Trolley has seen the light!The encroachment of profit into public life and the neurotic social performance that struck Trolley dumb one day persists. Government keeps us calm, as it continues to piss on hands; its citizenry licks its fingers and sticks them up in the wind to dry. Zombie capitalists rent out headspace at a ha’penny a nanosecond, as clicks & bricks rock & roll, the lazy and the cynical seek refuge in marketing.
Trolley has seen the light!
The bipolarity of April has unsettled the emotional climate. A monster in a big & baggy, yellow & black striped jumper has hovered into view. Despite guilt by association with the honey bee, it refuses to swarm, it bumbles. Likewise, Trolley has retained full possession of his cognitive domain through disassociation with the swarm. He ambles around un-housed, mostly; recycling, reusing and reclaiming.
Trolley has seen the light!
The metal cart has been cast aside; sundry items liberated from its grilled confines. Trolley has temporary ownership of a street bike. He has but one piece of human cargo: Melon, who until 90 hours ago was a complete stranger. He is in the vicinity. Trolley does analytics and containment. Melon deals with transportation and logistics.
This late morning, speed is of the essence. That's when you need a street bike. Located in sensible places around town by and for people who live life outdoors, an opportunely encountered street bike parked up for personal use equals mutualism in action. Trolley has been switched on to the possibilities. He must illuminate others in his own mutable way.
Trolley smells of little. Only if Melon comes up close can he detect the undertow of Clinique Happy - whose iconic display Trolley once savaged in a fit against industrial chemoreception. In revenge, Trolley's high-precision sensing, finely attuned to years on the margins, can pick up a multi-layered fragrance half a kilometre away. So, when a crusty tang, with shades of Hawaiian Wedding Flower wafts across, accompanied by the rattle of intermediate technology, Trolley recognises the signals of Melon's approach.
In haste, Melon will shake up any number of jalopies to prise off the cheap lock. It is not one of those he brandishes today, though. Property is theft, but this isn't borrowing back. This is re-appropriation of intellectual rights. This is a street bike.
Street bikes are easy to spot if you know what to look for. The basic model is not so much pre-owned as semi-moribund. Deep-crust tyres, just barely inflated enough to be preferable to crawling through broken glass, suck energy like a hungry narcissist. Sombre or sleazy in tone, handlebars and rusty chain come as standard; brakes and unsteady seat, optional. Panniers and racks are the preserve of the housed and the obsessive compulsive.
Sancho Panza to Trolley's Don Quijote, Melon has found a dysfunctional 70’s Chopper bike to shoulder the burden of those Bags for Life released from the expired trolley. Chipper, like his bicycle's sister model, Melon discusses with his attentive mute companion, who lurches near a gaudy 20” mountain bike with fat wheels, the subject of the evil conspiracy that stole their brand, stuck a crap catch phrase on it and made a billion.
SHARE MORE. CONSUME LESS.
-We're the social entrepreneurs! rails Melon.
Trolley rubs second and forefinger against thumb, points at himself, laughs silently and shakes his head side to side, like a Bulgarian who thinks everything is all right with the world. Melon nods in violent agreement, like a Bulgarian in defiance of the foreign occupation of his culture.
- Cashless society? Melon snorts.
If there's no brass in pocket, then who controls the money supply? And what happens when you can't get credit? Questions that have shaped their destiny now preoccupy the minds of Swedish tram conductors, Sicilian money launderers and street people alike: now that the cash nexus of human exchange is contactless.
There are refugees from the mean streets of Shanghai, Stockholm and Shoreditch who seek sanctuary in the shadow economy of the Black Sea. Cash money: the feel of old school folding stuff between fingers; the musty odour of ink on paper; a shady president/dictator emerges from the watermark, as you wave your wad like a wide-boy on a summer holiday from technology.
If there's no brass in pocket, then who controls the money supply? And what happens when you can't get credit? Questions that have shaped their destiny now preoccupy the minds of Swedish tram conductors, Sicilian money launderers and street people alike: now that the cash nexus of human exchange is contactless.
There are refugees from the mean streets of Shanghai, Stockholm and Shoreditch who seek sanctuary in the shadow economy of the Black Sea. Cash money: the feel of old school folding stuff between fingers; the musty odour of ink on paper; a shady president/dictator emerges from the watermark, as you wave your wad like a wide-boy on a summer holiday from technology.
Trolley nods to yet another idle bumble bee. It leans against a wall under the flyover, a sneer on its sleek behind, a wheel stand stuck out to the left like a broken turntable arm; around the corner, the less conspicuous street bike, surrounded in nondescript darkness, under-pressured tyres, but with at least half a working brake.
Despite everything, it's still miles better than his current ride. Trolley walks over and makes the switch. From off the ofo, Melon has trousered lights and snapped the basket.
Despite everything, it's still miles better than his current ride. Trolley walks over and makes the switch. From off the ofo, Melon has trousered lights and snapped the basket.
- Fuck 'em Trolley. They started it.
As they push off, the echo of the bleat of the ransacked entrepreneurial marvel goes ignored by the street, while in Singapore, a Bulgarian hire bike vigilante patrols the gig economy for free.
- Sucker.
- Sucker.
WANT MORE. EXPECT LESS.
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