Everybody Get a Chech

At the corner of MacArthur and 73rd in Oakland is Millennium Tax Service. It used to be called Instant Tax Service. To the north resides MacArthur Nails and to the south is Ink N’ Thayngz (the “I” in Ink is a tattoo gun) which used to be Electric Rouge Tattoo. I can only imagine what Thayngz is. I assume it’s run of mill tattoo culture offerings: piercings, scarification and skull rings. However, the dream of sundries with a tattoo is always possible.

Anytime I’m stuck at the light at 73rd, I peer into the window of Millennium Tax Service and wonder what’s going on in there. When the light turns green, I leave the thoughts behind.

A few months ago – right around tax season – I was at the light and noticed two large posters taking up Millennium Tax Service’s front window. On the right, a young white woman in a black business suit offered “$15 In Your Pocket!” if you referred a friend and, on the left, a young African American woman boasted “Everybody Get A Chech.” Yes, “Everybody Get a Chech.” I doubled checked and confirmed that check was indeed misspelled.

This time, when the light turned green, Millennium Tax Service stayed with me. I pondered the meaning of the poster and came up with this: on the back wall of the business is a bench seat. The seat is a long piece of 2” by 12” wood, held up by cinder blocks, stacked two high. On the bench are 6 Chechnyan Russians, dubious of banks, a little overweight and, when asked How’s Life, they respond “long.”

When a customer is finished with their taxes, they’re lead to the back of the business and they pick a Chechynan as a parting gift. Everybody get a Chech. The customer leaves with the Chech and lives with the customer.

In the backroom, behind a black curtain, a storage room bustles with Chechynans. One passes through the curtain and takes a seat on the bench seat, constantly keeping the number of Chechynans at 6.

This is the only explanation for Everybody Get A Chech.

A few weeks after discovering the poster, I drove by Millennium Tax Service and noticed they switched the positions of the posters. Everybody Get A Chech was now on the right side – so far to the right that the “h” in Chech was obscured by the frame of the window. Some officious stooge had alerted them of the misspelling. Not cool.

Yesterday, while performing my duty of getting take-out, I drove down Macarthur, a stretch of Oakland that the locals used to call Little Beirut, and Millennium Tax Service was gone. So was Ink N’ Thayngz. And the check cashing place on the corner. All gutted by fire.

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As I waited for the light to turn green, I could only think of one thing: the poster…the poster’s gone.

On His 8th Grade Graduation

Wolfie,

In 8^th grade, my best friend was a kid named Frank Pavlick. I had met him in the middle of 7^th grade when we moved from Virginia to Pleasanton, California. I’ve mentioned him to you before. He’s the guy we called frog because he could jump really high and he could also do endless pull-ups. He was also fond of dark-colored corduroy pants and tank tops.

We graduated 8^th grade on a Friday in June of 1982. Both of us wore brown polyester suits with button-up silk shirts and brown leather shoes with a 2-inch heel. The suit was called Wildfire (yes, the suit had a name), which was a knock-off of another, more expensive suit called Angel Flights. John Travolta wore Angel Flights in the movie Saturday Night Fever and, it seemed, pretty much the rest of American men followed suit (no pun), even 8^th graders.

The graduation ceremony ended at dusk, followed by a graduation dance in the gym. Neither Frank nor I had ever been to a school dance, so we vowed to go -- even if we just stuck our heads in and said hi to friends. And that’s what we did: stuck our heads in, turned around and went home.

In our Wildfires, we rode our bikes home in the dark. We went to Frank’s house, played guitar and listened to music. At the time, music was still somewhat of a rebellious act. Not all kids were into music. I know, it’s hard to believe. Frank and I were known for the bands we liked and our guitar playing (Frank was voted best musician in school and class sweetheart. The latter is another story, though. I’ll tell you about it later).

At midnight, we watched Alice Cooper’s Welcome to my Nightmare (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jgPqZmrJ380) on TV. It was a perfect ending to 8^th grade. I left his house around 2 am and rode home. That was the end of 8^th grade and the beginning of high school.

As you embark on high school, I can’t express how proud of you I am. You’re engaged, you participate, you’re passionate and you’re a good, kind, and gentle human being. The world needs more people like you.

Always remember to show compassion and empathy toward others and remember the golden rule. Your future has no boundaries and I can’t wait to see the great things you accomplish. Be great!

I love you so, so much and I will always be here for you. Happy graduation.

I love you, Dad.

And I Would Deserve It

One burgundy shirt and a wooden bead necklace away from looking Rajneesh, I parked my car on the north side of the 400 block of Golden Gate. It was almost 6 pm and I was counting on meter parking being free. I was right.

In the boot of the car was my burgundy jacket. I was wearing burgundy pants, a black t-shirt, and Red Wing ankle boots. This was my outfit for our gig at City Hall. 

Across the street was Stars -- long shuttered. It was a fancy restaurant before fancy restaurants.  In ’89 I picked up Leslie Nielson and 2 friends South of Market in my cab and took them there. The entrance was in the alley at 150 Redwood.

At the corner of Golden Gate and Van Ness was Chevy’s – long shuttered. They had light airy chips with mild salsa. When I splurged for lunch, I ordered 2 chicken enchiladas and a Diet Pepsi in a large, red plastic cup, filling up on the chips and salsa before the order arrived. I miss Chevy’s.

Across the street was The Opera Café. Still there. On their door, it says, “This is a good place for a diet. This is a bad place for a diet.”  Waiters were adorned in tuxes, prone to break out in song. This was their shtick. Never been there.

Walking down Van Ness toward McAllister, the sidewalk was filled with workers going home or out to dinner. The light at McAllister was on the tail end of a green light. I slowed, knowing I wouldn’t make it. Bringing up the rear of the workers crossing the street, a homeless man walked his bike, two large Hefty bags filled with recyclables tied to the seat post, protruding three feet on both sides. It was a sight I’d seen before.

