Lately I've had occasion to think a lot about my freshman year at Cal. When I was a freshman I lived in Unit I, a quad of high-rise dorms at the top of Durant Avenue. Mine was called Freeborn, and when I first moved in there were big paper capital letters spelling the name mounted on each of the 8 floors of the exterior stairwell. Except that someone had ripped off the bottom bulb of the "B," which changed the name to something somewhat different.
I lived in a triple room because I'd asked to live in a triple. Why did I do that? Because the triples had bunk beds, whereas the regular double rooms didn't. And I wanted me a top bunk. In fact, I was distressed to discover that I wasn't the first person to arrive on moving-in day. "Another girl will surely have taken the coveted top bunk!" I inwardly wailed, since as a mature freshman I could never be so demonstrative. But it turned out, happily, that my other roommates had no interest in the top bunk. Can't imagine why, but, hey, whatever floats their boat...
The room itself was all the way at the edge of the building, on the first floor, right next to Durant, and the bed was along that far wall. We had no TV, so in moments when I needed to lounge around with flatlined brain activity I would just lie on the bed and look out the huge window, watching people go up and down the street and gazing upon the distant Marin hills I could just see through the trees. I found the whole thing quite decadent and relaxing, my favorite quiet spot.
Below the window was a bike rack, a bike rack of some infamy. Bikes parked there would periodically get vandalized: knocked over, wheels stolen, or absconded with outright. Not that I ever saw any of this happen, but I would see the results the next day.
Anyway, after watching other people's bikes for a month or two, I decided to get me one of my own. Without paying too much, of course, because I was a poor student. So I went to the flea market at the Ashby BART one Saturday, where I saw a ten-speed that appeared to be my size. The problem: the man selling it only spoke Spanish. Fortunately I had taken Spanish in high school. This was my chance to show my stuff. Our conversation limped along as we struggled to communicate, but in the end I gave him $20 and went on my way, quite pleased with my purchase.
Unfortunately, the one question I'd forgotten to ask was "Do the brakes work?" It would have been a good one to ask, since apparently they didn't. The bike was deemed un-ridable, and now I had a problem. What was I going to do with the bike?
It was too crappy to sink more money into to get into good repair, so that was out. I wouldn't be able to sell it, since who would want to (knowingly) buy a bike that wasn't safe to ride? (And I couldn't in good conscience lie or obfuscate about its condition – plus what if the buyer got hurt and sued?) I couldn't give the bike away either, since there was no one I knew who would want an unsafe bike, nor anyone I knew whom I'd want to have an unsafe bike. Also I couldn't throw it away – it didn't fit in a garbage can, and that's the kind of thing you usually have to pay someone to haul away, which I definitely didn't want to spend money doing. And I couldn't just leave it somewhere, since that would be littering. So what was I to do?
I did the only thing I could: I parked it at the bike rack without a lock and waited for nature to take its course. And waited and waited and waited. Months went by and nothing happened to it. I think at one point someone knocked it over, but every morning I looked out my window and it was still there. Damn.
Until one day it was gone, and that's when I came to know who my true friends were. They were the people that, when I said, "My bike got stolen!" said, "Congratulations!"
Anyway, the other day I walked by the dorm. There, where the bike rack used to be, is a building. A brand new dorm built in Unit I to accommodate the influx of expected undergrads. It looks like a nice building, but I can't help feeling sad to see it. Not only is the bike rack gone, but so is the view.