I was first introduced to the bicycle industry when I was attending university in Philadelphia. I was looking for a part-time job so that I could buy much-needed parts for my Dodge Swinger. One of the front tires had developed a bubble and made the steering wheel dance with every rotation of the wheel. The springs in the rear suspension had also gone out and the tires rode along the inside of the wheel well while turning.
I discovered a small bike shop that was a short walk from campus. I was welcomed by a chalk outline of a body on the floor of the shop entrance. I introduced myself to the owner and proprietor of the shop and asked to purchase some chain lubricant. He introduced himself as Joe. Joe turned out to be an old school, catholic, and a hard son-of-bitch. He was a local to Philadelphia, and physically, the human embodiment of a bull cow. He had tattoos on both his upper arms that were faded from the decades. He wore coke bottle glasses with thick black rims. His voice like gravel, he spoke coarsely and often spat from his lower lip.
I paid for the chain lubricant and asked if he needed any help around the shop. I explained that I was a student in need of part-time work. He didn’t say yes but he gave me a very informal and generic job application. I filled it out and returned it to him later that day.
The following day he gave me a call and told me to come in on Saturday to give it go. One day I finally asked him what the deal was with the chalk outline on the floor of the shop. He explained that the outline was of a former employee and was done as a joke and theft deterrent.
On warm days he rode his Fuji carbon road bike to work wearing nothing but a spandex cycling bib. When I showed up he would leave to go cut hair at the salon he owned that was directly next door. The bike shop and the salon shared a wall.
Joe has what some would call a gun fetish. In the case of a robbery, I was well equipped to impede anybody stupid enough to tamper with Joe’s livelihood. The loaded twelve-gauge shotgun with no stock lived behind the service counter, within reach from my work stand. A loaded nine millimeter, and on some days, a forty-five Colt stashed at the register. He said to me, “shoot anybody that tries to steal a bike”.
One day, when Joe was next door cutting ladies’ hair, I overinflated a bicycle tube. It was the tube of a road bike tire, low volume but very high pressure. One hundred and ten pounds per square of inch of pressure bursting out of a tube sounds like a handgun going off. He came bursting through the door with a inox Smith and Wesson three-fifty-seven magnum in his hand. I saw his face go from mean to shit-eating grin while I was trying to recover from the tinnitus I had just incurred. A deep belly laugh and the magnum went back in his holster.
I won’t go into the details of how Joe preferred I collect my payroll at the end of each week. I will say that there was very little paperwork and it would be looked down upon by certain governing bodies.
One day I asked Joe if I could take his portrait.
“Why?” he asked.
“I like taking photos” I responded.
He agreed and we went outside behind the shop where his truck was parked. He sat on the upright tailgate and removed his glass. In the photo, you can see the bottom half of Mickey Mouse tattoo on his right bicep. He is holding a pair of steel bicycle tire levers in his left hand.
