Despite all the horror stories, Delta Airlines chose not to destroy my bicycle, and only charged $150 for the carriage of the big cardboard box I’d picked up from a bike shop in Pasadena.
The sales assistant had been rude and grumpy — perhaps he’d had a bad night’s sleep. Or perhaps life as a bicycle salesman was beginning to wear thin; maybe (like almost everyone I’d met in the 8 days I’d been in L.A.) he’d arrived in the city nurturing dreams of fame and fortune in Hollywood, still introducing himself on social occasions in a well-practiced way as an up-and-coming actor or director or comedian — while trudging daily to a never-mentioned job in a retail store.