As the bike up rolled up the slight incline of the handicap ramp, his bags inevitably hit everyone he passed. The last person to get hit was a young man in colored denim, a button up long sleeve dress shirt and tie. No jacket. It was casual, but work appropriate. It said he cared about looking good for work.

The homeless man was Southeast Asian, slightly built with thick, black, unkempt hair and saucer eyes in full dilation, as if he was desperately trying to receive more light from the sun. My drug-dar being off since leaving the Tenderloin 5 years ago, rendering me a drug layman, I deduced he was mixing drugs: alcohol with methamphetamine, I would say. And throw in some mental illness and poverty. 30 years ago, I would’ve said his ass was crazy.

Like everyone else who got hit by the bags, the young worker ignored it and moved on, looking up at the adjacent building’s 2^nd-floor window and talking on his phone. However, the homeless man had had enough. He called out the worker:

“Fuck you, man. You’re a fucking asshole. Fuck you.”

I approached the scene, stopping about 10 feet from the worker and immediately deduced that I could take the guy if need be. My Tenderloin co-worker of 13 years taught me that you “don’t jump over the bar unless you’re going to win the fight.” I was pretty sure I had this. Before a physical altercation, I would employ my own Tenderloin tactic: yell every swear word as loud as you can. Or a calm, “Move on, motherfucker,” while intently staring at the subject. This usually worked. Luckily, no one seemed intent on fighting.

As I stood there, ready, I noticed that for every “fuck you,” the worker nodded politely, not engaging the homeless man. It was fascinating. He had turned toward the man, expressionless, taking everything he said with a slight nod.

As the homeless man tired of swearing, he yelled, “I should kick you in the balls.” This was obviously his swan song. It would either invoke a physical reaction or that would be it. There were others watching and the intrigue was waning. Either way, I was ready,

On cue, the young worker nodded and spoke. We all waited: "And I would deserve it." I did not expect that. I looked around as if I were the only one who heard it, with an expression that said, "Did you hear what he said? It was brilliant. I love this guy."

The worker looked up toward the window. A woman appeared and dropped a key. He vanished into the doorway of the apartment. I stayed put as the homeless man walked past me, processing what I had seen.

The hyper-masculine approach of my youth and my Tenderloin training of swearing loudly was dead -- this was the future. The future was calm, inclusive and empathetic. It was something he learned in school, starting in kindergarten. It wasn’t learned in a workshop, class or retreat. It embodied him, it came naturally. As naturally as anger came to me.

3 Stories of the Middle Finger

3 Stories of the Middle Finger

Bearded, staring into space, Dave’s stepfather toggled the living room and dining room in his wheelchair. Roofing accident. The brown shag matted with small piles of poop around him. His mother was out. We behaved differently when she was gone.

I walked past his stepfather, nodded and made my way to the back of the house. Dave’s bedroom door was halfway open. He was standing in front of a full-length mirror, giving himself the middle finger.

Like a cowboy from a 60s western drawing his gun and shooting, Dave followed the same process: arms dangling at his side, feet shoulder-width apart, waiting. Perceived slight received, arms raised and forceful middle finger given to imaginary offender. As I watched, I noticed the feigned anger and indignity on his face. Every other middle finger different: balls and no balls flips.

Balls might be the most common: middle finger fully erect or slightly bent with neighboring fingers bent at right angles, slightly protruding forward. In this incarnation, the thumb plays no role; No Balls: middle finger fully erect while thumb pulling back neighboring fingers. If you're arthritic or the dexterity in your fingers is lacking, this is your flip.

I entered his room and we immediately left to go outside, not mentioning the little show he put on. I nodded to his stepfather on the way out.

A few decades later, I’m driving on 580 in Oakland in the number two lane. I’m going the speed of traffic, maybe a little faster, and I’m in an innocuous car -- a car that doesn’t piss off people. A car on my right slowly passes. I glance over and the driver gives me a no balls flip. I immediately throw up my hand and give them a look that says, “What did I do?” Frantically waving his hand like he’s giving directions, contorting his face and finally pointing past me, I deciphered that the flip was not intended for me. In the number one lane, to my left, a car speeded by, the drivers’ arm raised across the passenger seat, giving the finger to the car in the number three lane.  I realized I was in the middle of a two-person flip off. It was a first.

Two hours ago, I’m crossing a 4-lane street in a Prius, EV mode. A car the pisses people off. The traffic clears and I glide across to the left-hand turn lane. Behind me is a black, new Mercedes with no plates. It speeds up and tails me. I’m immediately given a “balls flip” from the driver, the middle finger dramatically bent. It was new, though -- a hybrid between the English palms out, bent, two fingers flip off and the American balls method. That was the first thing I noticed. The second thing was that the driver was handsome – older handsome like Richard Gere in the 1990s.

Through my rearview mirror, I quickly deduced that he was either one of two types of guys: worked on restoring motorcycles or fast cars on a reality show on the Discovery Channel or a tech executive (not a pedestrian tech worker). He had the good looks and cool haircut that both employ.

If I could've seen his jeans, I would've had a better idea. If he were wearing Levis, the reality show theory would be apt. If he were wearing fancy-boy $300 jeans, he would be a tech executive.  The latter prone to taking first dates to Cirque De Soleil, wearing fancy jeans, un-tucked dress shirt, and dress sneakers. Front row, of course.

The light turned green. He quickly passed me on the left. I had to look. Again, he gave me his English-American balls hybrid flip. The passenger, a bland woman for being with such a striking man, whose role is usually the calm voice of “let it go,” got involved, giving me the standard American balls flip.

I blamed it all on the Prius.