Fancy Plastic Cup

--> She was all arms and 20 years late: raising the roof and a drunken interpretation of the running man dance, while slowly spinning circles. She looked at me, rocked her head front and back a few times and said, “Alright.” Her lips perched, waiting for a reply. “Alright,” I said.

She stood in a small patch of flooring in front a plate glass window at a Texaco next to the Detroit Airport. Behind the safety glass, two Middle Eastern men observed, wearing looks of recognition. A regular. Let her dance, she’ll eventually leave.

“That’s a nice cup. Where did you get it?” She said. Her eyes brightened with interest.

I looked down at my right hand. The cup in question was – what I thought – an unremarkable, 44 ounce soda cup that I bought at my local Quik Stop in California. I’d been using it for soda refills all across eastbound Interstate 80. Up to now, no one had mentioned its beauty. It was time to take a look at this cup.

About 12 inches high and 4 inches across, the top 3/4ths of the clear plastic cup was wrapped in a mosaic of three sets of repeating words in 20 plus different white fonts: Arctic Chill, Chill Zone and Mega Chill. It was reminiscent of shirts or posters with the words Love or Peace written in 10 different languages.

Overlaid onto the typography, a graphic, purple iceberg, accented in teal and framed in bold, white lines, wrapped the top half of the cup. The iceberg slowly melted into a cartoonish penguin riding a wave. Following the iceberg and wave were three words, spaced evenly across the cup: Arctic Chill, Chill Zone and Mega Chill. To me, Mega Chill is always pronounced like an announcement for a monster jam rally at the Oakland Coliseum in January. A few graphic snowflakes littered the cup to reinforce the “chill” vibe. On top, a thin, plastic lid, greying from use, splotched with soda stains.

Wrought for subliminal messages, I inspected the cup for hidden skulls and penises (it’s always one of these two). Nothing except a few women’s symbols littered throughout.

It didn’t have the kitsch value of a Cum and Go cup or the iconic status of a 7/11 Super Big Gulp, but, for the secondary players, I guess it was an OK looking cup. I never thought about it.

“I got it in Oakland. I’m from there.” Detroit and Oakland share a similar reputation, so I expected some sort of passionate response.

“Ewwwww weeeee.” She cried, slowly spinning, her palms to the ceiling. “What are you? A Crip or a Blood?”

Obviously mistaking South Central, Los Angeles for Oakland, I bit my lip and answered, “A Crip.” If I wanted to invite conversation, I would’ve been a little more in-depth: “A Crip, you see. I don’t look good in red, it highlights my already ruddy complexion. The blue of Bloods is more compatible with my pale skin. I choose my gang affiliation by the colors they represent.”  Having a history with extended conversations, I knew this response would be met with a blank stare and then more questions. Succinct and simple doesn’t invite a response.

“Do you know Reverend Jones? He lives in Oakland.”

It was an honest question, albeit very broad. It reminded me of my mom returning from the mall and saying, “Hey Hon, I saw a punk rocker at the mall. Do you now him?” The first and last time she asked this question, my response was, and “No Mom, but I haven’t received the new issue of “Tri-Valley Punks.”

“No, sorry. Never heard of him.” It didn’t seem to faze her.

I paid for my drink and walked toward the door.

“Hey Oakland, you know, it’s my birthday.” She said this loud enough where the two Middle Eastern guys could hear it, in case they were feeling generous.

“Yep, I kind of assumed that. Happy Birthday.”

“Aweeeee yeah, Oakland. Ewwwww weeeee.”

More circling and hand raising.