With bikes, the evolution went something like this: we want cruisers. We want the perfect hawthorne cruisers. Then, we want to go faster, and uphill. We don't need mountain bikes, we need road bikes.
We bought the Cruisers new, and, together, they probably weighed 75 pounds. It was about that point that I said, "Hey, have you heard of craigslist?" And it was on.... He found that not only could he find bikes for us, for the girls, but that he could repair bikes, old bikes, and people would love them, and both seller and buyer could buy them for a fraction of their worth. Initially, the bikes were 15-20 bucks each. From childhood he knew he was a Schwinn man, a classic. He wouldn't buy or sell a Huffy if the profit margin was 200%. He surfed craigslist daily, made mad runs to be first come-first served for each fixer-upper. As the buying and the selling progressed, the quality and initial investment increased. He began to take calls on things called Treks, Bianchis, Cannondales. He was laying out significant piles of cash with increasing risk. But the sales continued. Woven in and among the sales was the evolution of my husband's own personal bicycle. I remember a beautiful Trek, orange to red (color is important to me) sleek and simple.
He paid some guy 100.00 for it. It was the first "high-end" bike. When he called me, as he does, to report his current expenditures, he said, "I've finally found it. This is the last bike I'll ever need." Famous last words. If I had a nickle....
Currently, our garage houses my bike, which, I'll admit, is nice. (A black Marin with a fat tractor seat and a gold bell that looks like a buddhist temple and great road gears.) And his: a billion dollar Jamis with razor thin racing tires and a seat that would get lost in my ass, a brand new Raleigh crossover and a beautiful lavendar Bianchi (currently for sale on craigslist). Oh, and a vintage tricycle that some woman asked him to find handlebars for. He'll fix it eventually. And, a big motorcycle. And, until we finally tired of cramming it in there, the Wacanda. The Wacanda had been parked curbside for the past 9 months.
So, what's my point? I know I'm digressing like mad here. Here's the thing: Now, its boats. Do you know how big boats are?
Really, when you live in a city, and have a classic Portland sloping driveway and an underhouse garage that was probably perfect for a model-T Ford, and now he's shopping craigslist for boats? I'm a little nervous. I'm learning about boats, which is fun. But the real fun is watching him, seeing the light in his eyes, the smile I live for. But BOATS?? I envision a somewhat slower process, one boat at a time, two tops. Keep in mind that the cost of the Wacanda was 600.00, sold for 1000.00 after having exactly that much into it. It was a great boat, and sold to someone who is into classic fiberglass. Now, he's dreaming about new boats. And when he said, "I'd never need another boat," I knew I'd heard it somewhere before.
Yesterday was an education. We raced madly to Vancouver for a 14 footer which turned out to be a 13 footer; to a new boat store in Beaverton where yachts are parked next to camouflage fishing boats that I'd lose in the morning mist; to 139th and Powell for a 14 footer that would NEVER fit under our house; and finally, to 71st and Sunnyside for a sweet little 13 footer with a suntop (my personal requirement).
Usually, when shopping craigslist, there is somewhat of an honor system. If you're the first to call, the seller will give you first shot, within certain timeframes. But this guy needed rent money. He said, "Two other people are on their way, but if you get here first, its yours." We were outta there. I liked the boat first sight, but like I said, I'm learning. When we rolled up to the house in felony flats, a man came outside. I should rather say the ghost of a man came outside. A meth-monster, reeking of booze, nearly transparent, unaccustomed to being out in the light of day. Making eye contact was too hard for him. He needed to sell that boat like I needed to sell my son's Christmas tricycle the day after christmas, or the Kirby vaccuum cleaner, or my soul.... So, I'm thinking, okay, the boat is sweet. He needs money, we need a boat. Contributing to his delinquency whispers in the back of my mind, a minor discomfort--I am an opportunist. Then my husband does what he does, he asks the magic question, "Do you have clear title?" The guy nods, sort of. Or maybe it was just a twitch. We look a little closer, see that the grass it sits on is undisturbed. It hasn't been there long at all. I see this. I know. I'm a thief. Still, though, I want the boat. I am capable of overlooking other people's faults. This does not make me a good person as I hope it will work out. It IS, afterall, the last boat I'll ever need.
"Okay, let's have a look at that title," husband says.
The ghost replies, "I'll just write you a bill of sale. That's all you need in Oregon." The unuttered "Trust me" passed his thin blue lips, falling soundlessly on the undisturbed lawn beneath (probably) his landlord's boat.
"Gonna need to see that title." says husband. We're Oregonians. We know better.
And that's where the sale ended. It may have been his boat. He spoke unconvincingly of salmon and sturgeon, but his voice shook and he had to keep his hands in his pockets to keep them from flying from his shoulders in frantic neurological distress. I know the pose.
It is difficult to hope he got his rent paid. I hope he gets some help, and in retrospect am relieved that we did not contribute, altruism not a factor.
Today, Sunday, I am home. K on the beach. My arm hurts bad. I know it is better but wish it was over. Back to the surgeon tomorrow to report my progress. I am doing great, but it is every other day that I am comfortable. I guess that is twice as often as pre-surgery. Whine. And its freakin' cold around here. I'm pretty done with winter, so, it could start warming up now.
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