Illustration by Leah Lin
Not long ago there was some guy in Portland who had his bike stolen, and then he found a Craigslist post from someone in Seattle who was selling his bike. So he wrote the guy, said he wanted to buy the bike, arranged to meet at a grocery store for the transaction and called the cops. And of course he filmed it, it’s on YouTube and it goes something like:
“That’s my bike, he stole my bike, officer.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Cops stand bewildered, or maybe just bored.
“It’s my bike dude.”
“Sorry, man. Not your bike.”
And yes, it’s very clear: the bike is his stolen bike. But what can he do?
I’ve had two bikes stolen in the thirteen years I’ve lived in Brooklyn.
The first bike I had stolen is an embarrassing story. I had gone into the bodega for just a few minutes, leaving my bike unlocked outside, and when I returned it was gone. In fact, no one, nothing was on the street; no one on the sidewalk, not as far as I could see, not a car, not even a breeze. I could hear the streetligh…
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