Chunk

It's one of those money-suck months, January. It is always is. You have to pay for December, CHUNK, and then, if you're stupid, you pay for that too.

The Great Plotkicycle was a great bike. But Plotnik got soft, forgot how to be careful, went into a store on Mission Street outside of which he has left the bike a hundred times, keeping an eye on it, but  without locking it. Number 101 was the last time.

Laborers on the corner told Plottie two guys drove by in a car, saw the bike, one of them jumped out of the car, jumped on the bike and roared East down Cesar Chavez. Plot is pretty sure the two women who walked into the store at the same time, blocking his view of his bike, were in on it. 

Worse than losing the bike was losing the keys that were in his saddlebag. The bike is almost understandable, a brain fart, but not taking his keys into the store, when he did take his wallet and phone, is just deplorable. 

What else was in those saddlebags? Perhaps a credit card slip, or a lyric in a folder, or anything else with a name and/or address?

So CHUNK, rekey the car's ignition. CHUNK, swap out the deadbolts on the house. CHUNK, replace the 64gig flash drive that Plottie always carries with him, on his key ring, which has copies of his entire recording project on it, so that if the house burns down or is robbed he will still have the project on his body.

Uh, unless he's stupid. CHUNK.

In the greater schema of things: nothing. Inconvenience, everything else replaceable. Plot lost a few kick-yourself-in-the-rear nights of sleep, but now that's done too. He'll ride Ducknik's old bike for awhile and then buy a used one. No more new bikes, that is for certain.

49ers won again! Yahoo!