THE BIKE MESSENGER

Dear Attractive Ladies,

I am a bike messenger and I would like to date you.

By “date you,” I mean sleep with you, and by that I mean only once or twice before I drop off the face of the planet. But I think you’ll agree by the time we’re done here that I have a fuckin’ shitload of awesome crap to recommend me, and your eventual emotional degradation is well worth its while.

To begin with, I’m smokin’ hot. I’m tan and taut, and have a biker’s body and a pretty awesome haircut, which I maintain myself. Since I live with one pant leg perpetually rolled up (it’s about chains and pedals, I don’t have time to explain it) I probably have a kick-ass tattoo of something on my ever-exposed right calf, like a naked chick or a map of the city I’m from, which is probably NYC or Boston or LA, but is mos def not where I live now. Don’t worry, every time you so much as glance at the tat, I’ll be sure to launch into the incredibly fascinating tale of my hardscrabble beginnings. I’ll tell you all about smoking weed with my mom, a woman you have no chance in hell of ever meeting. I have an army of ironic graphic tees, which I store in a pile on my kitchen floor, because like, if I ignore my closet, I’m doing my part to say fuck the establishment and shit.  On special occasions, like when my roommate’s band plays at the bar, I rock a plaid short-sleeved dress shirt, you know, like your dad wears? Only hot. For really important days like your birthday, I’ll probably show up at the nice Italian restaurant where your friends have gathered wearing a plain white undershirt as though it were a real article of clothing, just to show how little I care. You just keep in mind how fuckin’ gorgeous I am. It’ll make the rest of this make sense.

The next thing you should know about me is that I already have two loves in this world—my bike and marijuana. My ride is my life and my job and my best friend. I constantly talk about it as though it was a person and I love to gather in groups with other bike enthusiasts so we can shout about how rad bike life is and how sucky car people are. Should I find out at some point that you own and drive a car, I will angrily huff that you’re “not who I thought you were,” unless it’s a hybrid, in which case I’ll have to find another reason to stop sleeping with you. But hey! In the meantime, you can drive me to Whole Foods and to this bar where me and some other bike-lovers are gonna shout about how rad bike life is and how sucky car people are. If you could pick me up, too, that would be bitchin’. By the way, I can fix a flat bike tire or broken chain in three seconds flat, but this know-how does not extend to any other area of expertise. For example, I am going to be useless at fixing your sink or changing out your light bulbs. I’m just letting you know up front.

My other love, weed, is a constant in my life. Because I do not take public transportation, I am able to always have it on my person. I carry at all times one of those little pipes that looks like a cigarette, a one-hitter, the invention of which has apparently gone unnoticed by the cops. This device makes it totally okay for me to smoke anywhere at all, and I tell you now that your protests about me smoking pot in front of your office/outside a movie theatre/at your parents’ house are going to go unheeded. Chill out! I’m handling this! I need to smoke a bowl before work and immediately after, then before bed. Joints and my magical pipe get me through the rest of the day. I’m totally magnanimous about sharing my stash, too, as long as you’re cool with the fact that everything we do must center on me being within walking distance of it at all times. (Oh, and we have to stay near that shitty bar by my house where Old Style and PBR are only $2 a can. If you want any bitch drinks, you’ll have to pay for them yourself.) Also, on those days when my guy doesn’t come through, expect me to be cranky and on edge, and to show even less interest than usual in anything besides bikes and weed.

My attitude toward chicks can best be described as “progressive.” I work with girl bike messengers and we give them as much shit as the guys; see, it’s like totally fair and everything.  The dispatchers at work call them by the offensive nicknames we make up for their sexual organs, and I don’t understand what your problem is when I extend this same show of fondness to you. In fact, my work environment pretty much dictates my entire emotional life. A typical day on the job consists of me taking orders, belittling my coworkers, cursing out drivers, bad-mouthing clients, sweating or freezing my balls off, hiding in alleys smoking pot in broad daylight, masturbating at work, and mowing down pedestrians. I don’t see the point of leaving all this negativity at the office. If I go out with you after work, I am guaranteed to be an asshole, and I promise to tell you, in excruciating detail, all the things that pissed me off over the course of that day; which will be everything. Fuckin’ bitches. Not you, of course, except, kinda. 

I live with five other bike messengers in a three-bedroom apartment. We’ve built a pretty bitchin’ skate ramp in the living room, which means we don’t have a place for bourgeois shit like a couch or a TV. Our neighbors fuckin’ hate us and they will pity you. I sleep on a futon mattress in the hallway, which you can totally crash on after we have sex, but I mean, I only have one pillow. We could go to your place, but like I said, that’s so far from my stash and my bar. You know how it is.  Maybe you should just come over and we could hang out and then you could leave. You know. I got work and shit in the morning. 

Anyways, if this all sounds spectacular to you, you should hit me up. Remember how smokin’ hot I am. Galatea knows how to get in touch with me. Or, you know, just come by any bike shop in Lakeview or Wicker Park in Chicago; I’ll be hanging out trying to steal a pump or some shit.

Right On,

Bike Messenger Jake