Week 0:
You’re a serial overplanner. You have been ever since you, your friends, and your parents could remember. But that’s a good thing, right? If you weren’t a serial overplanner, you wouldn’t have ended up at UCLA. That’s a big deal where you’re from. Not many get to go to University outside the 5.9 square miles (15 km2) of your hometown.
With that being said, everything has to go perfect. Perfect. Perfect. This also includes coming on to campus when class hasn’t officially started so you can see where your classes are located. You might be a senior, but you still lose direction easily at school. You asked your friend to go with you, who reluctantly agreed under the precipice of buying them an expensive Erewhon smoothie. Y’know, the expensive ones on social media that are named after different fuck all celebrities.
You almost said no. But you get lonely. You don’t have many friends on campus.
You have parked at parking structure 3 since your orientation. Apple Maps sent you there, and you have been too scared to venture off elsewhere. You made it to UCLA; God forbid you go any further than parking structure 3.
You parked your shitty Hyundai that acts like it’s half-ready to give out on you when given the chance. It’s as though it’s waiting for both you and God to look away so it could just die. Damn thing stutters worse than your cousin doing less than 15mph. You and your friend leave the parking lot and walk past a signpost with a bike locked onto it. You don’t give it a second thought. You weren’t even sure what color it was; you were too preoccupied with getting your class planner to load.
"You should steal the bike," your friend joked. You laugh dryly. Stupid.
Week 2:
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. You’re late.
You slept through your alarm today. Which was weird. You never do that. You plan too much to sleep through a fucking alarm. You hastily parked your Hyundai, wrestling your way out of your car with your oversized backpack. This is FINE. This is all FINE. You slung the heavy bag over your shoulder which causes your spine to yell in protest.
Why do you have to carry so much stuff with you? Do you think you can develop scoliosis as an adult? You should Google it.
Before you could leave the parking structure, you remember the fucking yogurt you had in your car and fuck. You have to run back for it. You’re mad about it, too. You didn’t even want yogurt. Your weird mom has gotten it into her head you don’t have enough probiotics? Whatever the fuck that means. She makes you yogurt now, and every morning she packs it in a plastic cup for you. It’s thick and sour. You’re half convinced it’s expired, and you try to tell her, but she tells you to shut up and drink it.
You grabbed the fuck ass yogurt your mom packed you and went back to running for class. You’re going to be late for your seminar, and it’s just so embarrassing. Too embarrassing.
You ran half-drinking the yogurt through labored breaths.
You should work out more.
You pass the same signpost, and the bike is still chained there. It must be another commuter like you. They probably have their life put together, unlike you. It surprisingly makes you feel less lonely. Knowing someone is just as anal as you parking their bike in the same spot. They come in before you, and they leave after you. It’s a nice, consistent thing in your otherwise inconsistent life.
Week 4:
You cry a lot. It’s not really your fault. Really, promise.
You screamed and slammed your hands against the steering wheel of your Hyundai, which takes nasty beatings even on better days. You scream into your hands, and you can feel the steady stream of tears fall onto your palms, and you catch them like you’re God. You could catch entire worlds if you really wanted to. And to some extent, you are. Even if just a little. You yell again, and your voice rasps. There’s someone in the parking structure walking to their car, and they stare at you, but you don’t care. You keep sobbing and thrashing in your car, kicking your legs against the floor. You’re desperate for release.
It’s like you spent your entire life being blue-balled by everyone.
You’re a senior at UCLA, and your family still doesn’t get you. You… You reckoned they’d be happy, and you’d figure they would be happy! They were giving you shit about school, saying the commute is too long for it to be worth it. You tell them it’s the best public University, and that just has to mean something. They tell you your ego was nasty, and if this was about going to college, you’d go to the local University in your 5.9 square miles (15 km2) town. You told them you’re smart, you deserve this, that you are deserving of respect. You’re enough. They laughed at you like it was the best joke they’d heard all day.
You walk out of the parking structure, and you see the same old bike. Still on the same signpost. This time, you slow down to take a look. It’s cream-colored, with different confetti squares of Tiffany blue, carrot orange, and boysenberry purple littered carelessly around the bike. The seat is a little worn in, dark brown, and has a silver bell with water spots and specks of dirt. The bike lock was a plain black that honestly clashed with the bike.
What an ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly bike.
Maybe you’re a little crazy.
But that's okay! Someone will learn to like it. Probably. Maybe. One could hope.
There’s this guy in your class, and he stares at you a lot. You don’t really know what to make of it. Or if there is anything to make of it. He got excited once when he saw you carrying around a Lovecraft book. He asked for your social media, and you two… talk.
He told you to play some stupid, fuck ass, game called Dark Souls III. You did. It was awful. Not only is the game impossibly hard, making it virtually impossible to enjoy, but edge lords like the guy in your class dick-ride this game! Awful. He asked you to get dinner, and you said the game sucked, but you were going to play it again later tonight. He said, ‘if you don’t like it you don’t have to play it.’ Admittedly, that made you a little upset. You were playing this game for him! You reassured him and told him that you wanted to give the game an honest chance like you do with dragon fruit. You explained to him that you hate dragon fruit and never liked it. But you keep eating it because, well, what if one day you do like it? Granted, you’ve tried about ten times, which is 3 years and about 40 dollars worth of tries, and you still don’t like it. He made a face like you were weird. You threw a bread roll at him and left.
