists start using these products on the padding in their cycling shorts. Darn!)

(More On Notes: More On Cycling takes no responsibility for anyone who takes this article seriously and who possibly unknowingly rides their bicycle past a family of cannibals and is mistaken for a meal ready to throw into the frying pan.)


Now... go Enjoy the Ride!