A Man Named Joe

Sonya Feibert

I met a man named Joe last night. I met Joe because he was riding my bike as I walked home after work, bikeless. It was dark and the desert air was cold by the time I left the brewery and prepared for a longer journey home than I’d hoped for. Movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. A bike, and the person riding it, came into view. I zeroed in on my water bottle nestled in the metal holder on the bike bar. “Hey!” I shouted in that moment of realization. “Hey...that’s my water bottle.” Joe hesitated for a moment. He slowed. He rolled over to me. “I think that’s my bike,” I said. “I found it,” he said defensively. “Okay.” “I don’t want any trouble,” he said. “Okay. Thank you for inding it.” “It was unlocked.” That was fair. Rushing to work after a soccer game in the park, I hadn’t locked my bike. That detail slipped my mind until we were closing for the night. The realization hit me around 10 p.m. I’d stayed busy enough all day, passing out beers and cleaning the brewery, that I hadn’t given my bike a second thought. I ran outside to look at the bike rack. No surprise, but the little bit of hope I’d had vanished: my bike was gone. Too embarrassed by my carelessness, I didn’t say anything to my coworker. I would walk home. It was ine. It would be ine. And now, here was my bike in front of me, with someone else straddling it. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I thought I’d never see it again,” I told Joe. Joe got of the bike. He wheeled it to me.

“I thought about how I could get around more easily. I thought about how I could get to the store with this bike. It would make things easier,” he said. “Can I repay you?” I asked. “Could I buy you something to eat?” Somehow, all I felt towards Joe was gratitude. Maybe he’d taken my bike, but now he was returning it. “Okay.” Joe said. “I don’t have any cash though. What if we go to the gas station across the street?” “Okay,” Joe said. We walked to the gas station, I pushing my new found bike, Joe walking, back on the ground, bikeless. We walked, and Joe told me about serving in the military. How afterwards, he got out and couldn’t ind work. He dealt with anxiety from his time serving overseas. Now, he just wanted a job, but he couldn’t ind one. He’d been living without a home, trying to ind work and go on with life. We got to the gas station. Joe said he would wait outside. I went inside and bought anything I saw that might taste decent: a few sandwiches, Snickers, water, an apple, chips. As I checked out, I took out $40 for Joe. We sat outside the gas station a few feet apart, backs up against the building. Joe shared more about his life. He was trying to ind work, to ind a more comfortable life, the kind of life some of us have and many of us take for granted. He didn’t have a support system. Any head start he’d had was long gone. I told Joe I needed to get home. I thanked him for giving my bike back. I didn’t know what else I could do. The bike he returned to me sits in my garage, one tire lat, the chains gathering rust. I still think about Joe. I wonder how he is. I wonder if he found a job. And I wonder, if I saw him again, would I tell him to keep the bike?