Thirty
Gideon’s show began with a flash of blinding yellow light and a blast of jazz horns, but for the longest time, the man himself didn’t appear. The audience mumbled. Why wasn’t he on stage? Only the soft ding of a bicycle bell turned everyone’s attention all the way to the back of the venue.
The curtain belonging to the cleaner’s alcove flew wide open, and Gideon pushed through on the back of a bicycle; his outfit a super tight, aqua blue unitard. A bushy, horseshoe mustache overwhelmed his upper lip, and a white sweatband stretched over his forehead.
He pedaled through the crowd, spraying water from a drink bottle in all directions, yelling at the audience to get out of his way and to stop looking at him. Melbourne traffic had supposedly f****d him over, and now he was late, and e
