I thought I was walking into the ghetto to give repair advice or estimates for a trike. An adult tricycle. A customer at the shop asked if I would do this, and somehow it turned into a thing that was definitely happening. I'm not good weaseling out of things, but this time it was to my severe benefit.
It was his father's trike, and his father passed away last year. He wanted someone to take care of it. He wanted $100 for it.
I am the right man. I have wanted a trike for years. I've come close to ordering a brand new one, but decided it would be a cop out. I didn't want a brand new shiny trike. Clean new stuff isn't really my bag.
The trike is crunk. Everything is covered in rust. But everything moves, and the tires hold air. It's rideable. I offered him $60. He accepted the offer and reminded me that he really just wanted someone to take care of it in the memory of his father. I rode away with the agreement I'd give him the $60 later. He was a good guy, and he knows where I work.
My cup runeth over. Seldom have I been as happy as I was riding that trike around West Philly. Mi amor, baby. I can't believe I waited until now to own a big ridiculous tricycle. This was the last ingredient I needed to transform myself into the character I picture in my head. I am now a rolling caricature of myself. Silly has reached a fever pitch.