The Great Schwinn Showdown

When you’re ten years old, like I was in the summer of 1982, you think life is a simple formula. And for me, it went like this: New Schwinn bike = Freedom + Popularity - Everything I Hate About Being Me. I’d seen the bike—gleaming, red, chrome-fendered perfection—sitting in Garrison’s Bike Shop window, and I’d stare at it like it was a unicorn. And not just any unicorn—one that granted wishes, had a rock band, and played shortstop for the Yankees.

My life, meanwhile, was anything but magical. My dad owned Johnny’s Laugh Palace, which was not a palace, nor particularly full of laughs. It was a dusty old club with a neon sign that flickered on and off like it couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to live. Inside, it smelled like old popcorn, stale beer, and the faint, lingering scent of my dad’s last hope. But he was an optimist—an unwavering believer in the power of his jokes. Unfortunately, his audience didn’t share that belief. “Why did the chicken cross the road?” he’d ask with all the enthusiasm of a game show host. “To avoid this club, folks!” he’d deliver with a wink, and the only thing that crossed the road after that was the silence.