Mamachari Matchmaker – Chapter 1

MAMACHARI

The door to the bike shop swings open and chimes at the same time, sunlight hitting the floor and bouncing among the chrome and spokes of my wheels and frame. The other bikes around me hum with excitement. It’s a beautiful day outside, the perfect kind of day to ride amongst the streets of Tokyo, shop for groceries, or laze around at a park for the afternoon.

“Can you see who came in?” I ask, the question traveling down the line of my compatriots and echoing back to me with an answer.

“It’s a young family! The jackpot!” The blue bike next to me screams. Everyone buzzes with anticipation, and I recite some prayers that today is the day I finally achieve my dream, to be owned by a young mom, with kids, and spend my days being useful, riding and playing with a loving family.

A forlorn sigh cascades through the group like a tsunami.

“They’re going for the more expensive mamacharis.” The red bike on my other side sobs, and I stomp my wheel. Why do people always go for the high end bike models first? I’m just as good as the other mamacharis in this shop. I have a chain guard and it’s a lovely shade of mint green, too! My basket is sturdy and functional, yet minimal. And I don’t have a child seat on my rear, but there’s a spot for it. The chair can be added later, I swear.

“This is the end for me.” I sigh and try not to cry. “I’m going to be shipped off to a second-hand goods store any day now. And then… And then! I’ll be crushed into scrap metal so the newest model can take my place at the store.”

“Ugh. Stop being so dramatic.” The blue bike tsks at me. “You’ve been here, what? A month? I’ve been here longer and I’m not worried. The owner still takes care of us. It’s not like he has given up on us, so I don’t know why you would.”

Blue bike is ever the optimist — kinda strange since blue is such a depressive color. Red bike is the sad and depressed one. He moans and wails at least ten times a day. I’m in the middle. I’m always in the middle. Even when they take me outside to pump up my tires and wipe the dust off my body, I’m always put back between these two.

“Hmph.” I wish I could turn my back and get some alone time but no such luck. I’m stuck here until I get a break.

The door opens again, and this time I try to play it cool. It’s a Saturday, after all, and with a beautiful few weeks of late spring on the horizon, the shop is bound to be busy every weekend. I stare out the window at the blue sky and puffy white clouds until a young woman stands over me, blocking my view.

“Oh!” I yelp. “I didn’t see you there.”

She jumps back, startled, and glances at her feet. “Did I step on a kid?”

“Hello!” I say, now that I’ve got her attention. “Are you looking for a new bike?”

“Uhhhh, yeah,” she stammers, her round face under a sharp line of bangs heating to brilliant red. She sighs and mumbles, “First my toaster and now a bike.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Nothing.” She twirls the strap of her animal-shaped backpack and taps a panda-beared shoe while examining me from stem to stern.

“You look young? Are you married, perhaps?”

She bursts into a guffaw of laughter, covering her mouth with her hand, her nails chopped short and painted bright orange. “Me? No. I haven’t been on a date in three years. I’m only twenty-two.”

Hmmm. This is not the kind of person I want to be owned by. I want a family with kids and daily trips to school and the grocery store and possibly grandma’s house.

“You might like Red over here. He’s newer than I am.”

“What are you doing?” Red hisses at me. “Take what you can get!”

I sit silently, careful not to give away to this girl that I’m blatantly pushing her off on another bike.

But she bites her lip and grasps my handlebars. “Hmmm, but green’s my favorite color.”

Great. “Really? It’s not orange?”

“Green then orange.” She nods her head once and turns towards the salesman hovering around the corner. “This one,” she states, pointing to me. He bows and heads to the front of the store to get paperwork.

I sigh. If I had eyes, I would roll them.

“What?” she asks, her hands on her hips. “I’m not good enough for you?”

I shrink, embarrassed. “No no no. It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“Is there really no chance you’re dating someone?” I ask, trying to be delicate.

“Me? I can barely talk to guys.” Her face burns again with another blush, and she swipes her long straight hair off her neck.

“We can change that, I think.” She’s cute and quirky, different. I bet she could meet someone and have a family in a few years! And it’s not like I’m going to go bad. I’m sure I’m good for at least ten years. “I’m Mamachari. You?”

“Eriko.” She jerks her lip and huffs. “Welcome to my life of solitude, Mamachari.”