The Second Coming of Errico Malatesta (call_me_the_end) wrote in squat_stories,
The Second Coming of Errico Malatesta
call_me_the_end
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the beginning

_____This summer, in Bath, Maine, I accidentally rode my bicycle onto the interstate. It was dark, goddamnit, and I had been riding for ten hours, my ass hurt and I was exhausted, so don't give me this, "How do you accidentally ride your bicycle onto the interstate?" crap. I know it was stupid. but it happened. I had already gone about a mile when I came across the haunting silhouette of a roadsign against the gray northeastern sky. I pulled my flashlight, "Prohibited on this interstate highway:" it read, "bicycles, pedestrians and hitch-hikers."

"Well," I thought, "That about covers it."

_____the traffic, fittingly, picked up about then. I guess I kind of panicked. between pedaling my ass off looking for an exit, and signaling to the oncoming steel behemoths with my light, I guess I just failed to notice my saddlebag slipping into my rear spokes. It wasn't until the wheel suddenly jammed entirely immobile that I even knew anything was wrong. As I skidded along the interstate in complete darkness I thought to myself, "So... this is how I'm gonna die. I'm gonna go out as a midnight road-waffle here in bumblefuck, Maine. And I never even got to shoot a cop." Miraculously, though, I didn't go out like that; I came to a screeching halt in the tall grass next to the asphalt, and shakily began wrenching what was left of my saddlebag out of my rear fork. I found an exit soon enough.
_____I turned right off of the exit. I rode along the dark back road and let myself calm down for a while, just long enough to realise that I had no fucking idea where I was going. I found a schoolyard parking lot and stopped to figure out my life. I sat under a tall halogen streetlamp in that abandoned ghost town of a school and rolled a cigarette. I checked my saddlebag, which previously had been filled with all of my food, but now waved shredded and empty in the breeze. it was cold, and the fog was thick enough that it seemed as if it would fall out of the air. the light from the lamp posts came down in silver cones beginning at the bulbs, and ending in big circles on the pavement. the air was filled with crystalline white moths, delicate enough to shatter at the touch of a hand. I sat in the parking lot, and smoked a cigarette; tired, filthy, sore, penniless, no food, no shelter, and not the slightest idea in all fucking hell where I was. it was beautiful.

...to be fucking continued.
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