You walk back to parking structure 3 and look at that: the bike is still here. Locked to the same signpost. Now, seeing it there, locked, before you got to class made sense to you since your first class was at 9. But now? It’s nearly 10 pm. Why is it still there? What psychotic asshole is getting to school before you and leaving way after you? You looked at the bike again. The seat is worse for wear, and the handles are dijon yellow. It has weird colors, and you reached over to grab the bell and gave it a test ring. It sounds funky, funkier than the bike. You start to reason someone abandoned the bike. Who wouldn’t? It’s such an ugly bike. You should take it.
Week 7:
You’re a little obsessive.
After you touched the bike, you couldn’t really stop thinking about it. Well, more so, the owner of the bike. What a strange person. If they’re rich enough to live near UCLA, why would they have such an ugly cheap bike? (You Googled the price when you were in the bathroom on campus.) When you try to rationalize it, it just… doesn’t make sense. There’s a great bus system. (Or so you’re told.) Westwood is very walkable. (Or so you’re told.) The city isn’t very bike-friendly. (Or so you’re told.) All these sound, true facts. (Allegedly.)
And even then, there are proper bike stations—ON CAMPUS. This person is actively choosing to walk more to tie their bike to a signpost by a parking structure. No, no, no, none of this made sense.
You did the only reasonable thing a person would do. You left home at 5 in the morning to see if you could see who was riding on that bike. You had a bone to pick. Why that bike? Why are they getting to campus so early? Why do they have such bad fucking taste?
You pull into parking structure 3 just as you always do. You park your car and head out to wait by the signpost. You were ready, and you had coffee, and WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK–
The bike. It’s already tied to the signpost. YOU WERE RIGHT.
Back in week 5, you thought, jokingly, someone abandoned their ugly bike. Like an ugly baby, like Norbit. Someone abandoned their stupid ugly bike, and now you’re stuck looking at it! You’re being punished when you don't even do anything! Didn’t your family punish you enough?
You stared at the ugly bike and God. You should take it! Ride around with it! The bike wasn’t going to get the better of you. It’s ugly, but if you ride it, you win. Not the deadbeat bike abandoner. Can you sue for bike support?
Week 10:
It’s still fucking there.
Still there. Still there. Still there. Still there. Still–
HONK.
You jumped, nearly dropping your school bag. You watched an asshole Tesla cut off a Prius. You still remember the Prius infestation of LA back in 2016. Now it’s Tesla’s, and God, don’t you just fucking hate Angelenos and their ‘eco’ cars that have a prerequisite of being a shit driver.
It’s almost midnight. You stayed late studying at school. You learned the hard way if you want to study and really get any work done, it can’t be done at home. You watch the two cars leave, which, in turn, leaves you alone with the bike. The fucking bike.
You have a Mexican standoff with the bike. Why did no one else take the damn bike yet?
Maybe because you’re the only one ghetto enough to think about stealing a bike from a highly regarded public University. It’s moments like this that really hone in on why people like you don’t go to schools like this one. You’ve had enough, though. You ran back to your car to grab a pair of bolt cutters you bought at Lowe’s during week 8. You promised yourself that if the bike were still here at the end of the quarter, you’d just take it. You’re doing everyone a favor by getting rid of this stupid ugly fucking bike.
You go back to the post sign with the bolt cutters, crouched down into the recently wet dirt and leaves, and get to work. You’ve never actually stolen anything in your life, but this is fine, right? There are no cameras. Besides, if you feel guilty about it afterward, you could always call the least ethical person in your life to convince you that you’re being dramatic.
Why are you worried anyway? Everyone at the school already thinks you’re ghetto. Government funded. You’re from the seedy side of LA.
Your hands clamp down on the bolt cutters. You squeeze as hard as you can until your palms turn red and your knuckles are white. You hear the most satisfying crunch of your life, and the bike lock falls to the floor. You drop your bolt cutters and roll the bike onto the sidewalk. Best of all, you get to ride the bike. You won. You didn’t let the bastardized bike win or its deadbeat owner. Of course, you didn’t. You’re too smart to let them. They’re not going to get to you because they’re crazy. And that’s what crazy people do: make you crazy.
You swing your right leg over the bike and let your ass settle on the most uncomfortable seat in the world. This feels so right. You could practically orgasm right then and there. No more blue balls for you.
Your left foot gets on the peddle, and then your right. You’re wobbly on the bike and take a couple of messy pedals down the sidewalk in the middle of the night. Cold December air nips your face and every breath you take burns. You can feel your cheeks flush from the cold, and you keep going down the slope of the sidewalk. Every crack, pebble, twig, and bump sends a jolt of something up your spine. You feel so free. You get it. This bike, this bike is the shit. You’re free. You understand what Nacho meant when he said he was the gatekeeper of his own destiny, and one day, he’ll have his glory in the hot sun. You’re having yours, too, in Westwood winter at midnight.
You made it all but 30 feet before you fell off the bike face-first.
You never learned how to ride a bike, and you learned it’s not nearly as easy as people make it look. You cried. Then you shoved the bike in the back of your Hyundai because, damn it, it’s yours.
