Hans, the Fisherman's Son

I did a very strange thing some years back.

I was still a kid if we’re being honest; about two years into my third office job. It was in a K street high-rise, or what passes for such in downtown D.C. The place screamed “beige open office layout,” and the journey home consisted of a crowded 45-minute metro ride followed by a 20-minute drive from the station. Usually, I’d sleep during the metro leg of the trip. But then The Feeling started creeping in.

No real way to describe it other than to say I had ants in my pants. Some generalized anxiety that I had to DO something, and I had to do it NOW.

Every afternoon on the metro, The Feeling would return. In a few days, I couldn’t even sit down while on the train. After about a week, I’d shuffle in place because the unclassified discomfort became unbearable.

So here’s what I did:

I started taking my lunch breaks in the building’s basement, in an old storage room its rusty door couldn’t keep me out of. I went down there because it was quiet, no one could hear me, and I still had cell reception. Then I went through the directory I put together of every single bike shop in the city. I called up a fair many before I found one that was still hiring for the season.

This particular one wasn’t ideal. For one, it was located on the opposite end of town. Shifts also started at 3pm, which meant I’d have to leave at 2 to get there on time. But, it was a flagship store. And for reasons I couldn’t articulate, it’s what I needed to do. So I applied and started working.

My new routine was a delicate operation. On days I worked in the shop, I would have to sneak out the side entrance of my office building with a gym bag. The side entrance sat near a Starbucks, which provided a bathroom to change out of, along with a seldom-used elevator down to the metro station. I’d be able to change into my alter ego and catch a train with minimal worry about being discovered by my office colleagues.

There was still the problem of what would happen if anyone came looking for me between 2 and 5pm, but this was during the Great Recession and journalism’s total implosion. It was commonplace to visit the offices of co-workers and find their stuff had been cleared out. Those looking for me might just figure I, too, had been laid off. It was also likely to happen for real by the odds of it, so what was there to lose?

Nine to two Monday to Friday, I was in my office. Afternoons, nights, weekends and holidays, I was working in the shop. It was a grueling schedule, but I saw some things. There’s a guy whose latest movie you likely saw this month who also got sized up by me for some shoes and pedals. Also helped a handful of Senators’ aides get kitted up so they wouldn’t get dropped by their bosses. One particular afternoon, my boss showed up in the store van, which we never used. He tells me to help him unload the back. I was thinking surplus tires or something.

“You’re going to want to be very careful with what you pull out of there,” he said.

The only thing back there was a bike. But it had the Presidential Seal on it. (The urge to ride it was overwhelming, but I never did.)