YELLOW TIRES

I dreaded going outside my apartment. I was embarrassed by the clothes I wore, which always included hand-me-downs from one of my two brothers. My brothers were much bigger than I was, and so were their clothes. Giant sweaters, jeans, and Mom would cut the necks out of old turtlenecks for us to stick in our sweaters. The class I was in at school had a lot of rich kids in it, but it seemed like even the poor kids dressed better than me.

Christmas was the one time we’d get new stuff to wear. One Christmas, I was surprised with a bicycle. The first thing I noticed was that it was Sky blue, a color I hate! At the same time, I saw that the bar that usually went from below the handlebars to the seat that made it a boy’s bike was missing! It was a fucking folding bike, also known as a girl’s bike! I was mortified and crushed. I couldn’t believe that my Dad would give me a girl’s bike for a present. I never saw anyone ride a folding bike, and no one in my neighborhood would be caught dead riding one. Usually, I would be so happy about one of my presents, I’d want to hold it in front of me for the family photo, which would get me smacked, and I’d end up crying in the photo.

This time, tears of humiliation and sadness welled up in my eyes, and I couldn't hide my disappointment. “It’s a girl’s bike!” I said. “Don’t be an ingrate, it’s a good bike!” My father yelled. I looked at it again. It had yellow tires! What kid rides a bike with yellow tires? Nobody, that’s who! I thought. I had to temper my disappointment with caution because I could get a beating if I crossed the line, but there was no line. This sky blue girl’s folding bike with yellow tires also had hand brakes. Nobody my age had hand brakes on their bikes; it was uncool, everyone had brake pedals. I would rather walk for the rest of my life than ride this bike outside. Plus, I hadn’t even learned how to ride a bike yet, which made it all the more shameful.

My older sister Ann-Marie decided that she would teach me how to ride this bike, which I hated the sight of, let alone ride on. So, one day we walked up to the top of my street, which was a steep hill, and then she pushed me and my ugly bike down the hill of 179th street. I was flying down the hill so fast, I tried to squeeze the hand brakes early, but they were too tight! I couldn’t stop the bike! I was heading straight into the busiest intersection in Washington Heights of Broadway and 179th street and I was shitting in my pants! Just before I went into the intersection, someone grabbed the bike! It was Ann-Marie; she’d run down the hill at top speed to catch me. I hated this bike even more now.

My Dad loosened the hand brakes, and I eventually learned to ride my bike, but my journey of embarrassment was just beginning. My friends and I were the nerds of the neighborhood, and were already picked on by the bullies, and I often wished my bike was invisible when I rode it by them outside. ‘’Hey! That’s a girl’s bike!’’ They’d say. ‘’No it’s not! It’s a folding bike!’’ I’d shriek back. Then I’d get chased around the park on my ugly bike.

I got used to my ugly bike and in time, became friends with it. I used to tie six packs of beer to the back of it and ride across the George Washington Bridge with the bullies who later became my drinking buddies. Everyone would tell their parents they were staying over at my house, and there would be about 10 guys, and my little sister Joan and a couple of her friends. We would go onto the New Jersey Cliffs along the turnpike and camp out, rock out with our boombox, and get drunk and stoned until the sun came up. At least that was the plan. There were multiple episodes of vomiting, it always seemed to start raining, and our sleeping bags would get soaked with us in them. I still can’t believe that none of us ever fell off the cliffs to our deaths, because we would usually have a big kung-fu fight with each other after getting wasted.

The night always ended early because we’d make a fire, and some would drive by and call the state troopers and tell them there was a forest fire. We’d be woken up and kicked out in the middle of the night by the troopers, and we’d have to pack up our stuff and go back across the bridge again. It’s amazing they just let us go, even though we were drunk, stoned, and were between the ages of 12 to 14. It was probably a pain in the ass for them. No matter how many times we got caught camping on the cliffs, we always went back, even though it sucked having to pack up our shit while we were drunk.

Because no one could go home, one by one, people started coming up to me and saying, “Yo Kev, can I crash at your house?’’ We usually ended up at my house, and Mom let all 13 of us crash there. In the morning, she made everyone pancakes, and I felt like the coolest guy in the neighborhood. Even Dad was cool. It must’ve reminded him of the packed house he grew up with in Ireland. When they left, everybody said, "Thank you, Mrs. Tuohy. Thank you, Mr. Tuohy".

I don’t remember when my ugly bike disappeared, but one day, it was just gone. It survived our move to San Francisco, but after I joined the army, we parted ways.