I work at a bicycle shop.

Nearly a month has passed since I have joined the ranks of "grease monkey". In part to the gracious social safety net I have performed my civic duty to contribute to for the past eight years, this position might be able to hold its footing for some months to come. And while it does not pay to support much of any lifestyle, this job has done its job of keeping my hands busy and my mind at ease.

The competently superior shop manager and his partner, a true mechanical monster, have dubbed the title "service writer" for me. And that is what I do. Mostly, I compose service work orders for customers needing piece-of-mind and assistance who find their way to the back corner of the retail store. What my title does not particularly afford me is the recognition that I also sell bicycles, and even fix a few of them. The service tasks that I do perform do not risk, so much, the life and limb of customers that trustingly return to their rides as if all is plumb and true. Mostly anything tagged with the words "rebuild" or "major" or "overhaul" get directly checked in and turned over to those dirtier and more capable hands through the swinging doors where the raucous sounds of clanking metal and incessant obscure punk rock are emanating. This is for good reason.

More than two months have passed since I was laid off from work for the first time. I was practicing a desk job as a salaried industrial designer, as I have been since my undergraduate schooling came to a close eight years ago. Then, the economy hit. And when it hits in the way it has, design gets shelved and often bears the brunt of a late-round knockout blow. There was sufficient worry then, as there still remains now, about keeping my funds and health afloat, but I am uplifted as I continue to climb out of reach of complacency. Most desk jobs are routine jobs, insulated jobs, and typecast jobs. I did not quite believe I fit the mold then, but as my latest reality of this fades, I have really begun to trust in this belief. My collar appears to be a bit bluer than once thought.

Where there once were soft keystrokes performed by soft hands on a keyboard beneath strained eyes fixed upon artificially illuminated screens, there now are wrenches and manmade torque and grease. And when I look up, I do not see virtual lines in virtual space that have no guarantee in becoming something corporeal someday. I see, rather, people I mostly do not know but people that I can directly help nonetheless. I am nowhere near becoming a mechanical monster myself, but I am learning new things daily about bicycles, people, and who I might rather be.