When Jacque moved out of her apartment in Browne's Addition, there were some recyclable bikes in the weird common basement storage general area. It was clear they'd been languishing there for a while. Actual details on who owned them and that kind of thing were a bit fuzzy. She was sensing my angst and assured me that the property manager had told her it was cool to find adoptive homes for the bikes. . . or . . . errr, something like that, whatever. Fuzzy, like I said.
It would have been totally stupid to ask a bunch of questions. I'm a tow-truck-driver-in-training, and like the real tow-truck drivers that I idolize, that small crack in the ethical landscape was all that I needed. This was my chance to step up and roll with the big dogs. . . pit bulls of men who will get in your face and back your ass down for asking why they're towing your rig. I'm big time now, and my poop don't smell. (Although like other tow-ers, it's been 3 days since my last shower, but that's another kind of smell.)
If there was any way to get diesel fumes to spew out the back of my Xtra, my dream would be complete.