He wears a coffee shop o’clock shadow and torn jeans with the integrity of a degree in something he’s sure he will never find a job doing.
A certified cinematographer with no desire for L.A., he knows the nuances of Berkeley like a black box one act.
Peddling next to me, he patiently narrates the symbiotic character patterns of the seasons and populace,
“Early summer is bike stealing season.”
He pulls over, dramatically takes his hands off the bars and begins to count.
He needs all the fingers to tally the number he’s had taken in the last few years.
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