Life’s Outtakes
(Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com)
If you would like to use any of Daris’s columns, you may do so free for a period of time. However, please inform him when you do.
Word Count 682
A Super Ugly Bike
By
Daris Howard
Since I had had my bike stolen, and didn’t have a lot of money to buy another one, I was reduced to hunting for a used one. People I knew tried to help scare one up, talking to everyone they knew. Finally, one day, a lady called me.
“I understand you are looking for a cheap bike.” When I told her I was, she continued. “I do believe I have an old one out in my shed. I would give you a really good deal on it.”
The young man I worked with, Martin, made the nearly two mile trek over to her house with me. When we arrived, the lady led us out to her old shed. We helped her move piles of mostly useless junk that were stacked to the ceiling. We finally found the bike deep in the farthest corner.
Dragging it out into the light, I was stunned. It was probably the ugliest thing I had ever seen in my life. It was a girl’s three speed, and was a remnant from the 60's. It looked like it had been painted by someone who was high on something. Add to that the grime that embellished it, and it was absolutely ghastly.
“How much do you want for it?” I asked.
The lady looked at me, as if sizing up how much of a sucker I was. “Six bucks,” she replied.
“Let me see how it runs,” I said.
I turned it over and turned the crank. The wheel started to roll faster and faster. I tried to switch gears, but the cable was stuck, frozen solid with rust. It was locked in third gear, but it worked, and it worked well.
“I’ll take it,” I said.
Martin looked at me as if I had lost my mind. I dug into my pocket and pulled out what dollar bills I had, and then I counted change in dimes and quarters until I had enough.
As we walked away, with me dragging the bike, Martin rolled his eyes. “I have only one request.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“That bike is so ugly I want you to always ride a hundred yards apart from me so no one knows I know you.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said.
“It is that bad,” Martin retorted.
He suggested we stop by the store and get me a bike lock. “A bike lock?” I scoffed. “Are you crazy? A lock costs $10, and the bike only cost $6.”
“Well, when you get your bike stolen, you can only blame yourself,” he said.
Once I got my bike home, I took some WD40 and sprayed it on all of the moving parts. I tested the bike and it rolled smoothly, though it was hard to start out in third gear. I took a rag and cleaned off the old dust and grime it had picked up from the shed, and the 60's paint job showed even more.
“You should have left the grime on it,” Martin commented. “It actually looked better that way.”
That evening we went to the hospital to visit a friend. I just flopped my bike against the fence, and then I waited for Martin, who spent 15 minutes locking his to a solid post. Martin grinned smugly at me when he finished. “At least one of us will still have a bike when we come out.”
We went in, had our visit, and when we came out, we had a surprise. Martin’s bike was stripped to the frame. The pedals, the racks, the handle bars, and everything that wasn’t secured by the bike lock was gone.
Next to Martin’s bike skeleton sat my bike, still against the fence, still where I left it, still totally untouched. Martin stood there in shock.
“You were right,” I teased. “One bike is still here.”
Martin nearly choked. “I can’t believe it. I never thought there could be a bike that was so ugly that the thieves wouldn’t even want it, but I guess there finally is.”
And thus I had solved my bike theft problem.
Article from 5 years back as a second choice.
The New Football Coach
By
Daris Howard
Our football team was quite subdued that fall, for two of our teammates had drowned the preceding summer. That is why what we did, we did with our hearts, without thought of consequences.
Lloyd was long past high school age, but he loved football. He had always wanted to play, but he was mentally challenged and only about five feet tall. If he tipped the scale at a hundred pounds it was because someone else stepped on it behind him.
Lloyd was our greatest fan. He not only came an hour early to every game but he showed up for every practice. Some football players couldn’t even claim that.
That year, as he hung around the practices, we hit on an idea. With the permission of the coaches, we all pooled our money and ordered Lloyd a football jersey and a silver whistle. I have never seen anyone as happy with some presents.
But that was where our tale began its strange twist, for unknown to us, our coaches had ulterior motives in allowing us to move ahead with our philanthropic endeavors. No sooner had we pulled the new jersey over Lloyd’s head and hung the whistle around his neck then the head coach stepped forward to address us.
“Gentlemen,” he said, grinning, “we are placing Lloyd in charge of conditioning.” Then, turning to Lloyd, he continued. “Lloyd, run them through up-downs.”
I don’t know anyone but a masochist that enjoys conditioning, but up-downs is the worst drill of all. The coach blows two blasts on his whistle and we start running in place. With each subsequent whistle we have to hit the ground with our chest and pop right back up running, continuing on until two quick signals are sounded.
Running in place was tiring, but hitting the ground and coming back up was absolutely grueling. A dozen times in any session was more than enough, but Lloyd loved his whistle and he especially loved to blow it. He ran us equivalent to the distance from New York to Los Angeles, making us hit the ground at every whistle stop in between. He kept it up until most of the team was imbedded too far into the grass to rise again.
He enjoyed his position of authority and would yell what he had heard from the coaches. “You bunch of wimps. My grandmother could do better and she’s dead!”
We didn’t hate Lloyd, for it was impossible not to love his gentle nature, but we began to loathe the whistle. Lenny stated our feelings most succinctly. “If I ever get hold of that whistle, I will squash it like a fly.”
We laid out plans for the demise of the offending instrument. We couldn’t destroy it; Lloyd loved it too much. We, therefore, bought an identical whistle and demobilized its sound. The next problem was getting Lloyd’s. He probably slept with it. But Lenny, who had spent his early years in a big city of 50,000 or so, had become adept as a pick pocket. While we distracted Lloyd, Lenny slipped the whistle from around Lloyd’s neck. Lenny quickly stuffed it in his pocket and held up the other one. “Lloyd, did you drop this?” Lloyd looked to see his whistle missing and thanked Lenny profusely as he held the replacement whistle lovingly.
Long before we reached conditioning time, our coaches sensed something was up. But when Lloyd blew hard into the whistle only to emit wonderful silence, the smirking of many on the team told the coaches what we had done. Our head coach handed Lloyd his own whistle and the next day the coaches ceremoniously, with smirks of their own, presented Lloyd with a whole box of whistles “in case he wore out another one”.
Now, with homecoming approaching, I looked back at my yearbook and saw our football team with state playoff medals hanging around our necks. We went further than any team from our school had in years. I realized a large part was due to the fact that no team could outlast us. I knew much of that was thanks to a little man with a big whistle and a bigger heart.
Thanks, Lloyd.
(Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com)
If you ever missed receiving a column and would like it sent, please feel free to contact us.
If you no longer want our submissions, please simply reply with the word “unsubscribe” in the subject line.
