one Saturday night, two worlds collide.
illegal activities abound under a full moon!
Another Friday, another letter! This train just keeps on-a-rollin’. I thank you for choosing Bicycle Boy as your conductor.
As always, there’s an audio version of this letter at the top, if you should be so inclined to ~ listen along ~.
“I go to dive. you coming?” the words light up my screen.
It’s Saturday night, 11:32 p.m., and the shops are all now closed. I’m in my clothes, in my pyjamas in bed. I get over that and get on top of the sheets. On goes a hoodie, my puffy coat, and rubber gloves into my pockets. I keep on the sweat shorts and the long socks, lace up my shoes, look for a flashlight, and head out, helmet in hand.
Savers* is our first stop. Sofia’s bike is already here, but she isn’t. I notice a few items periodically being tossed on the pavement from the dumpster and I realize she’s inside one of them.
I roll up, hop off, and get my bearings.
“You like fish sticks?” She asks me, her headlamp blinding me, knee-deep in trash.
“No, ma’am.” She tosses them over her shoulder and I look at the ground below me. Two massive bags of bread and pastries — all baked that morning, fresh, free for the taking. I decide that three cinnamon buns, two blueberry muffins, a couple raspberry danishes, one loaf of seeded sourdough, and one pull-a-part should last me well into next week. Sofia has luck in the form of vegan bread and a sticky bag of returnable cans.
We snag a few plastic buckets and containers — once used to package fudge, now a future forever home to my art supplies. We forgo the bag of No-Name Norwegian Cheezies, the fish sticks, and other strange delights.
Sofia and I seem to have an unspoken communication tonight. It's strictly business. She leads us to our next location, and I follow, my bike light dim, powered by each stroke of my legs.
While there isn’t much to be said, there is much to be seen. It’s a Saturday night in a small town in Norway, and the streets are alive. The high cost of drinking at pubs drives some to pre-party at home. Sometime before midnight, they emerge from the depths, already drunk, ready to make waves. We the scavengers, too, appear at this hour — also driven by a desire to save money.
As we roll down the hill, down the town’s main strip, we dodge people and cars. Our faces are aglow with taillights, streetlights, fluorescent bulbs flickering inside kebab shops, and coloured beams flashing from the one pub and the one club.
Next stop: Ready 2500.
A few small bins are tucked off to the side of this grocery store. They are humble but boast a wide variety of produce. Strawberries, bags of organic bananas, apples, grapes, potatoes, and taco salad mixes. Nonverbal communication continues — Sofia flashes me a handful of something, I shrug with apathy or snatch it from her palm. We take what we can, what we can carry, what is worth salvaging.
Savers, the second. This location is on the outskirts of downtown, the last grocery store before we head along the highway next to the lake. One big garbage bin of watermelons greets us here. In moments like this, I wish for a car.
I look up at Sofia, her silhouette under the red neon glow of the Closed sign. Enough light to know it's her, not enough to read her expression. We roll on into the night air, where the pavement is smooth, the streetlights are few, and the stars start to grab our attention.
We arrive soon in the industrial complex. There is something special about industrial zones when they are asleep, when no one is manning them, I think. Something incredibly nostalgic. Something brutal and awful, yet simple and humble. I feel weird about it, but a tear comes to my eye. Maybe it's the cold air, maybe it's the feeling of a quiet rebellion.
BargainLand.
“A gift!” Sofia says. She turns and presents me with a bouquet of purple flowers. I look over her shoulder and see two more, left in a shallow bucket of water, next to the garbage. I run past her and grab a white bouquet to present back to her. We exchange them and smile and feel the magic of the moment.
That’s not all! BargainLand continues to deliver with bags of candy! And coffee! The brand I drink, ground to the brew method I use, with only a small puncture in the corner that would prevent it from being sold. The shopkeeper even cared to put it in another bag to keep the small grounds from spilling. Sofia also finds a ring with a gemstone for the month of June. She hands it to me and my Gemini heart is full of glee.
