In 65 million years, you're gonna fly

If only we had a secret door. So we didn’t have to raise the gate to sign for packages. To step out for a sandwich. To arrive early. To leave late.

So no one could catch us, key in the door, coffee in hand, lost in thought or conversation —

“Let me ask you a question.”
“I know you’re closed but this will only take a minute.”
“What size bike do I need?”

If only we didn’t have to explain ourselves —
“I’m sorry, we’re not open yet. I’m getting breakfast.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you, I’m here early to take a personal call.”
“I’m sorry, we’re closed. I’m getting supper — so I can keep working.”

If only we had a secret door. So we didn’t have to raise the gate to see who was knocking.

Oh, it's only the wind — but wait, here comes the guy with the walker who hustles for change outside Bridge Fresh every day.

"Hey Red! Red."

The wheel, the brake, the whatever, on his walker broke, again. He wants Ilya to fix it, right now, and Ilya can’t say no —

Walker Guy doesn’t like me because I told him Ilya wasn’t there one night when we were trying to go home —

Last year he gave Ilya a Christmas card, signed, "From Weldon."

Now we know his name, it's even harder to say no. If only we had a secret door.

*

If only we had a tiny storefront, so we could make it look well-stocked, without stocking a lot. So we’d had a fighting chance against the dust, the cobwebs.

A tiny storefront, then, with a secret door. And upstairs, a roomy sunlit studio, with blinds in case the sun was ever too much. Where Ilya could do bike fittings. It would still be a little scrappy, homespun — let’s face it, we’ll never be polished, that’s not who we are — but we could be a little more civilized. We could have coffee. Good coffee, in real cups. And a kitchen. So I didn’t have to awkwardly wash dishes, and fill the tea kettle and the Brita, all in the tiny grease-stained sink in the tiny bathroom. (If only the bathroom wasn’t also our fitting room.)

A tiny storefront, with a secret door, and upstairs a roomy sunlit studio, with a huge table where Ilya would design bikes. A dedicated photo backdrop, with all the lighting in place. So we could document and share our best work, to get more good work.

A real wall with a real door — not empty Chris King wheel boxes stacked together — and on the other side, an ample workshop where Ilya would build the bikes. The grease and rubber contained, the acres of packaging, wrangled. Zipties and Ziplocs of every imaginable size sorted and labeled neatly.

Or — not Ilya at all, but a mechanic. Another human. If only.

If only Redbeard Bikes wasn’t just me and Ilya, taking turns rowing, or rowing at the same time but at different rates. He, thriving off people’s energy; me, sapped by it. Our skill sets two circles approaching each other but never quite overlapping. Venn, an elusive dream.

If only we had peers aside from each other. To brainstorm with. Vent with. Put our heads down and power through with.

If only we had staff. If only all our best employees had worked at the same time. If only all our best employees had stayed longer than they did. If only we had been better bosses. Kinder, saner, more inspiring or just more persuasive.

If only we had a safety net. Hadn't bootstrapped the place with our life savings. If only we'd had start-up capital. So we could spend months building out the shop we'd imagined instead of diving headfirst into a nine-dimensional Tetris game.

If only we weren't glued to the forecast, scanning for thunderstorm systems and flash floods in summer, hurricanes in fall, and in winter, sudden temperature jumps that prompt the snow to thaw through the ceiling. If only our floors weren't water-warped. If — when we pressed our feet into the floor — the floor did not press back with greater force.

If only we had enough room to leave the foosball table open, unfettered, so Ilya could play when the mood struck. The force of the ball enough to relieve the tension of working. Enough, to dislodge anxiety from the firmament of his mind. Set free a good idea growing so long it was bound up in its own roots.

Nine years.

If only we had paced ourselves.