grayscale photo of parked motorcycle
Photo by Eneida Nieves on

You always think it happens to someone else don’t you. You just can’t know how you’re going to feel: Angry, pissed off, frustrated, hurt, violated. I mean, I’d seen it happen to friends of mine. I’d be there to comfort them, tell them we’d get the bastards. I never knew how painful it really was until it happened to me, until yesterday.

It started like any ordinary day. My pal, Guantanamo Bey, and I headed down to the beach on my Harley. He was in town for a few days and we thought we’d take in the sights along the Venice boardwalk, you know, the performers, the guys doing hair wraps, the gorgeous girls in bikinis and roller-skates holding hands with same, it makes for a great, cheap day.

So we get down there, I’m driving, and rather than pay some outrageous fee for parking to someone who probably wouldn’t appreciate my bike, any bike for that matter, if it bit him on the ass we decided to park a few streets away and walk. No problem, right? I find a spot between an old beat up mustang and a pick-up. It’s big enough for me and another bike or two but not big enough for a car, so I back into the space, Guantanamo jumps off and helps me throw the crate onto the center stand and we head off for a day of fun in the sun.

It wasn’t until we got back that it happened. We turned the corner on the street which lead to where we parked, Guantanamo was walking ahead of me at the time. I remember it all so clearly (after all, it did just happen yesterday). We saw the mustang but the truck was gone. And so was my bike! Where the truck had been was a cute little white sports car. The kind driven by people who have too much money and prove it by driving some overpriced piece of foreign crap with leather seats, built-in compact disc player (this guy probably doesn’t even own a record player) and a fuzz buster clipped to the underside of his visor. I looked.

This white piece of automotive waste was ass end next to the Mustang. The driver’s seat was in the exact location my roadster should have been in. My first thought was that my bike had been stolen. But it was worse than that, far worse.

Guantanamo was the one who spotted it. Down the street, about a hundred feet from where I parked it, was my machine. Head in and on its side stand, but it was my machine. I was relieved at first, then I realized what must have happened: The dickwad driving the Toyota had moved my bike so he could fit into a spot. Christ! the insensitivity of some people.

After checking my bike to make sure it was okay, I placed a curse on the driver of the car (if anyone knows a guy who owns a white Toyota whose genitals have recently shriveled up and fallen off can tell him he’s welcome), and me and Guantanamo drove home.

You know, on the ride home I had this fantasy where I’m riding my bike and looking for a spot at a crowded pool hall. Right up near the door I see a convertible with the top down. My first thought is why not pop the car into neutral, roll it out of the way and park there. But that would make me no better than the inconsiderate phlegm-head who touched my bike. No, that’s not my style.

I asked Guantanamo what he would have done. He used to be in the army, demolitions. His answer was a lot more destructive than my curse, but I’ll bet it would have felt better at the time.

Now, if this has ever happened to any of you, I want to know about it. There has to be something we can do to show these people that we have just as much right to park as anybody who wimps out and drives on four wheels.

And if you’re one of the mental midgets who has done something like this in the past, maybe you didn’t know how we felt about it, what kind of a violation it really is. You do now. We’ll give you a second chance, but if you ever do it again, Sgt. Guantanamo Bey will track you down and put you in our place.



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