Sitting on a park bench

Children climb on a fence in a playground, I get my camera out of my fanny pack, a condom falls to the ground; embarrassing. I drink from a Dutch beer, rich, distinctive, hoppy – finally some hops – the equivalent of twenty dollars a 6 pack; only sold in singles. They drink less here than in Ireland, and less good beer, which is saying a lot since most Irish drink cider beer in a glass on ice, and Guinness isn't all that great anyway. A couple kisses noisily on the grass; it’s passionate and oddly audible, literal smooches. A child’s scream rings through the air. A beautiful six-foot woman with dark hair and dark clothes walks by; she's carrying a carton of strawberries, the red is more intoxicating than the beer – which says a lot. These were my first good beers in weeks. We exchange glances. She looks away toward my cowboy boots. I start another beer. I have to use my belt buckle to open it. It’s less awkward than using my toothbrush to open a bottle of wine. I've conveniently located my bench next to a trash can; I don't have to stand for any reason, it’s good to rest my legs. The sun is shining; it warms the back of my neck. I kick a child's ball back to him. A pigeon approaches and eyes me for a handout. We have a staring contest. He wins. My next beer is organic unfiltered Trappist; I understood the first two parts. A woman lies down in the grass. Her Yorkie walks around her on a retractable leash. She has lizard skin; too many days in the tanning salon. Another pigeon approaches, more determined than the last, and flutters away from the approaching Vespa scooter. I showered today. I smell the fragrant soap on my skin, it’s odd. The couple is back at it; more audible this time. They seem comfortable with my drinking. Perhaps it’s my disguise as a writer than calms them. A witch’s cauldron of smoke arises from my next beer. This thing was truly brewed, it’s a stout, a little too warm. You can only buy singles and they're on the shelf like wine. Another couple rides by on bikes. A mother pushes her child in a stroller. I finish a beer and hear it ring out from the bottom of the trash can, singing with his comrades. I leave the park with one beer left in a paper bag. I stand. I stumble. The sun isn't down yet. It’s a good day, still warm. The quality beer brings the park into focus.

Wanna buy a bike?

Drinking a goblet of beer. The band is loud, screaming, and sincere. I had just smoked a cigarette and purchased a bike off a junkie in front of the show.  It doesn't come with a lock because he had obviously stolen it.  For 10 euro, it’s a good deal.  But now I've got an unlocked bike in front of the bar.  If it gets stolen, I’ll be fine with it.  They scream their lyrics and I think of how I wish my life was always like this.  I only worry about smelling bad the next day from all the smoke in this dive bar.  I can only imagine how bad my clothes smell already.  I consider them stale.  The bands are hardcore-metal and are on tour.  One of the bands is stoked to be playing their home town.  My less than honorable method of acquiring a bike has left me with little recourse or animosity over possible theft.  They SCREAM their lyrics, saying thank you after each song.  No one is speaking English but they can if prompted, unlike the French, whom I've been told will not speak English with you out of principle. Well if you’re going to get butt-hurt over having an "equal" language, then simmer down.  Look at the colonies that each Nation put in their Easter basket.  I think the UK had better planning. Better than all your eggs being in Africa.

My bike was stolen the next day while I was buying train tickets and looking for a bike lock.  The bike was gone and luckily I went and checked before going in and buying a lock.  I had shoved it between two bikes while inside and it was picked up within an hour.  It was a piece of shit though.  I've ridden worse, but it was pretty bed.  I had nearly hurt myself multiple times – it had weird peddle brakes, hard to get used to using. I had essentially paid for a shit bike and the knowledge of a junkie enjoying the removal of feeling and thought while slamming heroin through his burnt up veins.