R.I.P. Emey from the Bike Shop

There are some rumors out there - that I "got a job" (it's temporary until/if they make me permanent) that I need a "root canal" (will address in separate post entitled, "My Tooth"), that I'm no longer watching The Bachelorette (vicious lie). I'm eggzausted from working 73 jobs, but I just had to share some sad news.

This morning, Perry and I were taking our 7:34 am constitutional when I saw a framed black and white picture of Emey Hoffman, the shop's owner, in the window of the bike shop on 6th street. It is a well known fact that framed pictures only appear in windows when people die or move away and then die.

I stopped walking on 6th street during business hours about a year ago because one of the bike mechanics Gabe who was kind of cute in a Titanic engine room coal shoveler sort of way found my blog and kind of asked me out via email and rather than email him back or acknowledge him in any way I thought the most adult and reasonable method for dealing with the situation was to avoid walking on 6th street altogether and to walk down Avenue A near 6th street in a wool hat and hooded sweatshirt carrying Perry so that he wouldn't blow my cover by looking like a sheep. It was hard to stop walking by the store - I had walked Perry past it for over a year and had gotten to know the guys in the bike shop, including Emey, the elder stateman of the joint who directed the younger mechanics. Emey sat in a beach nylon chair outside the shop during the spring, summer and fall and inside the shop during the winter, but he wore shorts year round. His hands were always black with grease and he would drink beers starting at 4pm and always offer me one, "ice cold." Occasionally he would save bones from his lunch to give to Perry, but mostly Perry would jump up on his lap just to sit and depending on his mood, Emey would talk about his four Dachsunds (Newton and Samantha were two of them), his ballistics invention which he claimed some company stole and said it was going to make him millions, his 35 year war with his landlord who was constantly trying to get him evicted from his $375 rent controlled apartment, his "capo" protection, his separate room in his apartment for "relations" with his wife and his staunch defense of John McCain despite my arguments that his face was legitimately falling off. I was complaining him once that since I got Perry, I've never had a meal undistubed because he's constantly harrassing me for my food, and Emey said, "You get a dog and you never get a meal in peace again. That's the deal." It told him at the time I wanted to rip up my high school yearbook and make that my yearbook quote.

The last time I saw Emey I was last December, when I walking up toward St. Marks with Perry. He was walking down toward 6th street and I didn't know what to do because I if I had ever ran into any of the bike shop people, I had planned on pretending that I moved away and that's why I hadn't been by the shop but now I was caught read handed. He said hello, and I said hello back, and then I returned home and felt like a shithead and thought about telling Megan about this situation but I felt like I would have to explain why it made more sense to rearrange my walking patterns than deal with the situation of someone asking me out and I didnt' feel like being told that I needed to go back into therapy or that I needed to get over myself.

In any event, internet research tonight revealed that the black and white frame was right: Emey died January 7th of this year, unexpectedly of a heart attack. I wish I would have known earlier and could have paid my respects and now I feel like a complete buffoon for staying away so long and for such ridiculous reasons. Rest in peace, Emey. I feel better knowing that Pretty Boy, the other block mascot, is there to keep you company.