Instead, he would look for things that were broken, just so he could put them back together. Bikes, door-hinges, VCR remote controls, washing machines, dining room table legs. It didn't matter to him what it was or what was wrong with it - as long as it was broken, so he could drag his found treasure back to the garage and get to work on it. He was at his happiest in that concrete and wrought iron bunker.
At the beginning of the 20th Century, a group of folks in and around Paris started a movement called 'Dada'. In part, Dada was defined by art that turned the useful into the useless. In Melbourne, towards end of that same century, my grandfather made an artistry out of turning the useless into the useful.
---
Michael moved from North Carolina to New York City just after the the economic meltdown of '08. For months, he had been telling all who would listen that he needed something more than Durham could offer. He had already called his exit. It was too late to turn back around.
He could hold cocktail recipes in his head; could hold his weight up on his feet for long hours; could hold a robust opinion on most topics; and could lose hold of the memory of the night-before, by the time the day-after came round. He was a natural fit for a whole bunch of bartending jobs.
At first, the bar-work he found was sporadic and those Financial District dudes weren't tipping like they used to. To earn a bit of extra cash, he started a side-gig of selling refurbished bikes.
Early in the mornings, he'd walk the streets of Lower Manhattan, searching for abandoned frames that lay rotting on rusted chains, interlocked to 'No Standing' signposts and folded up against battered railings. He'd cut them loose and drag them back to his shared apartment in Alphabet City.
As the business grew, he fashioned himself a little flat-bed trailer, that he attached to a three-wheeled beach-cruiser and used that to lug the dead bike carcasses piled high and proud. But, when I met him, he was still looping them - two a time - though his arms and across the back of his shoulders and walking them home.
Michael was a lean 6'2, with long, thin limbs and a deeply receding hairline that left you thinking he 10/15 years older than he really was. From time to time, I'd see him - a mess of axles, arms and aspirations - blithely and confidently making his way back up 2nd Ave. He had the look of a homeless person, but with the airs of a Dog Whisperer.
We met properly through the coke dealer we both used to frequent. It was a Saturday night in late winter and that Boredom-Hour hit - the one leading up to midnight. I texted The Dealer and made my way to the pool hall on Houston. The Dealer lived in an apartment building across the road, but he would meet his customers in that dark and red room instead. It was his little trick to protect against us knowing where he lived.
Anyone with eyes could stand by the entrance to the meeting spot and see exactly which building The Dealer came out of. So, it wasn't the greatest trick. But, most of the tricks we play on others are really there just to mask the tricks we play on ourselves.
When I got to there, Michael was already standing just inside the door, leaned over a tall, aluminum smokers table and watching and waiting for The Dealer to come dashing across Houston. He mumbled a low "Hi" as I nodded at him and we both loitered awkwardly, in that obvious way that people who are about to buy drugs, but don't want to look like they are about to buy drugs, loiter around. What I'm saying is that - to anyone with eyes - we were both, clearly, buying drugs.
We stood there a couple of minutes in silence until I turned to him and asked,
"Hey - are you the Bike Guy? The one that's always schlepping those broken bikes up 2nd?"
He mumbled a single, almost scoffed, "Ha!" that seemed to come out from his nose and replied,
"Yeah, that's me - the dude with the broken bikes."
"I've always wondered what you did with them"
"Ah. Well I fix them up and sell them."
He reached into the inside pocket of his thick burgundy and grey jacket and pulled out a business card. It was a plain white card, clear and empty on one side and on the other - in thin black ink - it read:
The Bike Guy
and it had a gmail address under that.
The Dealer took another ten or so minutes to turn up. Michael and I chatted about bikes and fixing things. And then we got to talking about how long the drugs were taking. We both agreed that the were was no need for the The Dealer to be so flaky with his commitments.
"A job is a job." Michael announced in his slight, country drawl. "And The Dealer has a good one. I'm sure it has its own ups and downs, but it probably pays him well enough to compensate for all that. The hours are probably good too. There is no reason why he can't treat it and us with a bit more respect."
"Yeah. You're right. I would actually even pay a little more money if I could find a guy who was more reliable and had product that was a bit more consistent."
Michael agreed and then The Dealer appeared. We handed over our money, collected our tiny bits of folded up, glossy magazine paper and split off on our separate ways.
Not long after that I bought a bike from Michael. It was a teal blue ladies frame with mudflaps and leather handlebars. Apparently it was a rare and precious 1970's thing from a vintage French brand. This is why it cost more than I expected to pay for harvested street-trash. I didn't care about any of that history, but Michael did. But, I was happy to pay extra, because Michael was reliable and passionate. And because he cared so much about that retro French brand. And about fixing shit.
I sold it back to him when it came time to move to LA. He liked that I and The City had worn that bike on down. He was happy to have another chance to fix it.
A few years later, I was back in New York for a few days. I bumped into Michael on my way to check out a friend's new bar. He was unchaining his bike just by the entrance. We chatted for a couple of minutes, but he had to rush off. I told him I would text him the next day.
Inside the bar, my friend told me that Michael no longer sold bikes. He was still fixing them up, but just for himself. He had also stopped working bar. Now he sold coke. Good, consistent coke, which he delivered straight to you, wherever you were. And he always turned up at exactly the time he promised.
---
Sometimes, I find myself wishing my grandfather had taught me how to fix shit. How to use power tools and pull apart circuty and engineer wood to support perfectly flat surfaces.
But he didn't. And I'm useless when it comes to that stuff.
And I don't know if it really even matters. Because there are other people who are able to fix the shit that you can't. And those people are, always, only a text message away.