We spare some joy for the next nightrider, leaving behind one bouquet in the bucket.
The Mall. This place has an industrial-style garbage press. Not much we can do here but raid the recycling bins. I have no need for old keyboards or newspapers or metal scraps, but it’s fun to browse.
Frukt. Another grocery store, but not a lot on offer. We’re getting tired and I’ve started to grow cold. I pull out my phone, almost dead from acting as my flashlight, and press play on Mac Demarco’s “Five Easy Hot Dogs”.
Mac counts Sofia in when she asks, “Ready to go home?”
I check the clock, fast approaching 2 a.m. Yeah, I’m ready.
The album is a perfect companion to this strange night; sleepy, surreal, contemplative. The air is now almost too cold on my bare shins, and I pull my jacket hood over my head and my hair, zipped up over my neck.
We make our way back up the main street, and the night has progressed for everyone, not just us. We pass singular men who stumble their way out into the darkness from which we came. At first, I thought I’d be afraid of one if I didn’t have a bike. Then, I watch him swing at thin air, lose his balance, and mumble to himself. I imagine being able to handle it. Another teenager taunts me with a kebab in hand. I assume it is because I, too, resemble a teenage boy in my attire — I am his equal, a mirror of him in another life, with a bouquet in a bike bag.
Two worlds collide tonight. Two worlds capitalizing on the freedom of a Saturday and the stillness of a Sunday. Saturdays — when police expect problems, when there’s glass on the ground, dopamine levels on the rise, a sense of anticipation adrift in the air. And Sundays — no place to be, no shops open, no way to sell day-old bread. Into the bin it goes and into the bin we go looking for it.
It’s 3 a.m. by the time the goods are cleaned and sorted and ready to be eaten or processed. I’m exhausted but that often happens anyway, I think.
Maybe next Saturday, I’ll stay in bed, I’ll let worlds collide without me, I’ll watch from my window. Or maybe I’ll put my jacket on and be a proponent of that collision. Tonight I’m glad I went out.
Life underwater! Even lent me his goggles at the pool this week. I felt like they gave me superpowers.
these words from Virginia Woolf, as the calendar flips into October:
My romantic history.
this apple tree on the walk home from school. Look how big these boys are!
my hands, day after day, doing what they do. I’m glad to have them, I’m glad they are mine.
cotton clothing on my skin. soft, stretchy, warm, layered.
like I don’t want to cause harm — like I want to love well and love right.
the impact of a cold shower on the psyche.
the draw towards solitude.
Alanis Morissette and a memory of my mother.
the voices of my classmates, speaking softly in Norwegian, their words floating around and over me. I have my headphones in, I’m in the zone, I disappeared from the conversation. They naturally revert to their native tongue.
so much music in general. For me, this happens in seasons.
Tell me, dear reader, what’s your current go-to album?
that musty scent of a sweater brought home from the thrift store.
Apples, cinnamon, and sugar, baking in the oven, filling the whole floor of my apartment
all of the riches mentioned in this letter! Treasures for the tastebuds, I say.
I’d love it if you commented or emailed me back with your own list. They can be long or short, bitter or sweet.
After seeing some of your deeply generous pledges, I have officially turned on my paid subscription service! That means extra special things are in the mix.
I truly can’t thank you enough for supporting Bicycle Boy and its strange little corner on the internet, in whatever capacity you do — spiritually or financially or both.
I also have my first major exam next week. That might be irrelevant information to you, but it’s in the future, and it’s happening.
Tunes you heard in the audio voice-over:
intro: this song by T-SQUARE
the Mac Demarco album mentioned in the middle.
outro: “jazz is for ordinary people” by berlioz
If you like what you’re seeing, please share my work with your pals!
* A note on today’s issue: the names of grocery stores mentioned in this letter have been altered for reasons that are probably self-evident
I cheered internally when you found the coffee ☕️What is your brew method bicycle boy? I imagined mokapot