When we were kids, my brother and I would ride his bike to the movie theater every week. I say "his bike," because I was a latecomer (foolish me) to learning the art of bicycle riding. So I would sit perched like a gargoyle (Lord, how embarrassing) atop his handlebar while he pedaled for the two of us. We'd prop his bike against the outside wall of the theater along with the dozens of other kids' bikes (no fancy bikestands nor locks in those days), and enter for the movie. One time, upon exiting the theater, we were shocked and angered to find that Mike's bike was missing from the pile of two-wheel vehicles. After we stood there for several minutes bemoaning our fate, a boy suddenly turned the corner of the nearby building, and headed toward the theater riding . . . Mike's bike. As soon as he stopped at the pile, my older brother grabbed him by the collar, and was about to reduce the number of his teeth with a punch while asking him, "Why the hell did you steal my bike?" "To go to church and confession," was the culprit's shakey reply. Lucky for the boy, Mike appreciated irony when he saw it.
-Old Doc
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