I get myself into more trouble with Craigslist. No, not in the "Casual Encounters" section, but in the "Motorcycles For Sale". I find gems, these diamonds in the rough so to speak and they end up costing me my retirement. Like a woman who has to go out and adopt a stray animal every time she sees a weepy ASPCA commercial, I bring home these abused and neglected two-wheeled dregs soon to be euthanized by the crusher. Saving these marvels of Japanese engineering from an ironic fate being melted down and shipped to China is some twisted calling of mine I guess.
At the time I believed it was just aimless internet wandering, window shopping on the world wide web, but I suspect there may have been ulterior motives buried deep in my subconscious, a need to sate the hunger that could not be done through acceptable channels. I cast my net wider across the state, searching from town to town electronically for velocipedic offerings.
Trumpets may have brayed and a light could have shown down from the heavens when I clicked on the ad: Kawasaki EX500 Track Bike $500, but probably not. It was, however, like an attractive woman smiling at you from across the street. Your heart leaps, breathing quickens and soon you are travelling back to that corner every day hoping for another glimpse, unable to forget her hair, eyes, grin. I must have gone back to that ad three or four times a day for the next week, until I finally put it out of my mind. Or so I thought.
I have never slept well, being a restless sort, but the next fortnight was nearly unbearable as a contentious power struggle trampled on in the parts of my brain I am still locked out of. I was not certain what was going on, only that something certainly was going on. The fifteenth day I woke as if from a fever, feeling refreshed and relaxed. Whatever it was had passed. I went to work.
During my lunch break I perused the two-wheeled wares on Craigslist, passing time. A small voice spoke from the bowels of my subconscious. Thinking back, it was an almost rodent-like voice, and as I listened, my guts hurt a little. "Go check on that EX500 in Roanoke.". I obeyed, not realizing it was a command at the time. It felt like simple whim, a "what the hell" kind of half-ass decision, like the tossing of a lit cigarette out the car window that begins the wildfire.
A haphazard, nonchalant Faust, I thought just before clicking, 'If the ad is still up, I will email him'. How was I to comprehend the re-selling of my soul? I had no way to know the contract was truly binding. The ad remained, and I kept my vow, sent the email and flipped destiny the bird once again.
Somewhere in the distance, the rat was laughing.
These are the rose colored glasses of motorcycle induced poverty