Little White Lie

Sitting on a wooden stool at a trendy coffee shop in Buffalo, I start to eavesdrop on a conversation between an intellectual looking Samoan named Leo who has his hair in a bun on top of his head and a bleach blonde girl in a hot pink sweater named Rose.

I just learn that one of Rose's friends recently passed the bar exam when a bespectacled young man of Indian or Pakistani decent waves to me in the window with a big smile on his face. His white teeth contrast nicely with his dark complexion. Now that he has my attention he points to a nearby mountain bike that's chained to one of the ubiquitous parking meters that valiantly guard our thoroughfare curbs. For a moment I don't know what he wants. Then everything clicks. I feel a rush of excitement, like when I guess the right answer in Pictionary or charades. He wants to know if the mountain bike is mine. It's not, but he looks so hopeful and excited, I’m not sure what to tell him. I hate disappointing people. Even strangers I’ll probably never see again.

It would be so easy for me to simply nod my head in that universally understood sign that means yes, right, yup, uh huh, and so on. It doesn’t cost anything, and no one would get hurt. Sure, technically it would be a lie, but he would feel good, I would feel good for making him feel good, and the world would be a better place because of my altruism.

Then I think of all the bad things that could happen if I say yes. He could come in and ask me crazy questions about the bike, like how many gears does it have, how much does it weigh, or how often do I ride. Then again, he could have one just like it and feel that qualifies us to be friends. No offense to him, but I’m a loner, like Clint Eastwood in a Spaghetti Western or Clubber Lang in Rocky III. Plus, if he wants to go riding sometime, it would really put a damper on things if I showed up with the bike in my basement - a hybrid Huffy 12-speed I haven’t used since 1990. Worse, the person who owns it could walk out of the adjacent book store at the exact moment I’m telling him it’s mine. I imagine the disappointing look on his face turning to contempt as he glares at me for a moment before stalking off. I don’t want to be responsible for the guy losing faith in humanity.

I can see he’s starting to become impatient. His motioning back and forth between the bike and me has become more deliberate and theatrical. He probably thinks I’m slow on the uptake or dense, like fog in the morning or a tropical rain forest. My eyes momentarily drift off to his left where I notice two attractive girls smoking cigarettes. One has a short trendy hair cut, a nose ring and is wearing a puffy black down jacket. I like watching her smoke. The other has curly red hair and no jacket. I think she works at the book store. Her smoking style is a little rushed and her exhales are weak. She could use some pointers from her friend.

Well, this has gone on long enough. I decide to go for it and tell the guy what’s he’s longing to hear by shaking my head up and down and mouthing the words, “Yes, it’s mine.” He smiles and gives me the universal sign for “cool” by putting two thumbs up, and then strides off as happy as a first-time bride.

Now that I’ve done my good deed for the day, I can go back to writing in my black and white composition book and drinking my plain cappuccino in a tiny glass mug with lots of cinnamon on top.