Chico and Pepe

I was going to suspend my pledge to not write about religion and politics, but not this time. Instead, do yourself a favor and pick up the May issue of Harper's magazine. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll be scared shitless. Honest. Now on to the story of Chico and Pepe.

The story of Chico and Pepe is a tragedy, to be sure, but somehow it always made me chuckle, albeit a nervous chuckle. For my 12th birthday (yeah it's another story about my childhood--last one, I promise), Mom and Dad bought me a much-coveted, brand-new "English bike." 'Twas a beauty--a shiny black Hercules with a 3-speed Sturmey-Archer, hand brakes, and a leather Brooks saddle. Well, one fine July day, I went for a ride on my new Shnookycycle through Brandon Park in my hometown of Williamsport, PA. I had that baby maxed out in third gear, and I must've reached a good 17 or 18 mph coursing through the winding streets of the park. As I rounded a curve, I couldn't help but suddenly notice to my left a little girl of about 8 or 9 walking two Chihuahuas on skinny little leashes across the grass in my direction. Next thing you know, one of the little Mexican bastardos broke loose from the little girl and ran right in front of me and my beloved Hercules. I swerved, but of course it was too little, too late. The damn dog ran right under my front wheel. I ran over his little neck, and he was killed instantly. Dead in the streets of Brandon Park. I skidded to a stop and turned back, afraid of what I already knew. The little girl ran over to the body of the little dog there in the street and screamed, "You killed Chico!! You killed Chico!! What am I going to tell my parents? What am I going to tell Pepe?" I asssumed Pepe was the other Chihuahua. I picked up the lifeless body of Chico and laid him gently in the grass by the side of the road, and li'l Pepe came over and sniffed him sadly and promptly peed on the nearest tree. By now, both the little girl and I were in tears. I apologized profusely and told her I didn't have a chance to avoid him, and eventually she agreed that there was nothing I could have done. I told her I'd help her take Chico back home, but she shook her head defiantly, picked up Chico, and headed back in the direction from whence she came, little Pepe toddling along obediently. With tears streaming down my murdering face, I saddled up the killer cycle and slowly rode home.

I love dogs. I really do. And I don't know why this story strikes me as morbidly funny. Maybe it's the juxtaposition of my cool new bike and the tragedy awaiting me just around the corner on a fine summer day. I often think about Chico and Pepe and wonder whatever happened to Pepe and that little girl. I never even told her my name. I do know that my bike was never the same after that fateful day.