A train station prophet was wrong

It occurs to me that exactly five years ago, a train station prophet foretold the transmogrification of my two-wheeler into a German automobile. Truth be told, that bike was stolen and so while it is possible that the long-pilfered frame and wheels were (somewhere, somehow) melted down and folded into a new 3-series, I doubt this is the case.

Besides, this would be a needlessly literal interpretation of that Asian man's pronouncements. He meant that I would no longer be riding a bike, but instead be driving a BMW (and not to put too fine a point on it, my own BMW) though this has not come to pass. I still ride around the city on two wheels, and neither my vocation or lifestyle or income admit of a luxury sedan at this time.

It's hard not to interpret this as a failure. Even though I didn't know this strange Chinese man loitering around the train station at sunset, I took his prediction seriously. Possibly because it was unsolicited but probably because it was positive and so personal. Over the years, I have forgotten the many suggestions of my inevitable failure, but I have not forgot this. I can't help but feel that I have let him down somehow.

That said, he was probably shit-bombed when he said that. I wonder if he remembers my face or his prophecy of so many years ago? What would he think that it has entered my catalogue of remembered thoughts?

The words in my head

There were a few words floating through my head as my bike's front tire smashed into the just-revealed inside of a car door. I was thinking about the word "snazzy"; which is itself a snazzy word. Actually, I once heard of a distinction between words that seem to describe themselves (like "loopy", "bit", "magniloquent") and those that don't ("abbreviation", "pulchritude", "French"). I believe they were referred to as "autogeneous" and "heterogeneous" respectively. Part the fun was trying to determine what type of word "heterogeneous" was.

I also remember thinking about that old joke:

What do you call a stolen candy bar?
Hot chocolate!

At just the same time as the metal bar at the top of the car door pressed into my chest. I thought: does the target audience of this joke really understand the word "hot" in this context? Seemed a bit slangy to me. As I child I remember having to ask my parents about that one.

But the words in my head were quickly vacated by the stars in my eyes. I doubled over in pain on Shuter street, leaning heavily on my handlebars, and completely out of breath. I pulled the cold morning air into my lungs, and let my vision slowly return. A few moments later I was upright -- my head-done-cleared like an Etch-a-Sketch. Or more poetically: my thoughts as still as a mountain-side lake. And like the first glint of the morning sun on said lake, a single word materialized in my head:

Motherfucker.