Crust Lust

Darryl was in such a hurry that morning that he nearly put on his wicking shirt backwards. He brushed his teeth vigorously, but didn't stop to comb and coif. He was just going to get dirty again, he thought grimly. Darryl normally didn't plan on sweating this early in the morning, but ever since his Subaru had broken down last week, he'd had to rely on his bicycle. He hadn't gotten used to the humid, musky smell, though, or the damp drag of sweaty clothes on skin. He'd always hated sweating: he made for the showers at a trot whenever he finished a bike ride or a CrossFit session.

Today, more than ever, he was thankful that his office had a changing room and showers. He had to look his absolute best, had to show he was professional enough to move in the big leagues. No more startup slobbery: if they impressed the investors today, Darryl would be across the river in a Pearl District penthouse by Christmas.

On his way to the kitchen, he paused to look himself over one more time anyways. He was ready: hair and beard trimmed to a stylish and hygienic couple of inches, trimly muscled body rocking purple biking gear. He frowned as he considered his glasses. The black plastic frames were a little Bush-era-hipster. He'd seen more and more wire-rims around lately. Maybe it was worth looking into a new pair.

He jogged on to the kitchen. As he ground his beans, Darryl checked the time again and again. His apartment block on Division was twenty minutes away from work by bike. He had over an hour before the investors were set to arrive. He'd arrive early, shower and change, have some time to groom, rehearse the presentation. Then it was only the speech itself, a short tour, and lunch. Maybe even a cocktail or two, if all went well. Darryl pressed his coffee confidently.

He hustled down to the storeroom with an hour still to spare, jazzed on that Kenyan and taking the steps two at a time. But after opening the door, he paused. The panier slipped from between his fingers.

The building was supposed to provide storage space for two bicycles per apartment. It was right there in the brochures, listed alongside the weekend yoga classes and pop-up mimosa bar. Sure, the management reserved the right to cancel amenities at any time. But they did not reserve the right to let all of those bikes get jacked. The storeroom's walls were entirely bare, and sliced fragments of Kryptonite locks littered its floor like cigarette butts in a strip-club parking lot. Darryl stared fixedly at his designated wall rack, as if expecting to see the specter of his Schwinn.

Roberta, the Urban Airship analyst from the second floor, was standing by the street exit, staring at her phone and tapping her nails irritably against the seafoam stucco. "Somebody left the door unlocked," she said, not looking up as she checked the status of her Uber. "Honestly, what are we even paying them for?"

Darryl squinted around the room in the hopes that a bike would materialize.

"Before you ask, yes, I already told management," Roberta said. "They've got security camera footage and they'll give it to the cops. Probably some methheads. Probably going to the chop shop. I don't imagine we'll get anything back unless they're real dipshits and put them up on Craigslist. Anyway. Gotta go. My ride's here."

"What time is it?" Darryl croaked, but she was already gone. He scrabbled in the panier for his phone, checked the time, checked the TriMet schedule. The next bus wasn't for half an hour. Robotically, he tore off his wicking top and bike shorts and pulled on his jeans.

It was twenty minutes by bike but an hour on foot, and Darryl had already squandered precious moments gaping in the storeroom. It was a scorcher, too. Portland's interminable winter rains were still a week or two away, and the September day felt like July. His armpits were damp after a few blocks, and the glass-and-concrete canyon of Division magnified and channeled the heat. Stumbling into the street to avoid the tourists standing in line at Salt