The Pink Bike
by Karen Levy
The bike was pink, and it had a pink banana seat, and the little girl loved it, she just loved it, and she just loved riding it around the block ( always on the sidewalk, of course) imagining the wind blowing her hair back, which never really happened because her hair was thick and kinky, and it pretty much moved as a solid mass if it did move at all. She’d seen beautiful ladies throw their heads back and seen the wind caress their hair. She loved that word – caress - and she wanted that kind of hair.
She rode around the block, singing round and round, round and round, the wheels on the bike go round and round, dreaming of her hair long and straight, maybe pink, to match her bike, and she barely missed a pile of dog poop, and then a car drove by, and a man yelled out the window “I wish that banana seat was my face.”
The little girl speeded up her pedaling, go-go-go, round and round, like she had to pedal-fast and away from what the man said. But his words were already out, and they were meant for her and her beautiful bike, but no - she wasn’t sure about – no, he didn’t say he liked her bike or her banana seat, he said he wanted his face to be the banana seat.
She thought about the part of her that rested on the seat - her pretty part - the part she wiped after using the toilet or when she bathed.
She pedaled faster, round and round, round and round. She was sure this had to do with her pretty part – but why? and she covered it like Mommy taught her, but somehow, it was obvious to that man.
It was like he saw it.
She felt ashamed; she’d done something wrong.
She pedaled faster. Round and round, round and round. She couldn’t wait to get home. She threw down her bike on the sidewalk in front of the house and ran inside. The door was unlocked, and she rushed in and locked it behind her and looked out the window. Her bike lay sad and forgotten on the sidewalk. She wanted to go out and walk it gently around to the driveway and into the garage, but she was afraid that the man would return.
“Mommy!” the little girl called.
“Honeybun!” her mommy called back.
The little girl ran to her mommy and hugged herself to Mommy’s thighs.
Mommy laughed. “How was your bike ride?”
“Good,” the girl croaked into the space between her Mommy’s legs.
“You put your bike away?”
“No,” the girl said, resting her cheek against her mommy’s thigh.
“Go, put your bike away, Honeybun. You have to take care of your bike. Good girl.”
“Yes, Mommy.” She wanted to be a good girl, but she was sure that she’d done something wrong.
She wanted to be a good girl, but she didn’t want to put her bike away. She didn’t want to open the front door and go outside, even though she loved her bike, her beautiful pink bike, and she’d been thinking about calling it Calypso, she loved that word– calypso – but if she hadn’t been riding her bike, the man never would have yelled, “I wish my face was your banana seat.”
So, it was her bike, her beautiful pink bike; and it wasn’t her! and it wasn’t her pretty part that the man wanted! And she hoped and prayed that when she got to the door, that when she opened the front door and went outside, that her bike, her beautiful pink bike, would be gone.
Published:
The ARCADE of the SCRIBES: A Summer Solstice Day Spectacle Of Willfully Poetic Endeavors
Adanna Issue 13