A dreadlocked bike messenger, Steven Thoreau, installed locks on a bike rack, angrily. His skinny body wholeheartedly quiet, mastering the mechanisms of the bike-lock, he was odor-free, fresh out of a showering sprint. The woman who’ll deliver his children comes up behind him, in this version of the bike lock story.
Steven bruised an elbow brushing his hair out of his eyes. Then, the sixteen-year-old medical student (who looked like a Roman with her tight-wound countenance) leaned her motorcycle against the bike rack. Steven got all huffy.
“Where I live,” he propositioned, “Respecting the bicycle messenger comes easy.”
What the young obstetrician hopeful possessed was prescience – Steven didn’t realize it then, but a bike rack meant nothing in terms of what was about to transpire.
She put her motorbike into gear. “I’m not polite,” she intoned. “Moreover,” she said to Steven, “I heard you were going to take me out to dinner.”
Four years passed, and she became an obstetrician (after completing school). Her diploma hung, determined, above Steven’s bicycle workbench.
You heard right. Steven’s silly haircut was out the window. He’d used his bike training to earn an Associate’s degree.
Nine months later, to the day, their first child was born.