Johnnie Back Street: "Life on a bicycle is a never ending revolving wheel."

John Backstreet is his name. As long as anyone can recall he has been riding his bicycle but he never seems to get anywhere. In fact, none of his neighbors at Taquarí and Mexico streets in Buenos Aires, have ever seen him get off his slim style blue racing bike. Perhaps that is what John alluded to when he exclaimed philosophically to this journalist recently that "life on a bicycle is a never-ending revolving wheel."

It is quite easy to strike up a conversation with John, although to do so you have to make your way across moll hills of debris, rubbish, garbage and-after rainy days-trudge through murky puddles full of refuse and not a few mosquitoes. When you approach him John's dark eyes seem to beckon the visitor warmly and his countenance shows the ever present intensity that is the guardian angle of any accomplished cyclist.

It would be difficult to estimate John's age; his natural coyness does not help elicit a clear answer. "To tell you the truth I don't really know…sometimes I feel as if I had always lived. Anyway, what difference does it make?" 

Perhaps he is right. Why are we so concerned about age? Why are numbers so important to us? Each human body grows and disintegrates in accordance with a fairly predictable chronological schedule. Could it be that the frequently appearing variables are as intriguing as the norms? 

Be that as it may, the passage of time must certainly be one of John's favorite pastimes. Poor fellow! The roof and walls of his home were violently smashed to smithereens about six months ago by some workmen who came banging their sludge hammers right and left, causing rats to scamper, dust clouds to linger heavily in the air and neighbors to complain or rejoice in accordance to their mind-sets. After a week or so they left, giving John no explanation at all for their aggressive actions. He sobbed silently and nostalgically for the cozy house he had occupied most of his life, but John admits that now his improved view allows him to observe an incredible variety of passersby: shoppers, smartly dressed businessmen cursing at the broken sidewalk, children dressed in their shiny white uniforms and headed for school, beggars, scavengers…

"Could I ask you a few questions?" I asked.

"Certainly, fire!"

"Well, John…that's your name isn't it?"

"John Backstreet, actually, like the Backstreet Boys."

"But you're not a singer."

"Who me? No! It isn't convenient to sing while riding the bicycle."

"Why not?"

"Oh, you see, it's too distracting. You get carried away and may loose control and besides the bus drivers can't stand cyclists who sing. They get pissed and shout at you: 'shut up you idiot! Watch where you're going!' I do hum a bit, yes indeed. Humming helps pass the time away and establishes a rhythmic dialogue with the spinning of the wheels. It acts as a vital link to life."

"Fascinating, really fascinating! I see you have a penchant for philosophy. But tell me something about yourself. I mean, were you born here? Have you always lived here? Married? Children? Your love life…sex..."

"Calm down! You journalists are all in a hurry looking for the scoop of the day. You want to know everything and then you go back and get everything mixed up. O.K. Yea, I was born here stroke by stroke thanks to the loving brush of my creator."

"You mean you're the son of God? You'd better watch what you you're saying!"

"God? Don't you think that is asking a bit too much? I mean, if God does exist we are all his sons and daughters, aren't we? I don't know much about religion. It confuses me. I mean they all talk about God, about peace and love and then go to war praying to the Almighty to help them win. Anyway, I was born one day in an explosion of color and form. Whether or not God was responsible is anyone's guess."

"You mean you were created by a friend?"

"Yea. One day a painter, a friend of the owner of the house, stopped by for a 'mate' and between sip and sip the idea was hatched. You see, she was a real fanatic of bicycling. So she says to the artist: "Why don't you paint a cyclist on the wall?' And he did. He painted me! And I've been here ever since."

"So you've been riding out of the same wall ever since…"

"If you want to put it that way…."

"I imagine you must have seen a lot."

"Actually, I've heard as much as I've seen. Shortly after I was painted they bombed Plaza de Mayo, just ten blocks away. It was tremendous. I don't know how many protesters were killed. That's one thing I could never understand: why people are always fighting for power. Anyway, after the anti-Peronists took power, some of those in the resistance tip-toed into the house. They talked in low toned voices about what to do with the military dictatorship."

"You mean after 1955?"

"Yea, and then in the 1960's and after 1976...there were always horrible things going on, people getting arrested, kidnapped, tortured, police screeching down Taquarí street, tea gas...people getting together to talk about how to get someone out of the lockup, parents worried about what kind of future they could expect for their children, others wondering about a missing relative...I don't mean to say there weren't lovely things too…I mean I've seen the power of love also."

"You've stuck it out, through thick and thin."

"What else could I have done?"

"True."

"I've been stuck to this wall for years, just as millions of others have been stuck without knowing it. Almost everyone gets stuck in some pigeon hole, don't they? I mean, how many people go around and around in an endless circle until they die? Or spend their time talking about a better world and fall asleep before finding out how to get there? I've learned to be a very good observer. I've learned a lot about human beings."

"So we're all in the same boat?"

"Yea, but I don't know whether boat is the best metaphor."

"Your're right. Metaphors do become cumbersome, don't they...Look, John, I don't like to sound like an intruder but I just can't help wondering how you can live like you do and not feel lonely."

"You really want to ask me about love, don't you? What a bunch of sick people you journalists are! Always prying into people's private lives? Does elbowing into people's bed chambers make you forget about your own affective hang-ups? Sorry. I didn't mean to sound aggressive. O.K. O.K. I can see the question on your lips. You want the scoop, don't you?"

"It's not so much for me as for my readers."

"I was deeply in love once."

"Really!"

"Yes, with the daughter, of the owner. She slept in my room, had her bed right under my feet! On hot summer nights the sheet would fall off sometimes and I could see her bulging firm copper colored breasts and I'd be tempted to take a hand off the handle bar to caress her fine skin, run it over her robust hips. She was a chubby girl and her face was covered with freckles and there seemed to be a spark of freshness about her that captivated my most inner being. I was so taken up with her that when I saw her I sometimes regretted that I was nothing but a painted cyclist. But that was the only time such a thought entered my mind. She'd talk to me gently as she changed clothes, pouring her heart out to me. I'd feel dizzy, as if the bike were about to go bananas. She even kissed me sometimes, and tears would run down her dimpled cheeks. You know what? I would have done anything for her! Climbed Mt. Everest, stopped a train with my handle bars, anything! Love is such a powerful thing. There are no words to express it. Yet we try to capture it again and again, as if it were a bird of prey that could be caught. You know what? She once scribbled a poem on the wall."

"A poem…on the wall…you mean the girl you were in love with?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, her mother saw it and made her erase it. "Shame on you! You should know better!" she shouted. Know better? Is love something that we should 'know better' about? The lines were so beautiful I remember them to this day. They were written from the girl's heart and I'm sure she had me in mind…."

"Could you recite the poem for me?"

"Yes, of course:

If I could put my love in his hat,
Run it around the brim,
Shape it this way and that,
Caress his every limb.
Our love would endless be,
As waves breaking in the sea.
Our love would timeless be,
As the shouts of the free!

John Backstreet is still there on the wall at Taquarí and Mexico streets, his love intact; his memories rich and full of life's lessons. Anyone who wants to is invited to visit him, although it would be advisable to do so before the ravages of time and man's rush to nowhere wipe it from memory. Time creates and destroys in accordance with Nature's secret schedules and John is no exception. He may not last forever: at any moment sledge hammers may bang dust into dust, turning John Backstreet into a fleeting vestige of the past.

Where to find John Backstreet: 

Taquarí and Mexico streets, Buenos Aires, Argentina.  

But you better hurry but because they've brought the building down to smithereens!