Will A Belly Rub Bring A Bike Back?

I don't mean to make levity of bike theft.

So why am I making this video this week's "Sunday Funny?"

Well, it has mainly to do with its possible "hero."

I am a cat person, but I have been known to give a belly rub or two to neighbor's dogs.  So I can understand why even a bike thief--one of the lowest forms of humanity, in my book--couldn't keep himself from doing the same for a big, fluffy Golden Retriever.

I laughed because I realized that the pooch, whether he/she realizes it or not, may assist the police if, indeed, they bother to investigate this crime.  Though the family pet may not have stopped the theft, he or she might've delayed the thief long enough for the cops, the bike's owner or someone else to get a good (or at least) better look at the crook.

I just hope the bike is reunited with its owner.  I am sure he or she treasures it, un, almost as much as that lovable canine.

Thief Stopped, Too Late

 During my dim, dark past, I did a few good deeds.  One of them, some three decades later, fills me with pride and glee:  I stopped a would-be bike thief.  

After watching a film--My Left Foot--I left the old Paris Theatre, just across 58th Street from the Plaza Hotel.  A burly guy hunched over a Motobecane locked to a sign post.  Normally, I wouldn't have given someone like him any more notice, but my glance lasted just long enough to see him twist that bike.  

He was trying to pop the lock.  I'd heard that it was an M.O. of bike thieves, but that was the first time I'd seen it in action.  My rage rose; I could have shouted but I crept behind him--and tapped him on the shoulder.

Then, I was still a guy named Nick.  I rode, literally, everywhere and every time possible--including, of course, to the Paris Theatre.  In those days, I was also lifting weights, so I was solidly muscled throughout my body.  And I wore a full beard.

Now, the guy was built like me though, perhaps, he wasn't doing as much to keep in shape as I was.  But he must have believed that whatever he saw in my face, or the way I stood--or, perhaps, the rage that radiated from me--was a more powerful force. Or, maybe, it was just scarier.

He took off faster on his feet than most people could have on any set of wheels.  Good thing for him that just past the Plaza is Central Park!

The pride I felt was in knowing I saved some fellow cyclist, whom I've most likely never met, from losing his or her means of transportation, fitness or simply pleasure.  The glee came later, when I recalled the expression on the perp's face after I tapped him and he turned around.

But, given that I confronted that guy in a New York of record-high crime rates (think of Fort Apache, The Bronx or Hill Street Blues), things could have ended differently.  I could have met the fate of Brent Cannady.  

On the night of 5 August 2019, he and his friend left his  apartment in Bakersfield, California.   There, 29-year-old Marvinesha Johnson wheeled a bike-- one belonging to Cannady's friend.  

They grabbed it and headed back to the apartment. Ms. Johnson followed, threatened to kill 37-year-old Cannady and pulled a gun from her bag.

She fired four shots.  All of them hit Cannady.  He died the next day.

Marvinesha Johnson

The other day, she was found guilty of second-degree murder and resisting a peace officer. At her sentencing hearing, scheduled for 10 December, she faces 40 years to life in prison.

Fortunately for me and the owner of a Motobecane, my confrontation of a would-be thief ended with someone keeping his or her bike and a perp with his tail between his legs, if only for a moment.  I can only wish that things could have ended as well for Brent Cannady and his friend.

  

Honor Among Whom?

Some of us have difficulty with authority figures.  It might be the result of experiences with teachers, parents, clergy people or agents of the law.  We might be scolded for talking back or other forms of defiance, but those who scold us sometimes tell themselves, and each other, that one day we will "grow up" and "grow out of" our distrust of people with power over us.

But some of us learn, as we get older, to be even more skeptical of anyone we're supposed to obey or "respect".  I mean, how many--ahem--elected officials make you want to be a more compliant and amenable to those who have license--however they might have attained it--to make decisions that affect us?  And, given the scandals we've seen everywhere from the church to the entertainment industry, what would persuade anyone to give more credence to someone just because he or she has a title, money or a reputation, however any of those things were acquired?

Of course, the question of who merits our obedience and respect has been around for as long as humans have organized themselves.  Practically all philosophers, and more than a few poets, writers and artists have dealt with this issue, if obliquely.  And past as well as recent events give us reason to wonder just who, exactly, should be obeyed, much less revered.

One such event occurred 75 years ago this month in Flagstaff, Arizona.  The previous month, gasoline rationing had begun in the US.  Interestingly, the reason was not that petrol was in short supply.  Rather, rubber was, because the attack on Pearl Harbor a year earlier cut off most of the supply--and military needed whatever was available.  Thus, it was believed that the best way to reduce rubber usage was to reduce driving.  So was gas rationing begun.

Five different kinds of ration cards were issued. One, the C ration, was given to "essential war workers" (including police officers and letter carriers) and did not restrict the amount of gas they could use.  In Flagstaff, one recipient of the C ration was a fellow named Reverend George Gooderham.

That didn't sit well with another Flagstaff denizen--one Perry Francis.  But he wasn't just an ordinary citizen:  He was the sheriff.  

So how did Sheriff Francis express his resentment toward the Reverend?  Get ready for this:  He took the minister's bicycle.

A few hours later, the man of the cloth realized his wheels were gone and went to the local constabulary.  The folks in the sheriff's office led him on for a while before "finding" his bicycle and returning it to him.

It's often said that there is honor among thieves.  But what about cops who steal--from clergy members, no less?