Alexandra Kloster, Pass the Hot Dish

There is a poltergeist in my garage disguised as a mountain bike. It hasn’t crept into my kitchen in the dead of night and left all my drawers and cabinets open, and it hasn’t spawned a tricycle with horns … yet. But, believe me, it’s cursed.

From the start it was clear that the angry spirit of a spurned Huffy Scout or castoff Schwinn Stingray had found its way into this sleek, modern, 18-speed two-wheeler. It wreaked havoc on our lives for two weeks beginning with mysterious flat tires and gear jams and ending with tossing my husband, Graham, over the handlebars, leaving him with two broken ribs and a nasty road rash. Not content with torturing its rider, it even made me its mark one morning, a morning so terrifying, so unsettling I have to turn on all the lights in the house and play old DVR’d episodes of “Regis and Kelly” just to combat the dread I feel telling my tale.

It was 5:30 in the morning. The house was quiet — too quiet. My phone rang. It was Graham telling me his brand new bike had another flat tire and would I please rush to his rescue before he was late for work. I sprang from my bed unwittingly setting off a chain of events part horror show and part public service announcement.

Before I could leave I had to let loose the hounds. If you’ve ever been in a hurry and needed your dogs to take care of business quickly, you know that’s when they will wander around like they’ve never seen the neighbor’s shrubs before and then ask you for some light reading material and a little privacy.

At last I jumped into the car only to recall the conversation from the night before when we decided against stopping for gas even though the warning light had been begging for fuel so long its tongue was hanging out as it choked and pointed to its throat. I remembered telling Graham that I could make it to the gas station on fumes if I had a good tail wind and green lights.

Panicking, I backed out of the garage and since Graham has parked his car across the street like a surveillance van all summer long, I hit the gas with impunity.

Smash!

If not for my father compulsively attaching protective trailer hitches to every vehicle in our family, my Subaru and Graham’s Oldsmobile would have merged into one weird amalgamation like Brangelina or a designer dog.

By the time I made it to the gas station I was shaky with fright. “What next?” I asked aloud. Don’t ever ask that, friends, especially when you have a possessed bicycle controlling your universe. I pumped and paid without incident, but as I sprinted back to the car, the island of gas pumps moved into my path. I dove into the cement sending the contents of my purse flying. I felt like a reject act from “The Ed Sullivan Show” as I lay there with loose change spinning around my head.

I heard a kind voice from above say something to me. I answered, “Step into the light, you say?”

“Are you all right?” he repeated helping me up.

“That bike! That bike!” I ranted.

He looked around and seeing no bike responded, “Um, I think that’s your lipstick rolling into Wisconsin.”

I tried to laugh off my embarrassment and toss my hair like a romantic comedy cutie, but it was stuck to the blood on my face that had come from the gashes on my hands, which matched the slashes on my knees. All I could do was thank him and limp away.

I met up with Graham and my wit’s end at about the same time. “You better call the Acme Devil Be Gone Company and tell them to send over a padre post haste, because that bike is after us!” I screamed.

“We could just take it to the bike shop,” Graham replied calmly.

“They can’t do anything! We are hip high in crazy, mister. This is where my people come in. I want an exorcism performed on that bike now!”

I yelled, trying desperately to fight the evil that wanted me to pun on exercise and exorcise.

In the end I settled for a promise that the bike would rest on its kickstand at least until Graham’s ribs and my nerves healed, and after that I would never have to have anything to do with it again. Though I can’t promise that it won’t mysteriously park itself in the driveway the next time I back out of the garage without looking behind me. It won’t be my fault. The devil made me do it.

St. Paul resident Alexandra Kloster appears on two Fridays a month. She may be reached at alikloster@yahoo.com and her blog is Radishes at Dawn at alexandrakloster.com.