The Jesus Guy Stole my Bike

I can’t get it out of my mind. Last night I was walking my dog in my neighborhood and I noticed that the hunky guy, who mows his lawn without a shirt, sold his house and was putting the last of his stuff on the curb. For esthetic reasons, he will be sadly missed.

As I approached his house, I watched him hoist a large door out to an even larger pile, stand it on end and let it fall into a pile of odd remains. Then he climbed into his truck, closed the garage door and backed out of his driveway for the last time. We made eye contact. He slowed down a little bit. Then it looked like he changed his mind and he continued down the road. I wondered what he was going to say. Was he going to ask me if I thought his stuff would be safe until he could come back for the last load, or did he want to invite me to take something that he’d rather see go to a “good person” than into a landfill?

I assumed it was the latter, but still, I didn’t think it was right to start picking through his things while I could still see the break lights of his truck at the stop sign. I was casual about it. I walked the dog beyond a few more houses, while eyeing the pile in the dark to make out the shapes. I couldn’t believe it. He was throwing out a bike! Not just any bike. A Schwinn. The new kind with the retro look, like the one I had when I was a kid. It might even have been turquoise and white, like my old bike. Even though it was too dark to prove, I knew it had my name written all over it.

When his truck edged away from the stop sign, I’d turn around to get the bike he had neatly sandwiched between some nice storage bins I could use in the basement. The kind you stack like drawers and are clear, so you can see what you put in there without having to open the drawer and dig around.

I was just about to cross the street and check out the bike, but my pride got in the way. I didn’t want to seem like a stalking stalker in front of the Jesus neighbor who was now backing out of his driveway, probably on his way to a prayer meeting. I have my standards. On another street maybe I wouldn’t care about dashing over to a fresh pile of curbside freebies, but not my own street.

I walked up the sidewalk in the dark, backwards, waiting for the Jesus guy to beat it so I could get my new bike. I was already calling it my new bike when the Jesus neighbor, with the Jesus license plates and the Jesus Loves Me wifi, backed out of his driveway. Instead of stopping at the stop sign, he pulled up to the enormous pile. His headlights were shining on my Schwinn, lighting up the rims for all to see that there was a bike hidden in there.

I chanted, “please don’t take my bike….please don’t take my bike…please don’t take my bike….” And it worked. Or at least I thought it did because he backed up his car and returned it to his driveway. He got in his car to drive one house up the road to see what was in the pile? That was weird. Doesn’t he have a flashlight? I waited to see if he was going to go back inside his house. Maybe he just forgot his wallet. Or his bible. He sat in his car with his foot on the breaks.

Maybe he was waiting for me to keep on walking up the street so he didn’t seem too stalkerish. Maybe he had been eyeing his former neighbor as he carted item by item to the curb. He was probably calling it his bike a half hour before I called it my bike.

What does a guy want with a woman’s bike? I thought. He won’t take it. I’ll walk the dog down to the corner, turn back and ride the bike home. But when I backtracked, the bike was gone and so was the Jesus car! He took my bike!?

I’ve already hated him because he doesn’t wack his weeds, making what was once a nice house look abandoned. And in the winter he runs his car for twenty minutes so it’s nice and toasty when he gets in. What is he doing in there while his car is idling outside? Taking a shower? Eating his breakfast in front of the TV? Downwind of his car, where I walk the dog in the morning, is one long cloud of carbon monoxide. He’s trying to kill me. And my little dog, too!

Some might call it obsessing over the fact that the Jesus guy got the bike and not me. I had to drive passed Jesus Guy’s house at least a half dozen times today and every time it harshed my mellow. I have to drive by his house on the way to school and back, and with each trip it hasn’t gotten easier.  I can’t let it go. Every day, for God only knows how long, when I pass his house I’m going to mutter, “That’s the guy that has my bike!”

I want to stop in his driveway and look in his garage door windows to get a look at my bike. I can’t wrap my brain around how this situation went so quickly from “being in the right place at the right time” to the opposite of that. So close, yet so far away….like my baseball glove….it’s mine but someone else has it.

I try to talk myself down by telling myself silly, positive things like: “Imagine that you never walked by here last night and saw that Schwinn. Then you’d never know it was there and you wouldn’t be harboring all this resentment for the Jesus neighbor.” It’s true. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The irony.

I feel myself starting to backslide in an obsessive downward spiral so I amp up the silly, positive fantasies. I tell myself:  “What if the cute guy, who mowed his lawn shirtless, sold his house because he broke up with his fiancé and her engagement ring is in one of those clear, plastic bins! What about that!!?? Huh? All Jesus guy got was a bike. He totally missed the 10kt diamond in the middle bin!”

It does soothe me a little to think Jesus Guy totally missed out.  But only a little. Because I have to keep driving by his house and I keep clinching my teeth and repeating “I’ve got to get my bike back!” Besides, I just made that part up about his girlfriend or fiance or wife or whomever she was.

To help me move through the grieving process, I got proactive. I came up with a little plan. A couple of them, to be exact.

Plan A: Call the cops and tell them someone stole my bike. A woman’s bike. Possibly a Schwinn. Maybe turquoise and white. Big, comfy seat and the retro frame and handlebars. Tell them where I think they’ll find it. I’ll have my bike within 15 minutes. The cops here don’t waste any time.

Plan B: I won’t get the bike back as quickly but I think this one has a lot of promise. I’ll leave a note on Jesus Guy’s door.

“Dear Neighbor,

I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but I believe there has been a simple misunderstanding. The other night when I was moving, I was unable to fit all of my belongings in my truck. I hid my wife’s special bike, that means so much to her, between all the junk so no one would see it. I came back later and found it missing. I’m asking all my neighbors, if they have it, I would greatly appreciate it if they could return the bike to my driveway tomorrow night. No questions asked. Thank you and God Bless.”

I’m going with plan B. I don’t want to involve the police. That would be rude and immature, not to mention problematic. I’m going to handle this very civilly and maturely.

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