Elvira M.
Yelp
Now, children it is story time. Once upon a time, I set out on my bicycle to journey to meet up with Joshua C. at a YPOP event in the distant land of the Southeast. (To hear more about that see my review of Blitz Ladd). About to mount my trusty cycling steed, I realized that no beam shone forth from my front headlight.
Oh, woe! Oh, woe! But no time to mourn, it is 5pm and jobless Joshua C. will soon be all alone, adrift in a sea of gloating and happily employed Portland yuppies. Heavy with my loss, I pedaled to the local bike store, which will remain UNNAMED due to my strong belief in not wreaking VENGENCE on those I have not thoroughly tested. Ten minutes pass, as I, the lone customer, stare, eyes glazing at my luminating options, while three staffers chatter in a bike-hipster manner. Finally, "Miss," (MISS!?!!! What century is this?) "do you need some help?" Thanks for offering, but no thanks for your entirely unhelpful help. I choose the cheapest one out of frustration.
Out of the shop, the battery compartment won't open, and I have no screwdriver to attach the mount, so back again to the unhelpful store. "Miss?" (ARGH!) "What brings you back here?" "Well, I can't open the battery compartment, and I was wondering if could borrow a screwdriver to attach the mount." "Genericmalename," says unhelpful employee to another, "Put the batteries in the light and take care of everything else."
It's actually a kindly fellow-customer who shows me how open the light myself. Give a girl a fish, and she will keep coming back to your store with annoying questions. Teach a girl to fish, and she will get her own fish and leave you alone. It's in your own self-interest to not treat me as incompetent. Anyway, why dwell on the blemishes of the past? Again I am off. The phone rings, it is Joshua C. I tell him my woes, and that I will arrive soon.
Fast forward, now over the Morrison Bridge, to 9th Avenue on the South East side. I'm running late, as I reach back into my pack to pull out the address. My back light is attached to the lip of my bag, and as I fumble, I accidentally flick the light, which flies to the ground, shattering, shrapnels of bike light things raining down on the pavement.
Oh woe! OH WOE! But what was that little cycling shop on the last corner I saw? Clever Cycles! Quickly, I rush to the door. They close at 6; it's 6:05pm. Woe! But, Joy! The door opens. Oh, such joy! Folding bikes, bakfiets! Cool leather seats! And other super-cool things that I am not bike-hip enough to know about! Massive points for excellent store design and inventory.
No one's at the desk, but them a salesMAN materializes. I emphasize MAN, as again I was helped by two men, both of who must know infinitely more about bikes than I, but I was treated with respect and kindness. It's after closing? No, not a problem for us to sell you a light. And, I will offer to attach it to your bike for you, and spend time analyzing the best place for you to put your light.
And, no, not once was I called "Miss." If you want to call me anything, call me Ma'am. It's what they call ranking female officers in the military, and, for all you know, I could be one. And I'll make sure that Clever Cycles gets all the military cycling contracts.