An Open Letter to Whoever Stole My Bicycle
You know what man? Or woman? I kind of envy you. Sometimes I will see things that belong to other people and think, “I would like to own that.” And then I just, like, start thinking of something else, or maybe even sometimes legally procure a version of ‘that’ from a store, or the internet. But you. You, my friend, understand that the very notion of “ownership” is illusory: We do not come out of the womb fused to iPods and bicycles. And what is money anyway? Special green paper? “Everything can be taken from you in an instant,” you seem to be saying. “We own only our organs, and even those can be stolen, you better keep an eye on that kidney.” Now, do I hope that the brakes give out entirely as you bike down a steep hill, causing you to crash into a Hummer, and do I hope you maintain your balance only to bike blindly through a hot oil factory, where you fall into a vat and then climb out and with your one remaining arm claw your way to the nearest building, which happens to be a courthouse famous for an insane judge who gives life-long prison sentences for petty offenses? Of course I want that to happen to you. I want you to sit there, limbless and oil-choked, glancing at your fellow lifers (traffic violators, mostly; crazy judge, as I said), and I want you to think to yourself: “How will people know that Daniel can ride his bicycle without any hands, and can even sometimes make turns without his hands.” And the answer is: “I will have to tell them.” And that answer is not good enough.
