He's riding Dr Frankenstein's bicycle. He collected all the body parts from dead bicycles all over town, gave them the spark of life, created a transport abomination. The push bike seems to trudge along each pedal push, a clumsy, unnatural step.
He's riding to the cemetery, to find fresh flowers to take to his girl. She finds his frugal ways comical and intriguing. Dr Frankenstein was a genius, so is her boyfriend, in his own way. She knows he is odd, but not evil or misguided.
Her jewellery is all gold, salvaged from dumped electronics, hand made just for her. In her courtyard the water in the fountain is pumped by a battery that is fueled by a rickety wind generator. The windmill is noisy enough to overwhelm the relaxing trickle of the fountain. Life with him is never relaxing, always on the edge of a new creation.
He leans his bike against the rail on her front porch, pulls the string on the cuckoo clock doorbell he gave her for a birthday, hands her the flowers and kisses her gently. He knows how lucky he is. She understands him and didn't set the villagers with torches after him when he courted her.
He goes down on one knee, produces a furry box, shows her a ring as he asks for her hand. She notices that the ring is from a proper shop. He has tried to do the right thing, offer her a conventional proposal.
He will never understand why she said no. He rides away from her house on Dr Frankenstein's bicycle, trudging miserably through city streets, scaring the dogs and children, heading back towards the cemetery.
And now you are wondering, “did he go to the cemetery to make a new girlfriend?”.
He did not. He went to sit quietly and reflect, to acknowledge that his life had been shattered, that he possessed the skills to build a new life out of the broken parts.
Because he wasn’t a monster.
Parkstreet
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