Money

I guess I should sell things.

Like my bike. It's a nice bike. A racing bike-mountain bike hybrid. The tires are flat. I should pump up some air in the tires so I'll get more money from it.

I never ride my bike. The only crime I've witnessed since I've been in NYC has been the theft of a bike. I was waiting for a movie to start and I saw these two guys crossing the street with a huge grime encrusted pipe. It looked like a sewer pipe. I thought, "I wonder what they're gonna do with that pipe. Sell it for scrap, I guess. I guess you could get some money for a metal pipe." Wrong. In the twinkling of an eye, they rammed the pipe into a kryptonite lock that secured a bike to a street sign. They jimmied the lock, popped it open, dropped the pipe, hopped on the bike, and they were gone. I'm no match for that. I used to ride my bike exploring the Red Hook waterfront in Brooklyn. The waterfront was amazing, dilapidated piers, abandoned warehouses you could stroll through, and the Statue of Liberty seemed like it was fifty feet off shore. There was a family diner in a wee little neighborhood known as 'The Basin' where we would stop for iced coffee. My Ex was with me. Whenever I talk about Brooklyn, my Ex is there, too. Somewhere in the background. Angry at me for some reason. Scowling and sulky.

Oh. And it's tricky to peddle a bike wearing boots.

I could sell my bike.

And my wedding band. It's solid gold. We had them made especially for us. They are stamped with quatrefoils. Very small quatrefoils. When I drove away with the belongings of mine that I was taking with me that I could squeeze into the Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo (and my dog), I managed to take it off--for the first time since I had put it on--before I got to the first stoplight on Flatbush Avenue and put it in my pocket.

My wedding band has been rattling around in a drawer of my desk since I left. I haven't sold it because I have no idea how much money I could get for it. And I have this grave fear of getting ripped off. Of coming away from the experience and years later casually mentioning to someone that I sold my wedding band. Their face becomes suddenly serious. "How much did you get for it?" I tell them. "Man! You've been had! You shoulda talked to me. I could've gotten you twice that at least." I guess I should find out what the price of gold is an ounce, so that I could at least say, "But the price of gold is bli-bli-bli per ounce," watching the Jewelry District guy's eyes as I do so. See if he flinches.

But if truth be told, I suppose there are sentimental reasons I haven't sold my wedding band, and my bike, as well. Not so much because I still harbor warm fuzzy feelings for my Ex. Perish forbid.

But the same would hold for my bike as for my wedding band. They are artifacts of my personal history. They are elements of the archaeology of me.

Ah well. Time to trade them in for filthy lucre.

---